More Between Us Than A Wall
by Gamebird
Summary: Writing collaboration between Gamebird and means2bhuman. Peter and Sylar, within the universe of The Wall, learn to trust, accept, like, love and perhaps even forgive one another.
1. First Contact

**Title: **More Between Us Than A Wall  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13 through chapter 16 at least. Eventual NC-17 expected.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Occasional violence, eventual sex  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall  
><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>This is a collaborative writing project between myself (writing Peter's sections) and means2bhuman (who writes Sylar's sections). Sections are divided by XXX. After each division, point of view switches and the story continues from the other character's perspective. So the first section is what Peter knows/sees/thinks, and the next is what Sylar knows/sees/thinks, usually in response to what the other character has said or did. This initial chapter follows canon closely. It is essentially the "training wheels" of our writing project/role play, where actions were laid out for both of us to see and we used that as a vehicle to get familiar with the style and writing conventions we were going to follow.

There is an important deviation from canon that will affect later chapters: Rene's power, in this AU, allows a person to_ take_ a memory. They do not destroy it - they _take_ it, and have that memory walled off within their mind to access or ignore as they see fit. Rene knew his power worked this way, but he is a man of few words and Peter wanted the nullification - nothing more. But then, Peter drained _every memory Sylar had_. They're stored away in his head, surfacing only when Peter is free-associating, dreaming, or experiences strong deja vu. Sylar regenerated his memories as per canon and is as unaware as Peter is of what's going on there.

Sylar has his own memory issues. Nathan's memories are sometimes indistinguishable from his own and his sense of identity slips from time to time. In the text, Nathan's memories are denoted with underscored text. A single slash mark, /blah, blah/, denotes one of Sylar's own memories (though we are less consistent with these than with differentiating Nathan's memories). Thoughts, in general, of either character, are in _italics_.

We begin as soon as Peter goes to enter Sylar's mind.

XXX

Peter rushed into it headlong, not stopping to think, because he knew if he did his nerve might fail, his resolve falter. He might start thinking about what was rational and logical, about other options, and ignore the path foretold by the dream - the path to Emma's salvation and through her, that of many more. He reached past the brick, impervious to the dangers Matt's voice was trying to hammer into him, and touched the face of his sworn enemy.

The skin was warm under his touch. Sylar's cheek was a little stubbly under his pinky, the hair silken and fine at his temple where Peter's index and middle finger rested. Peter's thumb pressed lightly against his cheekbone. He felt very human. That, too, was an impression Peter walled off, pushed away, and ignored. He didn't need Sylar's humanity. He only needed him to save Emma, so that thousands of others wouldn't die. She was the key to Samuel's plan.

Sylar's eyes twitched and rolled as he sensed a presence, if only perhaps subconsciously, and between one blink and the next, Peter was gone from Matt's basement and standing alone in a street. He looked around. It was an empty street...somewhere. The details of the place seemed to shift in place, sliding in and out of focus. The glare of the sun made it hard to see. Peter squinted and shielded his eyes, waiting for the mental landscape to adjust to his presence.

That thought left him almost amused. _I'm waiting for __**me**__ to adjust to the mental landscape. The other way around is false. It's a projection. None of this is real._He felt a profound sense of isolation seep into his bones. For a moment he was tormented by the idea that he was alone here and would never find Sylar. That too, held a hint of amusement. It wasn't like he really _wanted_ to find Sylar. Well, he _**did**_, but...He shook his head. _I need to focus._ _I __**have**__ to find him._

XXX

Screaming; that was the first thing he remembered and soon forgot. No one. No specials, no people, nothing. Void of life but for him. Strange how he didn't miss people until they were gone, dust and ashes. This truly was a nightmare. Fate went beyond 'bitch' with this, leaving him alone without a chance. Bleeding throat, torn and scraped hands were all he had to show for his first day, his knees were even sore.

After living in New York for all but a few years of his life, he'd begun to feel a deep sense of punishing irony at surviving the apocalypse and being trapped by his own immortality. Where was Claire? Peter? That Adam guy he'd heard about? God, but he hated this power now. Fuck immortality. Sylar wished he could remember how this had happened. The last memory in his mind was standing in Parkman's house, asking him to hack into his head. Willingly this time, to take away what made him special.

Too often he pitied himself, but his sins wouldn't let themselves be ignored. Wasn't this enough? Hadn't he suffered enough for the blood on his soul? _Hell of a lot of bleach_, he thought. Finally he picked himself up and searched again, this time with less hope and more certainty of neglect. This wasn't supposed to happen. _Hiro said I would die alone and no one would mourn me. But...it's backwards. WHY IS IT BACKWARDS!_ He'd been trying, for God's sake, didn't that count for something? When he thought about it, Sylar didn't know which he feared more at that point; a lonely death or a lonely life. But death was starting to look better all the time. And with each passing day and the nights were worse, it looked like a sunrise over his horizon.

Then three years without a living sound. While he may have been accustomed to his own company, this was a new brand of quiet. His Hunger no longer ticked in his head; that was nearly a relief. In one thousand four hundred and eighty-five days he hadn't found a single person; not a body or even animals. Sylar hadn't realized just how much noise had an effect on the human psyche.

Wandering, he'd had plenty of time to get to know everything intimately and then some. Each building and what it was, where all the facilities were located, the food and supplies, where to find scarce entertainment, which was pretty much just books...It was all still here. Radio and television didn't work...Maybe some sort of comet wiped out the satellites...

Anger and pain. The lonely vacuum of miserable tears that no one but him could hear. Sylar hadn't cried so much or so deeply in…well, a long time. Over the years, his moods swung like a crazy pendulum in a grandfather clock, his emotions, once fast and furious, slowed. They were wasted on this wasteland, barren deserted desert of a city. Wasted on himself.

For a sign of life…

He'd searched and searched; for about a year and half until he lost hope. He'd clawed and kicked and destroyed nearly everything in sight with his hands and any type of blunt instrument in his fear; bashing and tearing and bludgeoning. He had to fix his book shelves and a lamp after he'd broken them because he wanted _his _shelves and _his_ lamp after all these years. An anchor, Danko had called it.

…A speck, a molecule…_A waste of time._

XXX

Peter huffed out a breath. He looked around, expecting to find Sylar immediately, but having the strange feeling that he was the only one here. What was it Matt had said, something about trapping Sylar in his worst nightmare, of being alone? And there was something else he'd said about not being able to get out, as Peter had moved to Sylar, his haste bred from a combination of his own desire not to think this through and his contempt of the inhumanity of what Matt had done.

He was a hypocrite in that regard, but at the moment he didn't ponder that. Instead he wondered if perhaps what Matt had meant was that if he went into Sylar's nightmare, he'd be _in_ Sylar's nightmare, but Sylar wouldn't necessarily be here. Perhaps the other man's consciousness was walled off, insulated in his own desolation, and Peter would find himself in a version of the same thing, like him and Adam inside their own cells at the Company...but not even able to make their presence known to one another.

He looked up at the walls of the skyscrapers, at the tree-lined boulevard and felt a moment of panic and heightened concern. The first thing he called out wasn't the name of the man he'd come to find. "Matt?"

He waited, but there was nothing but an echo. He turned in a slow circle where he stood, searching. Time skipped irregularly. How long had he been waiting for a response? Had he called only once or twice? He started walking. There was no point in staying in the same place. He turned in a circle as he walked, trying to be aware of everything around him. He called out, "Hello?"

The glitching and unsettled jumping of the dream reality continued and Peter could feel a part of his mind struggling with the construct. It was locked up, like a machine with a broken gear. That was Matt's ability, fighting, trying to accomplish Peter's will and bring him to Sylar so he could get the hell out of here. But Sylar wasn't here and Peter wasn't doing what he needed to do to reach the other man.

Peter walked in one direction, then suddenly found himself heading in the opposite. Irritated, he focused on the double yellow line in the middle of the street and walked down it - that way, he couldn't get lost. He called out again, "Hello?" He turned in a circle again as he walked, putting his hands to his mouth to yell louder. "_**HELLO?**_" He kept walking, finding himself suddenly further down the block than he'd expected. He yelled again.Was there anyone here at all? Was the city itself Sylar? It occurred to him that Sylar need not manifest here as the man he'd met. That was a troublesome thought.

Things glitched again and there was a deep-seated pain between his eyes, behind his skull. He put his hand to his forehead, wincing. He was next to the curb, somehow having strayed from the middle of the street. Angry that he couldn't even accomplish walking in a straight line, he kicked a parking meter. His foot hurt, which was strangely reassuring, and the base of the meter made a '_pang!_' sound and wobbled.

When he stopped hopping on one foot and ascertained he hadn't actually broken any bones, he reached out and shook the meter. It wobbled a lot. He was feeling destructive, so he shifted, grasped it, got some leverage, and pulled, leaning his whole body into it. It slowly bent. He worked it back and forth a few more times before it snapped off, shearing.

He hefted it, remembering Sylar hitting him with something like this years ago. He'd experienced a lot of major trauma in the last few years, even if you only considered the physical - numerous 'deaths', injuries that should have left him crippled or maimed for life and various shocks to the system. Claire said she couldn't feel pain. Peter could feel it, but he had to admit he'd become somewhat numb to it, having experienced it so much. He'd become calloused inside.

His lip curled as he took a few practice swings with the meter, getting a feel for it and imagining hitting Sylar like Niki had done. He wasn't done feeling destructive. He looked at the sweeping expanse of glass facing the nearest store. He'd always wanted to do this, on some level. Maybe the city _**was**_ Sylar. Maybe this would hurt a little - or a lot. He grinned savagely. He took several steps to the glass and swung the meter, letting the heavy metal head of it crash through, sending shards everywhere. Peter's grin morphed into a snarl as he moved to the next pane.

Once the destruction began, he didn't stop easily. He yelled; he cursed; he smashed things; he slammed the head of the meter against frames and counters; and when he ran out of easily breakable things nearby, he started hitting the brick. Pieces shattered and flew with the first solid strike he made. The head of the meter bent and the casing cracked. He didn't care. He swung it again and again until the top came off, pieces flying apart violently. The sudden change in the balance of the object caused him to stagger and nearly fall.

He regained his feet, panting, leaning on the metal pipe for support. He looked around himself, at the ruined glass, bits of brick, and twisted metal. It was ugly. It was damaged. He tried to take joy in the ruin, tried to think that he'd wrecked some small part of Sylar's mental equilibrium. But there was no way to tell if the other man had noticed. Even if he had, Peter realized with a sudden sag to his shoulders, he wasn't here to _hurt _him. He was here to get his _help_. _This_, what he'd just done, was not helping.

He stood straighter, remembering one of his father's more colloquial sayings: _Any jackass can kick a barn down, but it takes a man to build one_. He sighed. He'd made a mess, and for what? He was still alone, Sylar still wasn't here, and he hadn't made any progress. He'd thrown a tantrum like a child when the task had proven harder than expected. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. His head hurt abominably.

He shook his head and turned, walking away from the havoc. It wasn't real. It was just an illusion. He kept carrying the pipe though, occasionally entertaining himself by thinking about what it would be like to hit Sylar with it. The end still featured bolts sticking out of it irregularly, like spikes. It would make a fearsome weapon. He had to keep reminding himself that he hadn't come here to start a fight. He needed Sylar's help.

He kept calling out until his voice grew hoarse. He didn't notice, but he never called Sylar's name - not once. He called for Matt off and on and otherwise just yelled, "Hello?" and "Can anyone hear me?" He took to hammering the ground with the pipe when his voice failed him. At first his blows were irregular, but after a while he fell into a pattern and the strikes became rhythmic and steady. He couldn't say why, just that it was what he did. The dull thudding sounded a lot like ticking. Finally, Peter had created a sound that carried and connected to the other occupant of this world.

XXX

The ticking of the world had always been off and it sounded eerily like the steady tempo had previously resided in his head. Sylar knew something was wrong with this world; almost as if it had a bad smell or the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Cold, dead and lifeless, except for him. Did that make him lifeless, too, then?

Sylar wrote it off as he adjusted the tiny pieces of his latest treasure; a tourbillion. Momentarily happy in his trinket, it only had a common problem, however; the self-winding coil had snapped. It broke his heart further to see such a beautiful piece in this condition of disrepair.

After he'd fixed it, and many others, he sat back to think; the old chair creaked as he moved. His hands had cramped from hours of endless work, eyes strained and neck tight. It was insulting and angering to be back to the same place where he'd begun his journey for glory. Just with less in the world. Sylar had never been able to understand how people could live with broken watches, how someone could let it sit on their body, next to their bed, on their walls and desks and do nothing; the world ran on time, or at least it used to. Now time ran him again.

The clocks that he'd filled his room with all ticked wrong, so did every watch he'd come across. Not one was even remotely close to keeping the correct time. He supposed it was a good thing; it gave him something to do. Did he even know the correct time anymore? There was an ache in his head that replaced the Hunger; it refused to be eased or worked away. It clung to him like the loneliness did. It wouldn't fade like the gray misty weather of New York would on occasion.

And it confused him; he used to be able to self-analyze. He'd always been so sure of what he wanted, what his needed. His brain had always given him his marching orders; kill and take powers or be driven mad. His goal was always clear, he'd be clear in his own sense of self, for what it was worth. Or so he'd thought. Sylar had once been able to see with crystal clarity how the pieces of the world fit together and he'd never questioned his role in it. But one was what one ate, right? With no people to make him special, to stand apart from….what was he? In this hell hole one day could go on for a hundred years, yet the same night could last...minutes, leaving him still tired and lost yet again.

It was easy to get lost here, in the city he'd grown up in, lived nearly his entire life in. The mysteries piled up with no answers, barely any theories to guide him. No signs of disease, apocalypse or natural disaster, he might be tempted to guess of the Rapture and for that he'd have to thank his mother. It was a big world, he rationalized; Claire and the Adam guy could be anywhere in it. Strange how he'd never needed people, really, until they were all gone.

Moving on to the next piece, he sprung open the back to peer at the gentle, if untuned insides; the most important parts. Sylar noticed the noise immediately; a dull throbbing clang of a sound; sound with a hint of metal. Sitting up, he dropped his tools, for once uncaring where they landed, suddenly finding himself elsewhere.

Dressed in his black pea coat where he hadn't been before, he stood on a long road. It was still a shock to see no bright yellow taxis parked bumper to bumper. He knew he'd heard something; his face screwed into a worried frown. _Crazy, that's it_. That's what this was, what he was. He was going crazy.

Not a whisper as he walked, nearly stumbling in his restrained haste to find the source of the noise. For long minutes, he just stared around as if a ghost would appear, but he didn't call out. There was no reason to. Eventually a deep-seated curiosity, maybe a hope, made him voice a coarse, weak "H-hello?" Immediately he'd buried his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched in. No answer. So he tried again, stronger, louder, as if speaking to someone he knew was there, "Hello?" But was anyone really there? It couldn't be...Who would be alive?

XXX

_**Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!**_ Then something happened. Peter didn't know what, but he felt it. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he stopped the constant hammering he'd fallen into just recently, banging the pipe on the ground time after time in measured beats. He looked around, but he couldn't see any visible change. Still, he felt like someone was looking at him or aware of him.

He looked at the pipe. It would make a good weapon. He looked around himself a second time. There was no one there. _I'm not here to attack anyone. I'm here to get him and get out. I'll deal with the rest later._ The feeling of being watched was fading. He looked at the pipe again. It had a different use and maybe that was what had engendered the change. He lifted it and struck the asphalt solidly with it. _**Bang!**_ And then again, intending to drum out the same beat as before. _**Bang!**_

After the second beat, he felt the 'something' again, but this time he didn't need to rely on his intuition. For there, a half block down, in the middle of the previously empty street, stood Sylar, summoned like a reluctant spirit. Peter stood up straighter, hefting the pipe slightly. There was the man who had killed Nathan.

XXX

Slouched down, Sylar trod down the blank street when he heard the noise again; this time much, much closer and...dare he think it, real. He stopped on a yellow light, turning slowly in the direction of the sound, that...hopefully blessedly true sound.

Standing down the strip was a man, darkly dressed. Sylar squinted to get a better look before placing the silhouette. "Peter…" His throat couldn't decide if the name was to be uttered in surprise, joy, or disbelief. Of course Peter could have survived, just as he and Claire had, wherever Claire hid now.

The last time he'd seen Peter was...Kirby. No, Pinehearst. Level 5. Stanton. No...Thanksgiving. The hospital, there it was. Being nailed into a table. Hardly the way he'd planned that meeting to go, but when had it ever gone to plan? No love lost between the one-time brothers. But none of that mattered now.

Moving towards the other man, Sylar stared at him. Distractedly he saw Peter's face was one of disgust and resolution, partly hidden by his dark brown mop of hair that he always seemed to have. Sylar ignored the large pipe his new companion held; instead focusing on the discovery of whether Peter was a still crueler trick.

"Is that really you?" He asked in a faint, unused voice. Sylar kept his body on one side of the painted lanes as Peter dropped the potential weapon with an echoing, ringing echo. The noise was that much more beautiful since it had not come from himself. _Oh, just let this be real._

XXX

For a moment, Peter squared off, preparing to fight. He drew himself up, taking a deep breath. It was needless. One look at Sylar's body language told him the other man wasn't brewing for anything. Sylar was hunched inwards, looking shorter and smaller, managing to take up less space. Peter noticed it - he didn't ponder it. He had a mission.

He paced down the street towards his target, moving faster than Sylar did towards him. He shifted his grip on the pipe a couple times, then glanced down at it and threw it aside. He didn't need the temptation of having it in his hand. As he approached, he became more sure that Sylar wasn't going to fight him. He hardly seemed to be the same person. Sylar regarded him in obvious wonder and disbelief, circling a little and reaching out a hand towards him.

Peter glanced at that hand, but otherwise ignored it. "Came to get you out of here," he said brusquely. Sylar did not drop his hand, moving closer, close enough that Peter looked down at it again as his personal space was invaded. He looked between it and Sylar's face. The Italian didn't withdraw. The touch seemed harmless - unwanted, but harmless.

XXX

In this hellish world, the only way to know if this...Peter was real or not was to touch him. Even then, it wasn't one hundred percent. Human contact. Sylar's mind hadn't been what anyone would consider stable before the people disappeared. This would...have to be real, right? This had never happened before.

The other man would notice immediately the lack of aggression towards his person. Sylar's entire demeanor lacked his usual deadly, almost feline air. Instead, his body was timid and innocent, if such a thing were possible for a man labeled a serial killer.

His hand hovering a moment as if deciding whether to break the pleasant illusion. Finally grasping the man's shoulder, he felt the soft canvas of his jacket and firm shoulder beneath and glanced up, shocked. Surely even his own creative mind couldn't fake that to this degree. Soon after the discovery, he whispered low, "It is you...isn't it?"

Then he noticed Peter's confused look. Maybe confused wasn't the right word; the other looked like he'd really like nothing more than to commit Sylar. Taking a step back, still hunched over, but having removed his hand, he tried to focus and balance whatever was left of his equilibrium. He frowned, his face screwing up, attempting to realize pieces to this insane puzzle that barely had pieces to be found let alone put together.

"I thought I was alone here...that everyone else was dead." Taking a breath, _(__Steady, steady...)_ he asked more firmly with the intent of getting an answer, "What are you doing here?" Never mind that it had probably been answered, he wanted it clarified. Why would Peter come to get him of all people? Out of where?

Sylar mostly tried to avoid Peter's gaze, wanting to keep away from the look of horror and disgusted disbelief he surely wore; but at the same time, tried to subtly drink in the sight of the other man, if he was real. _Too long without faces…_

XXX

_You thought everyone else was dead?_ Peter's mind stuttered on that. Did Sylar think this was real? It didn't really matter what Sylar thought. He dismissed it as soon as he thought it. "I came to drag your sorry ass out of here. Now let's go."

XXX

Sylar scoffed a little and said, "There is no getting out of here, Peter. I've tried." He looked away. "For three years."

XXX

"Three years?" Peter replied, almost smiling at how absurd that was. "What are you talking about? It's been three _hours_." The degree of self-delusion Sylar was operating under was ridiculous. How could anyone mistake hours for years? Was this some mental command Parkman gave him, twisting his perception of reality?

He could see that Sylar didn't believe him - not in the least, no more than if he'd claimed black was white - and that meant Peter stood there silently, trying to make sense of it, as Sylar answered. Peter's eyes narrowed as he listened to that response. This was not the reaction of a confident, self-assured killer.

XXX

Sylar looked back to Peter to catch the tail end of a smile, but it wasn't a kind one. Peter thought this was funny. Again, his face crunched up, displaying his misery unconsciously. Peter didn't understand. How could he? Sylar's observation was confirmed when his companion next spoke. '_Three hours?_' Tilting his head to stare the other man down, as if it would give him the desired, no, needed answer as it had in the past. The pieces fell into place with silent clashes of mental shock.

"Wait a minute…" he whispered, backing away from the man, the...illusion. "You're not...really here..." was his quiet spoken horror. Still not resigned to the fact yet, his voice firmed to cover his uncertainty, "You're not real." Turning from the smaller man, his dark eyes searched over the cool, immovable glass of the buildings that cast them in shadow. "This is my mind, isn't it…"

Was it really worse to have no one or an illusion of someone? Why Peter of all people? "This is my mind playing tricks on me...as a-a part of my punishment." His mind thought it was so clever, didn't it? Sylar was not to be taken for a fool and he refused to turn into a babbling idiot who talked to himself on the streets.

Facing "Peter" again, Sylar sneered and backed away nonetheless, "You think I'm going to let you taunt me?" Giving a slight shake of his head, his voice changing to become what the real Peter would have known it to be; deep, rasping and full of danger, "You stay away," was his command, backed up with the deadliest look he could muster. Since the real Peter had been stubborn, Sylar enforced his wishes further, pointing at the illusion and shouting in a slightly hysterical tone as he turned and ran; ran where he didn't know, "If you follow me_, I WILL KILL YOU, YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"_

XXX

For a moment, Peter stood there thinking, _He's gone insane. Or maybe he was already insane_. Then he realized that if Sylar got out of his sight, then he might not be able to get the bastard back. He launched into a run, calling out, "_**Sylar!**_"

Sylar ran oddly, weaving like he wasn't quite sure where he wanted to go. Peter was catching up to him, despite the other man being taller and Peter having those damn bandy legs. The world glitched again, for the last time, as the reality they existed in became a truly shared construct. Peter wasn't going to let Sylar get away from him. Whatever Sylar thought about being pursued, he wasn't rejecting the other presence so totally as to isolate himself again. Sylar was the key; Peter's dream had made that clear. Wherever he went, Peter was going to follow.

XXX

Sylar didn't turn to see if the illusion of his nemesis tagged along behind him, but he felt the need to make extra turns in attempt to lose him if he was there. _Leave me alone! Just go back where you came from, I don't need this!_Not another ghost to add to his collection; he had a small army and more than that in horrified guilt.

Darting around the various brick and glass corners, slipping twice in his haste and he panted quietly as he ran, just ran. This was fucked up weirdly even by his standards and Sylar had seen a lot in his relatively short lifetime. Peter just...appeared here out of nowhere - no.

_Get away..._

After he tired, air coming more difficult in his lungs, eventually, Sylar found himself running towards his old apartment building where he ironically found himself living currently, if he could call it that. What year was it, anyway? Bursting into the building, he took the stairs two at a time, long legs pumping in near fear to get him away from the mental threat, smacking open his own door from the book-lined hallway.

Slamming the door behind himself, he didn't spare a thought in his panic to the renovations he'd made to the place. Instead, grabbing up his beloved hammer to defend himself now, prepared to damage as needed. No sooner had he done so, the sound of his door being kicked in followed and he whirled around to face the attacker. Yet Sylar didn't know what was worse...the threat of harm or the implications that Peter might just be real...Perhaps he feared the retribution.

"I swear I'll kill you! Get out of my head!"

XXX

As they ran, it occurred to Peter that he should think of a way to circle or head off his quarry, but he quashed that thought as soon as he had it. _This is all in my head. Just keep him in sight - that's all I have to do_. He almost caught up to the killer several times: Sylar didn't seem to be running all out; he was unaccountably clumsy. Then it was like he made up his mind that he was going to get away from Peter after all. He started pulling away as they ran down one long block after another, turning at every intersection in a fashion that seemed random.

Peter fell behind, until he turned onto the next street to find it empty. He pulled up. Sylar hadn't been _that_ far ahead of him. So...either the old adage _'Out of sight, out of mind'_was even more true here, or he'd ditched into a building. Since Peter couldn't do anything about the former, he jogged forward. Immediately to his right was a set of concrete steps leading up to an apartment building. The door was ajar, still swinging with a slight motion. He looked up, hearing distant footsteps. Peter launched himself towards the structure.

Just inside the door was a mess of clutter - accumulated possessions and detritus, stacked in corners or leaned against the walls. There was a clear path to the stairs though, and Peter heard a distant banging of a door being shut. He hustled up the steps.

He knew when he got to the right floor, because once more, his way was indicated by the signs of life. Later, Peter would puzzle over this and try to find the meaning in it, because he was sure there was one, though at the moment he was in hot pursuit and followed the path by instinct. The rest of the world was tidy and orderly, sterile in its sparseness. No trash blew down the streets, things were all in their places, and nothing was 'in progress' - it was all complete and waiting, unattended forever. But here in this building, the one Sylar had run inside of, things were messy and out of place. There were projects and tools and materials, as well as refuse and cast-offs. Above all, everywhere there were books.

Peter paced rapidly down a drab hallway that featured stacks of books nearly everywhere that you wouldn't actually walk. There was a shopping cart full of them outside a door, and above that a single dingy light. He looked at the door. It was unprepossessing. He wondered if it was a trap. He didn't bother to see if it was locked. He just pulled back his foot and kicked it hard, near the jamb. It burst open and he glanced back and forth inside before walking in.

Sylar wasn't hiding - at least, no more than he was by having retreated to this place. The interior of the apartment was packed with more books and things than the hallway. Peter didn't care about the place, as they were leaving it as soon as possible. Right now though, he needed to get Sylar to cooperate with him. The other man was brandishing a hammer, reminding Peter of the unconvincing death threat he'd issued before fleeing. But now he'd cornered him. Pressed too much, even the most nonviolent person would defend themselves. Sylar was hardly nonviolent.

Peter put his hands up, but he continued to walk forward, undeterred by Sylar's renewed threat. "Calm down," he told him with careful emphasis. "I am telling you the truth." He moved his hands downward just a little in emphasis. Sylar was listening to him - clearly. The other man was still facing him, holding the hammer firmly, with his entire attention fixed on Peter. There was an intensity to the man that was impressive - a charisma Peter couldn't deny even if it seemed a little maniacal at the moment.

Peter dipped his head slightly, keeping his motions understated. "I came to take you out of here." He moved forward just a bit, leading with his left shoulder, the beginnings of a fighting stance. Peter's teeth set together and his eyes narrowed a little at the thought that he needed Sylar's help.

XXX

The expression on Sylar's face was one of disbelief, "Why do you keep saying that?"

XXX

Peter breathed out and quickly reassessed what he was here for. He relaxed his jaw and leaned forward slightly, trying, at least a little, to reach out to the other man. He genuinely needed his cooperation. He spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to make his words count. "I went to Parkman's house to look for you." Sylar was still watching him, still holding the hammer steady between them. "He put you here." Peter gestured slightly to indicate…everything. "_This_is a dream."

XXX

_Calm down?_ What did "Peter" think he was; a damn dog? Sylar had never been on this end of Peter's…emphasis before and it felt weird. No wonder everyone followed him. He was damn convincing. The hammer in his hand wavered toward the ground, but returned to its position towards the other man.

Frowning and blinking, confusion written in every line of his face, Sylar listened, albeit reluctantly, to Peter's little explanation.

"IT'S NOT A DREAM!" he shouted right back, his face twisting up as he did in ways Peter hadn't seen for a while. Hell if he didn't know that by now! Peter just frowned, tilting his head back away from the outburst, hands moving into more of a defensive position. _Would he stop staring at me like I'm fucking crazy already?_

"This is real…" Sylar avoided eye contact, voice shaking slightly, instead choosing to glance around the apartment, hoping for an escape, maybe a miracle. _Just go away… Stay__. _This was humiliating. It made him feel powerless all over again. Sylar adjusted his grip on the wood of the hammer's handle; there was no way he was letting go of it now.

"You really don't understand that this is all just a nightmare?" Peter still felt the need to speak to him like he was a small child, giving him that patented Petrelli 'I'm disappointed in you' expression, his hands gesturing in that Italian way of his.

"Hell, yes, it's a nightmare…Three years…completely alone…." Could Pete understand that? His eyes still wandered until he reached the part about the length of time, risking a quick, brave and hopeful look into Pete's eyes, darting away again. God, he was just so unsure about all this. _Stupid Peter. All his fault._

XXX

On one hand, 'it's not a dream,' and 'it's real'; on the other hand, 'it's a nightmare' and 'you're not real.' Yet here Sylar was threatening to kill the 'not real' person in front of him. Peter couldn't figure out if the other man was genuinely confused or…no, he was genuinely confused. He risked another step closer, raising his hands in entreaty. Sylar could hit his hands at least with that hammer at this distance, with those long arms of his. Peter was not unaware of it. But the other man was looking around the room, looking desperate maybe. He looked…distressed. Peter tried to be calming. "Not years, _**hours**_."

Sylar looked back at him, mouth agape in disbelief. Peter went on, hoping he was making some sort of connection. He was at least making an impression. "Alright? _Parkman_ trapped you here."

XXX

Sylar began shaking his head before Peter was even done speaking. He looked confused. "_Parkman?_ That's impossible!"

XXX

"_Is it?_" Peter held his left hand steady, gesturing for emphasis with his right. The set of his shoulders had relaxed a little. The head of the hammer had drifted down several inches. How had Sylar even gotten into this mess? Or a better question, how had he gotten messed up this much? Peter was too much of an empath not to entertain such questions, despite his feelings about who he was dealing with. "What's the last thing you remember, before coming here?"

If they could find some shred of common ground, maybe he could work from that. Because something had to happen between the 'here' of this mental construct and the 'there' of Sylar saving Emma and thereby so many others. The man he was looking at right now wasn't 'there' yet. They didn't even seem to be agreeing on basic reality.

XXX

This was all so very wrong. _Pete. Here. Speaking._ And….that wasn't _caring_ in his voice. The other must want something of him like everyone else. Why would "Peter" ask him of all people a question like that? Sylar just scoffed, but he was oh-so tempted to believe the other man's words.

But it was a good question, his mind just….glossed over it, like he couldn't focus. _Sylar _couldn't focus. On his own memory, too, goddamnit. The hammer's metal head floated nearer and nearer to his own midsection as he thought on the question. Jeez, it was just a question. Sylar felt his intelligence slipping by the second. _Just a stupid question… It doesn't have to mean so much._ Or did it?

Dark eyes turned away to stare off to the side as he murmured out in a rambled, rather broken stream of consciousness, "I remember…" he began slowly, "wanting my life to change." Here he gave a slight pause, embarrassed; his voice slipped lower and into a less audible tone, becoming thicker with repressed emotion because of it, "Thinking I was going to spend all of eternity alone…" Sylar didn't expect him to understand. Claire hadn't even grasped the concept. _(Well, she_ was _blonde…) _

Peter, ever the bulldog with a chew toy with a subject (_so similar__, _he thought) wouldn't relent, "Exactly and here you are. Look, I've got Parkman's ability," his voice was rising, becoming chopped with haste, determination and impatience at Sylar himself, "I can take you out of here." Peter was so confident and assured it was difficult not to let his brusque yet gentle forcefulness sweep him under. So very intent on his goal; he stepped well within Sylar's striking range, but neither man paid any attention.

Near tears at the man's words, Sylar gaped at him, honestly dumbfounded and practically stuttering past his closing throat, "W-why would you want to do that…" his voice lilted as if unsure where or when to stop talking, "the brother of the man I murdered coming to my aid?"

Sylar still held the hammer between them, with no real will behind it, no intent on wielding it, but it gave him something against Peter's supposed powers. _Nathan trained him_. Instantly something seamlessly clicked in his mind, his memories unconsciously shifting into the eldest Petrelli's.

_That time with the nailgun._

XXX

'Why?' _What a moment for Sylar to throw_ **that** _up in my face__._ His body language froze, like he'd forgotten the delicate conversation he was trying to have without words, parallel to the one they were verbalizing. His right hand was held close to his chest; his left reaching out, but his gesture was meaningless without motion, just as the sound of a single letter means nothing without the context of the rest of the word. Peter's jaw worked for single breath, before he answered, "Because I need you to help me."

It wasn't as tough as he'd expected, to have to say it directly to Sylar's face. Maybe that was because he'd already had to repeat it so many times to himself. "Listen, I _could_ leave you here to rot," and here he lifted his chin, nose wrinkling just slightly at how much he'd like to do just that, how offensive Sylar was to him, "but I need you to save her: my friend, Emma."

Peter's expression shifted back to appealing, and his hands finally found purpose again in helping him communicate. "In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

Sylar shook his head and looked off to the side. Peter's words sounded a little ridiculous even to him, so what must they sound like to Sylar? Of course, they were having this conversation inside Sylar's head, which lent a certain believability to otherwise surreal statements.

XXX

"Nuh," Sylar said. His eyes tracked back to Peter, but he kept them down, not quite making eye contact. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm not the savior kind. You should know that better than anybody."

XXX

_Guilt_. Peter recognized it in Sylar's failure to look him in the eye. He wondered what to do with that bit of information. He recalled Sylar saying something fatuous at Kirby Plaza about how he was the hero and Peter was the villain. _He wants to be the hero__._ A moment of frustration passed through Peter. _Then why…!_

He put those thoughts aside. "It's gonna happen. You're going to save her." That was the important thing. That was what he had to stay focused on. He wasn't here to punish, or pass judgment, or figure Sylar out. He was here to get him, get out, and have him save Emma, whatever it took.

XXX

_What is Peter thinking? He must have a few screws loose himself._ Sylar knew the reason, one Angela Petrelli, mistress of the mindfuck. Still, he persisted. _Emma, huh?_ _Well, she's dead already. _

The firm reply even after Sylar picked a…painful topic had him slivers from being convinced. Still, Sylar was no fool, and he refused to be taken for one, especially by a Petrelli. _Again__, _he reminded himself, even if this was probably the most honest of the bunch. It kind of made him want to smack the only other living human on the planet. But all he did was tilt his head up to make eye contact after the uncomfortable moment had passed, quirk his black eyebrow and give a derisive exhaled snort of breath.

Tossing away the hammer, he saw the other's eyes follow the motion (the weapon?). Out of frustration and annoyance, but mostly to shut the other man up, Sylar spat, "Fine. You really think you can get us out of here?" Here his voice dropped down nearly into his killer's raspy snarl, goading and taunting the younger man into action, even lifting his head and giving him a narrow eyed sneer. "Let me see you try."

Sylar saw Peter clench his jaw and approach, very unwillingly, but determined nonetheless, not complete without his seemingly permanent expression of annoyed hatred. _Can't shake him._Placing his hand on the much taller shoulder as Sylar kept his body turned somewhat away, Peter's eyes closed and his face went calm as he focused.

While the world spun, and Sylar watched, not shutting his eyes (_because it won't fucking work_), pushing him forward, almost dragging him further into the room….they didn't move. Or leave to Peter's deluded fantasy "real" world. _I knew it._

Peter's dark hazel eyes opened and widened in shock, quickly looking to his hand as if the appendage was to blame, his mouth gaping at words that eluded him. "See? We're not going anywhere." There was no way Sylar was letting him off the hook for pulling that stupid stunt; a good thing he hadn't let himself give in to the hope. He could have smirked had the situation not been so….unpleasant. He was, however, a little saddened, for once, to be wrong. Peter inhaled a quick, absolutely horrified breath, his hand sliding off Sylar's shoulder as if he had no strength left.

"We're trapped here forever."


	2. No Escape To Reality

Day 1

_What?_ Disbelief flooded through Peter. It couldn't be. The dream had said Sylar would save Emma. So here Peter was, getting Sylar. Somehow this was supposed to work! He hadn't come here to get trapped in some psycho-nightmare with Nathan's murderer!

He turned and took a few steps away, hand to his own forehead, trying to think. _I'll just get out. Matt can help me. Maybe only __**he**__ can let Sylar out of here. Matt?_ He tried to call out mentally. _Matt!_ He didn't say anything aloud, because…well, honestly he was trying to abandon Sylar here (if only for the moment) and Sylar probably wouldn't be too happy if he knew that. Peter tried again, trying to activate the ability and get himself out of this prison. Honestly, this was only the second time he'd tried - once with Sylar and once now. Earlier he'd been trying to find _Sylar_, not get out. Now he just wanted out.

It didn't work.

Peter wanted there to be a blinding pain or some barrier he could rail against, some manifestation of the block because then it would be something he could overcome - but no, there was nothing. He tried, and nothing happened. It was as futile as trying to fly by jumping up and down. Reality just didn't work that way. But it did for some people.

He wheeled, turning back to Sylar, frustration marring Peter's features. "Let me try again." He reached out towards him hastily, probably moving a bit too fast but he wasn't thinking. Despite the hammer, despite everything else, Sylar was still coded in Peter's head as someone he didn't respect, someone he could grab (if he so chose to) and try to summarily yank out of this place.

XXX

Sylar just laughed merciless and without humor, shaking his head at the younger man's antics. Stupid Peter, thinking he could waltz in and save (Sylar) the day. Sylar, for one, didn't half-ass even his mistakes, thank you. When he got in, he got in damn deep. Why the hell would he get help now? Under any other circumstance, he would have viewed the addition and subsequent doubling of humanity, as it were, as a burden, something to weigh him down. But he had someone to talk to now.

Eyes narrowing as he watched Peter move away; poor, poor Peter looked like he was about to be sick at the thought of being stuck here. However, he noted the tilting of his head, the tightly closed eyes as if he were….That was fucking subtle. "Come here to leave my sorry ass this time it seems," he sneered. Too bad he was just as alive and kicking as Sylar.

Rolling his eyes at first, he was prepared to tolerate another foolish, hare-brained attempt until the sudden motion. _Try what again?_ Jerking his body, mainly his face away from the attack, he slipped and slid a little on the floor in his haste to get out of range of the blow. "What the-" he hissed, mostly to himself, completely unused to moving that fast for literal years. Realizing he looked like an idiot, what's worse, a pansy, flinching from a hit like that (really, it was ingrained self-defense by now), he licked his lips and glanced about the room when Petrelli made no further move.

Talk about telegraphing weaknesses. _Joy_. Just like he hated doing. When his eyes had returned to their normal size from shock, god, he'd have to relearn his people skills all over again; he still moved back a half-step, not eager to play shoulder mannequin until Peter passed out from trying. To cover his lapse in nerves, he asked in his asshole voice, "So how long have you had Claire's power?"

The reason for the question was obvious; Peter had to be immortal to survive…whatever the hell had happened to the world just as Sylar had. Speaking of….Where was everyone's favorite cheerleader? _Don't ask now. Seem too eager. Only face I've seen with this damn tattoo. Better keep that covered. _

XXX

Peter held his hand still in the air for a long moment as Sylar recovered himself, the gesture exaggerating how much of an overreaction Sylar had made. Then he dropped it to his side and stood there uncertain. He hadn't been about to _hit_ him, but yeah, Peter conceded that maybe it had looked like that. He wasn't sure how he felt about that ingrained defensiveness on Sylar's part. A tiny, hated part of himself was amused that Sylar was wary of him. Mostly though he felt embarrassed. It brought back all the thoughts he'd entertained so willingly, before, about hurting the man. Now that he was faced with the flesh (so to speak), it was less appealing. And to actually see him jerk back from a casual touch…Peter wasn't sure _at all_how he felt about that.

He put it aside. It wasn't important. Sylar had asked him a question. Claire's power? What? Before he could stop himself, Peter said, "I have Matt's." He wondered if Sylar knew of the limits to his abilities these days (or "ability", singular). _That_was something that had taken a while to get over (assuming he was over it) - the anger at his sudden impotence, the jealousy that the serial killer still had a suite of abilities to choose from, stolen from his victims. The feelings of inadequacy had something to do with Peter's occasionally almost compulsive need to swap powers, or so he assumed.

He swallowed, the previous few minutes flashing back through his mind. He huffed out a breath and raised both hands in the same conciliatory gesture he'd made earlier, going back to what had worked. Now though, stripped of the newness, the gesture just looked patronizing and Peter realized that, but he didn't know what else to do. He wanted to get out of here, _**now**_. The whole point of coming here was to find Sylar and get out. He'd found Sylar, so it was time to move on to the next part. "I _need_ to get us both out of here. Hold still. Let me try again." He settled himself as before and reached out, as though fully expecting that Sylar would cooperate with this.

XXX

Sylar tilted his head upward, examining the ceiling casually, but he kept an eye on Peter's outstretched hand, clearly making a gesture. _Embarrassing__. _Well, if he hadn't just labeled every weakness and set the tone for the rest of all eternity with that. _Just ignore, just ignore._Finally fixing Peter with a narrowed eyed stare, head cocked in thought, "Obviously." It hadn't escaped him the other's attempt to 'escape' without him; not that he expected more if truth be told.

The urge to cross his arms over his chest was strong, but Peter might still decide to make a move, trapped as Sylar was, unmoving. His head righting on his axis, he continued to stare, taking in the man's reaction to his mention of his power. Very, very annoyed, a little angry, that much he could read. Perhaps there was more to that question than was being answered.

At this point, Sylar wasn't actually out to be difficult, beyond being wary, but he wasn't going to cater to Peter's lofty ideals of freedom. Eyeing the man's hands, unmistakably attempting to placate and sooth, his penetrating gaze slid back up to the hazel eyes that watched him in return, albeit with far more impatience.

"What's the rush? The girl's long dead by now," he said lightly. But the real question he was dying to ask was, _Where is Claire?_ One would almost be led to think Peter Petrelli, Boy Wonder, wasn't thrilled to find another human being still alive in the world. No surprise.

So Sylar didn't move. "Suicide is not the answer, Pete," he mocked the choice of words, 'getting out of here' especially the part about 'get YOU out of here'. "Sorry, but that's the only way you're going 'anywhere' fast. But I guess you'd pop right back up like a daisy, wouldn't you?"

The other man had always been a little…touched with his delusions of….whatever-it-was this time. At least it wasn't screaming 'save the cheerleader, save the world' or 'the world is ending! Repent!' Because he was doing enough of that for three years to last a lifetime.

XXX

He paused. Sylar was just a little out of reach and he was staying there very deliberately. There was an invisible line here, not really a personal space issue because Peter's sense of such things had always been ridiculously small anyway - he was perfectly fine being crowded in a subway, jostled by people on the street, and touching just about anyone in a friendly, familiar manner. It worked great in the medical profession.

But there were limits. And Sylar's body language, head thrown back, spine straight for once, pretending to ignore him - all said that he was near one. Now he could push past that and see what would happen, and Peter was pretty sure the answer was 'nothing' or he could try something else. He let his hand fall.

"She's not dead. You think you've been here three _years?_Sylar, I saw you just last month, at the Mercy Heights Hospital." His voice became tight and tense and his body wound up with that tension unconsciously, his breath coming harder and his hands curling lightly. Peter took a half step back, even though Sylar had made no threatening gesture beyond sarcasm. "_Last __**month**_. You have been …"

Suddenly his eyes lit up and a little of the tension left his frame. He leaned forward, more animated. Obviously, he'd had an idea. "Listen, remember back when … my mother was put into a coma by my dad, and you thought she was your mother, too?" _Hm, actually, this is probably not my best idea. Not sure how he'll react to this__. _"And she was stuck inside her own head for days? You asked me to go inside her head and get her out. That's how your body is, right now. I saw you, before I came into your head to try to get you out. That's where we are - inside … your mind."

Peter stayed leaned forward, watching Sylar intently. His lips were pursed and his eyes alert, trying to read his reaction. He expected flippancy, more disbelief and defensiveness. But he was hoping that somewhere in there would be a shred of belief.

XXX

_Well, well. Looks like an old dog can learn new tricks_. Peter halted any forward motion, and Sylar didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed. At the mention of the hospital (_what an idea that had been_), his eyes turned into black slits at the other man, but instead of completing his usually discomforting glare and following up with violence, he just chuckled and shook his head.

That felt a familiar coil of rage through his system, a similar urge to punch Peter for mentioning his mistake. Not his damn fault Angela was so clever. Was he supposed to be blamed for wanting family, fucked up and dysfunctional as it was, but family nonetheless. But his hands were just as chained as Peter's.

He couldn't kill him, well, he could, but….he'd regret being alone afterwards just as Peter wouldn't kill him because he was off his meds enough to believe that he 'needed' Sylar. He did not find any humor in being baited and mocked, never mind the fact that's what he'd just been doing to Peter.

"/Dear ol' Ma….The one time she decides to get into Dad's business and look where that got her/," a shrug was thrown out with his hunched shoulders. He did find himself wondering who she was protecting with that, which of the then-trio of siblings. Surely that was the only reason she would act the way she had.

"See, the thing is, Pete," Sylar placed a hand flat to his own chest, "I have a body. Whatever your medical diagnosis, this isn't my mind. I can feel, I can reason, I can sleep, there's no dream pattern to this. And if I was dreaming?" here he inserted an indignant snort of breath, "I assure you, you would be the last person on earth I would dream about." Okay, not _the_ last, but….close.

"Oh, yeah. And there would be fucking people in my dreams!" he snapped out; he hadn't been angry in a long time, the need to strike and rail against something had passed….months and months ago. Arch-enemies on a vengeance kick and one-time brothers didn't make for Sylar's average wet dream no matter his mental state.

This was seriously one of the more ridiculous things he'd been forced to listen to. _The typical Petrelli serenade. Eventually he'll get bored of being wrong._

XXX

Now Peter was pretty sure Sylar was being difficult just because he could be. Having found he had some form of leverage, he was using it. He seemed desperate, defensive and grasping at straws, which was bizarre given that Peter was here offering a way out. Admittedly, what Peter was saying was apparently challenging Sylar's whole world view, but that world view was ludicrous. Peter figured he'd exhaust this avenue a little more - beating dead horses was something of a hobby for him. Useless as it usually was, it at least made him feel that he hadn't merely given up.

"Do you seriously believe I'm a figment of your imagination then? Where did all the people go? How did you get here? How did _I_ get here? How the hell did you get out on that street earlier?" Peter pointed energetically back in the general direction of the windows.

"One moment it's empty; the next you're there! Are you saying you gained teleportation while you were at it?" _Along with all the rest…Huh, I wonder if he wants __**my**__ ability in here? I wish I still had that parking meter pole. Knew I shouldn't have thrown that down._

Peter's eyes went to the hammer Sylar had discarded earlier on the desk. It was closer to him that to the other man. A sudden strange desire ran through him to pick that up and use it on the other man. He shook his head against it because that was stupid - it would do no good at all. He took a deep breath and turned away, turning his back on whatever it was Sylar had been about to say in response._This is all just a dream. It's in his head. That hammer is __**not even there**__._

XXX

Sylar's only response was to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sigh, his form going back to slumped. Of course he had no answer; he'd only been pondering those questions for three years_. Hours_. _Whatever_. "Abilities don't work here," he remarked quietly, "I-I think it's something in the air…." That was the only lame explanation he had. God, it felt like he had never been special at all. The blood and torture and travel and violence and tears, the betrayal, the loneliness… _Let that not be for nothing._

It was so real, the three years he'd been here; granted his own dreams were vivid and equally nightmarish, but….never like this. Peter was obviously no illusion or hallucination or…waking dream of some kind, he was very lively and what's more Sylar had felt that he was alive. Dreams left out details like that; breathing, warmth, and they lacked his kind of intelligence. He had no memory of how he came to be here, he'd sat wracking his brain to remember it, but he just couldn't. All he came up with was the black of his eyelids.

_This can't be happening._ Even his mind seemed to be turning on him, his great intellect, his goals; his freaking vision of everything was gone in a wisp of invisible smoke. Frowning briefly, he wanted to remember himself, something to define him at this point. _Guess that's what Peter is now, isn't he._

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he stood there, shuffling in full awareness that Peter was angry with him, angrier than he was letting on. He'd always hated that, but he'd had to live with it in the past. He would be forced to do it again, this time for all eternity. But his stupid conscience was prodding him to apologize for….what he wasn't sure. He hadn't done anything wrong. Why was Peter angry, anyway? Minus the whole…Nathan thing. Pete didn't know about that big thing with Claire in the study hall, did he? _Think he'd have mentioned that__._ Or that thing with Angela…When he looked back on it…the Petrelli clan had fucked him over just as much as he'd repaid them in kind. _Rematch, then? You'll lose him. I hate being the not-so-good guy._

XXX

Peter heard Sylar's quiet comment, but he didn't respond to it. The man _still_ thought things were real here. But at least he wasn't being sarcastic and trying to provoke a fight, or whatever it was he'd been trying to do. Peter looked back over his shoulder, calmed down a little. "Listen, you're either going to let me try to get us both out of here, or I'm going to try to get _myself_ out of here and maybe Matt can tell me what I'm doing wrong, because it _should _work." He sighed, exasperated. Abilities did not come with instruction manuals. They didn't have to. A person tended to know exactly what they did…or at least Peter did. He gained an ability and he knew how to use it. It was automatic.

His brow furrowed. Of course, there was that part about almost blowing up New York. And that other part about jumping off that building, being unable to fly. And that yet other part about being _thrown_ off a building and being unable to fly. And the purse snatching, and getting hit in the nuts with a stick wielded by a sadistic Englishman with hygiene issues…

_Okay, so maybe using abilities isn't always so straightforward. Wasn't Matt trying to warn me about this? Surely he'll do something to try to get me out, won't he? Eventually, my body will shut down. That would take days though, and weeks or basically the rest of my life if I got medical support. Someone will get me out of here. But in the meantime,_ **I**_ have to get me out of here._

_I don't want to look like an idiot, always having to be saved from my own ability__._

He turned around and faced Sylar, noting the degree to which the other man's body language had changed. Peter let his own body relax in response. He was still pissed, but they had a common goal here. No reason why they couldn't work together towards it. _I already look like an idiot. Came here to get him out and can't._

"Now, are you going to let me try again, or not?" He raised his right hand in invitation.

XXX

He let out a low frustrated growl at the insinuation Peter would leave him here. Muttering, "No way in hell you'd come back," he stepped closer to the man, but didn't look at him. If he'd had telepathy at the moment, he'd have been laughing at Peter's theory that he 'knew what he was doing with an ability'. True, the empath wielded them just fine around Sylar….Minus Kirby that is.

"Yes, go ahead," was the mumbled reply while he removed his nearer hand from his pocket, just in case he needed it. Sylar himself was enough embarrassed; flinching from non-existent blows, making a fuss over….sort of nothing. He was cranky (and wary) at having someone tromp in and try to stir up his life. Again. Not to say he was comfortable here or anything, but….

_Mom- Virginia- No, Mom always said you were stubborn_. Time to hang onto his….would-be savior or playmate so he didn't ditch him here. That might actually be worse than before. The fear mind-game wasn't a fun one to be played at this stage, given his three long lonely years of solitude and misery. It didn't change his mind, mostly because he wouldn't be manipulated into something again.

Of course, neither of them would be going anywhere anyways, right? No need to get his hopes up for any of Peter's antics. "The place is empty, you'll have you pick of apartments and suites," he reminded again that he didn't buy Peter's plan. And that was about as close an invitation the other would get towards getting help 'moving in' so to speak.

XXX

Peter bit back a snort at the implication he'd move into an apartment and live here. It was a ludicrous idea - living in Sylar's head for days and days. What the hell would they do to pass the time? Discuss brain surgery techniques? He supposed they did have a certain shared medical background, grotesque as that was.

Peter exhaled and with that breath, tried to drive out the useless thoughts. He needed to **focus**. Maybe that was his problem before - he'd had too many other things on his mind. He rested his hand lightly on Sylar's shoulder, noting the other man freeing up his dominant hand. Peter waited a beat, but nothing else happened, so he gripped more firmly - businesslike - and _**tried**_.

Unlike when he tried to do it himself, he could actually feel something here. There was a resistance. It had to be coming from Sylar. Or maybe it was just a lot more difficult to take someone else with him. The world shifted, his perception of it wobbled, and nothing at all happened. Sylar acted like he hadn't noticed even that much, which made Peter wonder if that, at least, was all in his head.

Rather than admit it wasn't working, he took another deep breath and forged on until he was certain he looked like an idiot. He finally let his hand fall to his side and took a step back. He wasn't real comfortable being that close to the other man anyway. It did weird things with his emotions, like static in an otherwise clear picture. Peter suspected if he said, 'that didn't work', he'd probably get an 'I told you so,' in response, so instead he said, "There's a different way," with much more confidence than he felt. "We'll have to try that."

He turned and looked around the room for the first time really, trying to pull together what that 'different way' was. Sylar had been trapped in here for three hours, which was, as Peter thought about it, a pretty long time. Surely he had some ideas - but would he offer them? There was stuff _everywhere_ in here. Why was that? Did all of this stuff mean something, mentally, for Sylar? Why was it here? Peter didn't even know where to start.

XXX

Sylar gave a light, inaudible chuckle, but no more at Peter's pause at touching him. _It won't bite unless you do, Petrelli_. He stood still while Peter played hero again, rather, he tried to; the room rushing towards him and away at the same time, but the scenery didn't change. Waiting patiently, he'd gotten so much better at the whole waiting thing; three years with only clocks and, yes, his own head for company did that to you, Sylar watched Peter's face swirl over with emotions.

Jaw ticking to speak, his habit to annoy and botch the attempt nearly overriding his new found patience, his own focus was….staying as sane as possible. Peter's arrival could go both ways at the moment towards that goal. The empath had his own pattern of ruining things. /_Always the Peter way_./ Then again, it would be really nice to have someone to talk to…maybe get to know someone. No abilities even. That in and of itself was probably a shock.

"To what?" Sylar asked, confusion showing on his face, soon opening out his hands to gesture at the room. "This is all there is. It's no Disneyworld, but….New York is _home_, isn't it? At least there's that…" his voice trailed off as he realized he was rambling, giving a slight wince at the other's turned back. "Look, it's about lunchtime. You can see if there's anything in the fridge or pantry or we can always go raid a store. Not like anyone will miss it," again, a nearly forced chuckle escaped him. Gosh, people were hard to please. _No wonder I gave this up for a lost cause. _

XXX

Peter looked back at Sylar with an expression that clearly asked, as much as if he'd spoken it, 'Are you crazy?' He gave himself a shake and made a visible effort to fix his face, trying to be polite. The two possibilities that flew through his head were that this was something Matt did to him, seriously and severely scrambling Sylar's sense of reality, or maybe that Sylar just really did have this tenuous a grasp on things. It would explain why he'd become a serial killer, why he'd thought he was the hero at Kirby, how he'd acted when he'd thought they were brothers…

Peter resisted the urge to go sink down in a chair and…he didn't know what. Try to cope. This was the person who was going to save Emma? Surely there was another explanation for why Sylar believed all this was real. He'd never seemed quite this unstable. He'd always seemed… Peter glanced over at him again, an appraising look, like he was seeing Sylar for the first time and this time without any questions as to his sanity. He'd always seemed a lot more driven and dangerous and eat up. Now he just seemed…Peter couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there, scuttling around in the back of his mind. He'd flush it out into the open sooner or later. Probably. In the meantime, there was the issue of getting out of here.

Peter walked over and pulled back the thin curtains, looking out the window. The street still looked the same. He turned from there and picked up a book at random, flipping to whatever page it opened to. He felt compelled to explain himself so Sylar didn't think he was ignoring him. "In a normal dream, there's ways you can tell it's a dream. Text on a page doesn't stay the same if you try to read it twice. Things you've stopped looking at and look at a second time are different."

Peter managed to point at the window with his elbow as he read and reread a bit from An Heraldic Alphabet. "Everything's the same out there as when we came in here. And this…now I know that another word for 'damasked' when referring to a coat of arms is 'diapered.'" He sighed and put the book back down. _Well, that didn't work_. "Not that I thought this was a normal dream, of course."

"Have you ever tried just walking out?"

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips at the first look. Oh, boy was that familiar. The attempt to at least dull the look was appreciated, but too late. Turning partly away to avoid the look that so clearly telegraphed, he attempted to move from it and into the kitchenette. Peter was silent for a few moments while he eyed the kitchen, hoping to be hinting. He wasn't particularly hungry himself, but he wasn't sure when Peter had last eaten. Hero work had to be tiring stuff.

On that note, why on earth would Peter have a dream that he would save someone? He'd have to ask about that later. One of his large eyebrows raised a centimeter or so when the other man spoke, "Uh…" he left off his sentence, his head canted to the side as Peter picked up a book and read from it. That was a change of pace; Peter was ready to sit down and read a book now? But the other man spoke while he read, "No. Not normal at all. We are, or were, special after all." That was what he'd been trying to say, had said earlier. _Normal_, he mentally scoffed. _Silly Peter_.

It was his turn to return the loving look, "Walking out of where, Peter? I never fancied that much of a walk into Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey or Pennsylvania. I didn't know you were so into travel, but that could explain your hero gig." Inclining his head towards the kitchen, he asked, "Lunch?"

XXX

Peter opened his mouth a couple times like he wanted to say something, but even in the pause that Sylar left between 'hero gig' and asking about lunch, Peter said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the kitchen and peered inside after the other man. He looked at Sylar's face, then around the kitchenette, still obviously on the verge of saying something and not able to find any words he wanted to utter. He looked mystified by the very concept of lunch.

_Vermont? What? We're in California! No, wait, we're in his head. In his head we're near Vermont? Didn't he mention New York earlier? Where the hell does he think…? No, just ignore it. It doesn't matter. We just have to _get out of here_, wherever he happens to think we are. Maybe in here it's a metaphor and we have to leave in a physical way, like finding the right door to walk through or going down the right street. _

_Lunch…does he actually eat here? Does he expect __**me**__ to eat here? Getting out of here is a lot more important than pretending to eat, like some sort of make-believe tea party with dolls. We can eat later. But does __**he**__ have to eat in his own head? Maybe he's deluded himself into thinking he does. Does that count? This is…confusing. Do I have to eat if I'm in his head, since it's his delusion? Or pretend to eat – whichever?_

_Wait a second – Sylar is asking __**me**__ to eat with him. Why would he do that? Why isn't he kicking me out of here? I'm of no use to him. I can't even get him out of here. He's not being such an asshole anymore. Why? Is he just bored? Three hours of not talking to anyone and he's gone batty already? I think __**I'm**__ going batty and I've only been in here a few minutes. This place is crazy. Or is it that way because __**he's**__ crazy?_

"I've got to see what's outside of this apartment." He looked around the rest of the place as if the walls might be closing in on him. _All of __**this**__ is his head_. Suddenly he was apprehensive about what was behind the closed doors and where all the people had gone. There was no one else in the version of Sylar's reality that they were inhabiting. And while yeah, that might have been Matt's doing, what if Sylar thought he'd killed them all and he was trying to lure Peter into...? Peter walked out into the hall, getting his bearings and heading for the stairs. He felt shaken. _Action. I need to be __**doing**__ something, anything._

XXX 5, 225 ^

Giving his…guest a slight grin, he gestured at the kitchen. Sylar did want company. Even if the company was dying to 'escape'. The gaping fish act was pretty amusing, the empath seemed stunned by something. "Peter…." He asked slowly as if talking to a startled animal and he was trying to transcend the barrier of speech with it, "Are you okay?"

Oh, now it was starting to sink in, he could see. Peter was starting to get panicky now. Had it been a stranger, he'd have counted his guest as lucky to have himself to fall back on; Sylar hadn't had anyone. Three years and sane as could be or not so much. But this was Peter, champion extraordinaire (probably with good reason). Sylar had just received a new toy from….somewhere. Maybe the sewers, he'd only checked those briefly because why would anyone hide there? And for three years, too.

"I'd take a guess and say….streets and buildings, Peter. What's there to see?" Sylar just frowned and padded unthinking behind the departing man. He began to hear something now that the ruckus and some of the ridiculous had passed; a lack of sound, like placing an ear to someone's chest and hearing no heart beat. It was a familiar sound to him; it was Peter's watch.

XXX

Peter found the stairs and thumped down them, looking around a lot more carefully this time around, making note of the things stacked around and wondering why Sylar would bother to think this stuff up. He stopped at the door and looked back at Sylar following him down the stairs. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. No, actually he _was_ sure: he felt apprehensive. Suddenly he had a lot more empathy for Sylar pointing at him, threatening to kill him, and running off like a maniac down the street. It had a certain appeal at the moment, when it had occurred to Peter that everyone might be dead in Sylar's mental version of reality because he'd killed all of them.

Peter picked a direction and set off down the middle of the street. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was a little chilly – or, he supposed, Sylar's mind was telling him it was chilly. _Fine then. My mind will put my mental hands in my pockets, but that's only because I don't want to argue about it_. He was headed in the opposite of the direction they'd come in from, but with the number of times they'd turned on their little morning run, there was no telling where they were going. Sylar probably knew. It was _his_ head after all. "You ever get lost here?" _Do I need to worry about losing him? Would I be able to find him again?_

He listened to Sylar's answer, not caring much what he said past the yes or no part of it. He thought about that apartment, full of books and clocks; a kitchenette with food that Sylar thought he was going to eat; probably a bed that he thought he slept in. He'd imagined an entire little world for himself here. He'd said something about Peter picking out an apartment to live in. Ridiculous! Disturbing. And…he hadn't told him to move on or get lost, which would have been the sort of reaction Peter would have expected under normal 'real' circumstances. It was almost like he wanted him here.

Speaking of disturbing, he glanced back over his shoulder as he walked and asked, "The inside of your door, on your apartment – why was there a bloody handprint on it? How'd that get there?" It had been one of the things that had creeped him out as he stood next to the entrance to the kitchenette, with the door right next to him, the handprint just at eye level.

XXX

It was warm to Sylar, the weather. Perhaps it was due to his feelings at having found a fr- someone else to talk to. Walking down the hall five or so feet behind the other, he caught Peter's wary glance and raised his hands to show that they weren't armed or rather, he supposed, pointing at his head. "Lost? No. But it may be because I have a good sense of direction. I mean….you can get disoriented, sure, turned around. That part's easy. You'll get used to it. Got plenty of time." Again with the rambling. It didn't even occur to him that's what he was doing, but it made sense.

It was very strange for him to be in the presence of a special and not feel the Hunger tugging at his mind to fix and probe and discover, even if the watch was still begging to be fixed. So while Peter walked, and Sylar walked behind, he found himself staring at the back of the medic's head. Of course Peter was broken, everyone was, but he was broken…differently. Ugh, if only they had their abilities they could have some real fun maybe. Then again….that was probably the worst thing that could happen. Peter would probably abuse them once 'playtime' was over, with just cause.

Sylar trod behind the other man as he was seemingly engrossed in his surroundings, the ones Sylar didn't notice anymore. "You sure you don't want lunch, ma-" he was interrupted by Peter's completely random musing about his door and the ever present handprint it bore. Frowning, he paused as he debated even answering that.

"It's…." to be honest, he didn't want to think about it, but he swallowed and continued. "It's a scar. My second kill. Bennet and….Elle gave me a test…." His voice was fairly quiet and hesitant over his words, almost deciding to stop multiple times. "If I passed….I could have had a life with just my original ability, the one you picked up. Lived out my boring life with my watches and….maybe a girlfriend." Sighing in despair at the memory, he ended his tale, "I failed. Obviously."

Here he was today, whatever today was. Calendars were useless and the stars told him nothing. But he was still a monster even in this waste, a sentiment Peter would doubtless jump at the chance to remind him of. "I keep it as a reminder; no one outruns their sin and pain."

XXX

Peter had been setting a hurried pace before, his strides purposeful even if he had no idea where he was going. He was _"__going__"_ down this street and there was no reason to dawdle. But his steps slowed during the answer to his second question. He glanced back over his shoulder uneasily a couple times. If it had been anyone else saying something like that…such a raw opening up would…Peter felt a strong need to acknowledge that somehow, validate, tell him it was okay or something else like that. But…this was the man who killed Nathan. That thought surged up in him like a fire and he increased his pace again, hunching his shoulders like it had suddenly gotten colder outside, even though he was hotter within.

_Yeah, you failed. Failed over and over. Maybe if you'd quit doing the same thing, you'd get a different result._

When Sylar spoke of the reminder, the look Peter shot over his shoulder wasn't uneasy or conflicted. His eyes were narrowed and angry. He snorted. He knew he shouldn't say what was on his mind, but all he could think about was this imposter touching Nathan's forehead in that storage unit. Had he known even then? He should have suspected. Sylar wasn't a dummy. He didn't have a right to touch Nathan. And so he asked, "You really need a reminder of something like that? Like a post-it on your door everyday when you get ready to go out – _'Note to self: don't kill anyone today – it's wrong!'_" A mocking lilt filled his voice. Hearing that tone, he shut his mouth.

_This, __**this**__ is the person who's supposed to save Emma? I don't want him anywhere near her!_

He shook his head rapidly, angry, and tried to see if he could possibly walk any faster without running.

XXX

Peter kept glancing back at him, probably just for that reason, too; Sylar walked _behind_ Peter. Still, if he didn't like it, he could slow his short-legged fast pace and keep an eye on Sylar himself. As he spoke, Sylar saw that he did decrease in speed and really, what was the hurry? The city would wait. It would still be there even if Peter decided to take a breather for five minutes. It would be there in five weeks and five years from then. He had to admit it was a little exciting to have something _to be_ rushed about even if there was no rush at all.

The medic didn't seem to appreciate something he'd said. _What a surprise_. And turned to glare at him. _I know that look… _Sylar stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of what was expected of him or even how he should respond. What had he said that was so wrong? He hadn't thought there would be any big, blinking red button triggers in what he'd said. "I don't know, Peter, why don't you tell me how you did with your little experiment with my power, hmm?" he threw back, annoyed and strangely insulted by the remark.

He sent a matching glare at Peter's head as he faced ahead and increased his pace again, definitely desperate to get away from this, from him. He began walking again as well. Well, he wouldn't get away from it that easy. It was such an awful long way to run. Peter of all people would have at least some understanding of what it was like. "Fuck post-its," he muttered to himself, but he glanced at his right forearm where the tattoo lay. Talk about confusion. Hiro, Parkman, tattoo girl and Claire….now Peter. Everyone was telling him something different.

"_You will die alone."_

"_You're really are insane."_

"_You're lonely. But you want love; you just don't think you deserve it. You're impotent."_

"_You're a psychopath. Mystery solved."_

"_This is a dream."_

_Die alone, you're lonely, go to Claire, here have a fucking tattoo, that ship sailed, no one will mourn your death._

"Fuck heroes."

XXX

Peter spun suddenly, almost causing a collision, not showing much awareness of where, exactly, the other man was. He sidestepped, which made it look like he was circling. Fine. He circled. And while he circled, he pointed angrily, teeth clenched. "You know, when I first got my ability, I had problems with it. A_lot _of problems. Dangerous ones. Not just, _'I might want to murder this one person and then that one person over there and then maybe a week later this other person and two weeks after that someone else!__'_ I had _**'level a whole fucking city problems!**__**'**_ And you know what? I looked for _**HELP!**_ I _ASKED_ for help! And I _**GOT**_ help! I let a bastard throw me off a thirty story building and beat the crap out of me time after time and-" Peter shook briefly with a lot of feelings. He'd never told this to _anyone_ – not even Nathan, though that was mostly because he'd never had a chance. Their relationship had changed so much after Kirby. Why was he telling it to _Sylar?_

He went on, but he switched to saying something different than he'd intended a second before. "I let myself be incarcerated for _months_ because I thought I might be dangerous. _**Might!**_" He glared at Sylar like his eyes might burn the other man down. "I got it under control. Did you ever even try? Or did you just dive straight in like an alcoholic looking for the bottom of the bottle, as soon as you had a taste?"

He snorted and wheeled to take off down the street again, hands out and loose at his sides, heart racing. He tried to get a grip on himself. Nathan's face, calm and accepting, danced in front of his eyes with a bloody line across his forehead, but it wasn't Sylar who had put it there – it was Peter.

XXX

Sylar started back at the sudden motion, stepping back and away himself, widened dark eyes tracked him before they narrowed at the outburst. He stood still and let Peter blow his highly compressed air at him while his face betrayed only patience and a kind of blank, detached longevity, but he listened.

He gained some interesting information even Na- wait, what? No, he was Sylar; _he_ hadn't known that about Peter. Blinking and shaking his head slightly to shake off the sensation of foreign if rather pleasant memories, he stated firmly and surprisingly smoothly, "You didn't answer the question." Peter Petrelli was not squirming violently off his hook with anger and bluster and avoidance. He was curious now. _Curiosity killed the cat. Ha._

"I suppose my most memorable attempt for help was with your own kind, Petrelli. _Your_ mother said I was the favorite. Told me she could help me control my urges. Then she fed me a nice girl name Bridget. I sat in a cell, too. I went on a mission with Bennet." So what if the robbery hadn't turned out ideally and by the book, Ma- Angela had forgiven him. Right?

He wasn't trying to sing his own praises….necessarily, but his good deeds were never taken into account. _It's not fair_. Was there a time limit he had to stay clean in order to be….trusted wasn't the right word, forgiven wasn't either. Accepted? _Taken seriously_.

"I tend to get turned away from help or backstabbed on principal of being a murderer, but I asked Parkman for help. I went to-" _Uh…let's not get into that just yet._ "The carnival," he replaced. _Got a tacky tattoo of your pencil-wielding fiend of a niece. God, that one was messy. Took my whole eye with it and everything__. _It occurred to him that Peter hadn't read his file, or else he would be aware of most if not all of this. His point was he _had_ tried. On multiple occasions. He'd even stuck around long enough to drive people up the wall with his presence and his attempts.

_Maybe it's just my personality._

XXX

_What was the question?_ Nathan's dying face came to mind again, blood starting down from his forehead, Peter suddenly realizing what he was doing, the body falling to the floor like a sack of grain… _Oh yeah, that was the question__._ He deflated, but he didn't answer it even now. _Fuck__._ He listened quietly to what Sylar said next.

He'd begun to suspect his mother told everyone they were her favorite. It didn't bother him. He didn't know Bridget, or what the context was around 'fed me.' It could mean Angela had sent Sylar to visit someone for innocent reasons and he lost control and took her power, or it could mean she brought a handcuffed, blindfolded victim-to-be to him. He didn't know Sylar well enough to judge, so he just filed it away for now. It wasn't like his mother was above the latter possibility, after all.

A mission with Bennet…Peter sighed and nodded sort of distantly. "The carnival's bad news," he muttered, walking off again, but slower this time, not even quite a normal walking pace. His voice barely carried when he added, "That's where you save her. By saving _her_, you save thousands." _Hard to believe. Asshole__._ There was no real heat to that epithet at the moment though. Before Sylar could respond to that, Peter called over his shoulder, "You said you went to Parkman for help. He trapped you in here instead. He lied to you." _Guess that wouldn't be the first time. The people I went to for help…they actually __**helped**__. Even Claude. Even Nathan._

Peter looked around at the buildings they were passing. He pointed idly at something. "Palm tree. Not in New York." Not that he really cared where they were (he was very clear on their "actual" location), but he wanted to prove Sylar wrong instead of admitting he might have a point about the problems with his ability.

XXX

Peter went quiet and he could tell the man was thinking or lost in something. Reading silences was getting to be his strong point. He snorted as his curiosity would have to be put aside. He set it on the table to be brought up from a different angle at a later date. And there would be later dates, whatever Peter thought.

"That's no surprise. Of course he did. And damn straight its bad news. But Lydia's not so bad," he said wistfully, "Good kisser. Hands her ability out like you do, though." _Why did I let her kiss me again? Oh yeah. Ability__. _"Edgar's a pain in the ass. Probably because Lydia's a good kisser." Sylar grimaced and growled to himself remembering the rest of the ridiculous exchange of saliva and insults.

Samuel….well, let's just say he'd love to sink his teeth into Sam. He hadn't believed for a moment all the hokey words the Irish buffoon had slid his way. Lydia must have picked up more than he'd thought if Sam was able to mimic his own manipulative style so easily. Maybe that's why he didn't like him. Then again, any self-respecting adult male past the age of puberty who wore black chipped nail polish was a screaming mime of bad news, too.

"Thou-" Sylar began, his very mind stuttering over the idea. _And that's all it is. An idea_. _No way__._ Peter surely had to realize by 'saving him' and letting Sylar 'save' what's-her-face he would be single-handedly be placing Sylar in a position to be….well, more redeemable. _I'm a fucking coupon now? With an expiration date of course_.

It flattered and annoyed, and, yes, hurt him to no end that people thought of him as dispensable as a coupon. _Cheap one-time thrill ride. What did Angela say? A weapon. I'm not cheap. I just….never had a reason to be the good guy. Not with my ability. _

"I'm sure he did," Sylar remarked dryly, not overly sarcastic, more at disbelieving, "I regenerate, the effects wouldn't last three years. Besides, Parkman's dead and everybody lies. I used to have abilities to counter that. I remember threatening his lovely wife and kid, but it's not like that was the first time or anything." _Should have taken those abilities while I had the chance. And banged his wife again, but hindsight is 20-20…._

Sylar frowned at the sudden appearance of the strange, foreign tree. "How the hell did-" he cut himself off before he ruined his own point and left himself open to the 'because it's not real' speech. He'd grasped it the first time. "So that dream you had….what happens exactly in it? I mean, I assume it was M- Angela's ability you were using." Fishing for credibility since Peter was quite the dreamer himself. "How exactly did you….uh, find yourself here?"

Of course he could always ask about Peter's current flavor of the week, this Amanda person or whoever she was. _/Rolling his eyes, he remembered back to the times he'd had to talk to Pete about boundaries with strangers in need, being more of the help those who help themselves type himself. Or more accurately, think of the big picture. Legislature. To this day…he still thought it went in one ear and out the other. Yeah, sure it was before his baby brother found his ability, but the kid could at least try to keep his nose to himself on important things, right?/_

XXX

Peter stopped. Here in front of the palm tree was a good enough place, and it underscored his point. He could see two more further down a side street, but he didn't see any reason to rub it in…more. Instead he turned and scowled deliberately at Sylar for some of the things he'd been blithely jabbering about without seeming to realize how horrible they were. He knew Matt had things to be angry at Sylar about.

He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief, although he believed it all too well. "The dream was one of those…" He gave Sylar another glare, but with less intensity than normal. His mother's ability had almost been taken twice - once by himself and once by Sylar. He still wished that Nathan had somehow crushed out Sylar's identity and taken over his body. He smiled bitterly. Then his older brother would have been as multi-powered as Peter once was - an interesting role reversal. And he wouldn't be dead - the important part. But no. Nathan was dead and here was Sylar, whose continued existence was… Peter sighed. He didn't know what it was, other than _wrong_.

_What was I saying?_ "It was a dream that told the future, a precognitive dream. And yeah, Angela's ability, not Matt's." He assumed 'Matt' was the name Sylar had been about to say. Peter had specified: a dream, not a painting. Why would Sylar think Matt had dreams of the future, too? Well…maybe he did. If he'd been trapped in Matt's body for a while, then really, Sylar probably knew Matt's ability better than Peter did. _Huh._

"In the dream, you go to the carnival and…" _Emma has an ability. Do I tell Sylar she has an ability? __**No.**_ Peter swallowed. "…and Emma is there. She's being forced to do something that endangers a lot of people. You…you _stop_ her, but you _save_ her, too. And by doing that, everyone is saved." He frowned, not sure how to put into words the lights, confusion, screaming and voices, as well as the looming presence behind Emma, controlling her movements… Or how to express the anguish on her features or her bloody fingers or the hopeful, pleased look on Sylar's face. "That's…pretty much the basics."

Peter stared off down the street. They'd come a number of blocks, enough so he wasn't quite sure which building was the one Sylar lived in. He'd wanted to get completely out of sight of it and see if that changed anything. He turned and looked the other way. The street stretched on for a distance, then there was a T intersection and it ended, going off to either side. That was about four or five blocks away.

_Why doesn't Sylar have cars in this place? Or bicycles? Christ! He had a shopping cart. Why not a bicycle? Of course, there might be bicycles and I just haven't seen one. He doesn't seem all that interested in actually going anywhere - so convinced he's alone. Was alone. Now __**I'm**__ here._

He shut his eyes and made another futile attempt to get out. He rubbed his temple, wishing the strain would at least give him a headache. The utter lack of response made him wonder if he was doing anything at all. _Well, obviously, since I'm still here, I'm not._ Sylar seemed aware of what he was trying. Peter gave him a slightly exasperated look.

XXX

Maybe that's what annoyed him most; that people assumed when they didn't know him. Sylar had been about to drop the 'Ma' word, actually and had managed to recover in time. Ah, Angela's ability—the bane of everyone's existence. Supposedly Ma had had a dream about Nathan being killed so she stuck herself into the situation and instead of healing Nathan's corpse with his daughter's heal-anything blood, she'd pulled a fast one and Sylar was the one who caught the bullet. _Big, fat, life-changing bullet_. Maybe she'd wanted to be a hero, too.

To be honest, Sylar wasn't interested in her ability. He was interested in the murder and blood aspect of it. She really did- had given him something to strive for at the time. The Queen Bitch of All Evil was Angela. Previously he wouldn't have found his inner thoughts to be amusing enough to earn an audible reaction, but with Peter of all people there it now seemed kind of funny. _'__Remember that time I kissed your mom?__' _It made him chuckle to himself and stifle it before the other noticed.

He just raised an amused brow at the latest glare; he was being honest. _Why does that always seem to get me into more trouble than a lie would otherwise? I even kept it PG for goodness sake_. _Does he want details or something_? "Eh-heh," he replied, disbelieving. "So…where is this girl of your dreams now, Peter? Is she….hiding?" he hinted sarcastically, "No, no. Playing hard to get, right?" _Just his type then, wasn't she._

"Peter, one day your face is gonna stick like that. Then I'll be pissed because I have to look at you." Sylar snarked in a mild tone at the medic's near constant glare. Juvenile, sure, but it needed to be said. "Now, Captain Grumps, what exactly are we looking for?" this was delivered in a false stage conspiratorial whisper with the intent to mock for the most part.

"Buildings…road…buildings…." He himself gave a wary look towards the palm trees he pretended didn't exist otherwise. "You'd be better off spending your time looking for _just_ the right apartment. I hope you brought pajamas." Was his absent-minded musings as he moved to walk randomly over the street, just wandering really but not going far from the determined medic. _Don't break your brain, Pete,_ he wanted to say at the other man's obvious head pains.

XXX

Disgust crossed his features. _I don't need __**pajamas**__._ He watched Sylar's wanderings and considered whether he should ask him the questions festering in his brain:

_Do you know a way out of here?_

_Is there somewhere around here different than the rest?_

_Is there any direction you haven't gone in?_

_Is there any area that scares you, or is confusing, or always disorients you?_

_Is there any significance to him wanting me to get an apartment, or eat lunch?_

His brow furrowed as he considered that last one. There'd been a movie about a guy named Neo where you had to take a pill to do … something, something that took you to another world. Peter hardly remembered the details, though the movie had been a big deal when it came out. All the excitement of dealing with powers had shoved such fantasies to the back of his head. But it was an Alice in Wonderland allegory that involved eating something. Was it possible that eating something here would … do something?

_Man, that seems far-fetched. It's not the sort of thing that would be in Matt's head, I don't think it's the sort of thing that would be in Sylar's, and it's certainly not something __**I'd**__ come up with. Well, I did sort of just come up with it, but it's stupid. I think I'd come up with a door. Or a wall. Or something like that. Something physical - and a lot more than eating lunch with Sylar._

He huffed. "This isn't working, okay? Just go on back to your apartment. I'll figure it out." There was really no point in having Sylar around if he couldn't get him _out_. Being around him was pretty much a roller coaster of emotions anyway and the man was annoying the hell out of him._Maybe if I just didn't have as many distractions._

XXX

Sylar had made a large circle on the road and came back around in the street, the man's broken sound fading and then getting stronger; coming around beside Peter, he trailed his fingers against the brick of the nearest building, eyeing it lazily. "Nah, getting some air," he gave the other a slight smirk. Honestly he was bored unto death and looking for some kind of buzz out here. Peter was just the unlucky subject in many ways.

"I think it's 'working' just fine, Peter, rolling right along as expected." Sylar kicked idly at the base of the building. "Seriously, man….do things the easy way for once and let it go. There's no one to save. Not even me." _Regretfully__. _Huh, that was an odd thought. _Maybe somewhere in another universe we're friends. I'm normal and decently happy and he's…well, hard to picture him as anything else__._

While it was a pretty fantasy, it didn't occupy his thoughts. He was thinking on the things Peter would need when he moved in and move in he would, regardless of what the medic thought. Clothes, books, comics and food. Everything else should be in whatever apartment he chose. Oh, comics...

/_Flash Gordon. George Lucas. He remembered taking Peter to see Return of the Jedi in '83. Poor Pete, he'd been three years old, Ma had protested, but he'd been so adamant to see the sequels. Pete did really well as he remembered, the young boy having sat and stared at the screen with those amazingly wide seeing hazel eyes. Not that he noticed. He'd been busy thinking of the impossibilities of flight with something like the Millennium-/ What the fuck?_

Sylar made a quick motion away from the building's scratchy surface that was unfortunately his only connection to the world, the earth as much as he hated it. Shaking his head, grimacing and blinking he found himself a little disoriented. _I hope he didn't notice that._

XXX

"Let it go? Let _what_ go?" Peter threw his arms out to the sides in exasperation. "Do you think I'm just going to go eat lunch with you and live…here? In your head? Not even _try_ to get out?" _Well, I have tried. Am trying. Just not succeeding. Yet._

"Sylar, I have a life. I have a life out there." He waved vaguely, since what he wanted to point at was everything that wasn't here. "And so do other people - people I care about! Maybe your life is so fucked up that this is an improvement and…" _Oh my God, that's probably true__._ Peter's mouth shut with a snap, not sure if he should be embarrassed or ashamed or just bull on through the conversation. It was Sylar, after all, and Sylar's feelings didn't matter all that much to him. The problem was that he felt a little smaller _himself_ just for having said it, regardless of who it was to.

He sighed and looked off at the T-intersection, his mind shying away from contemplating what it must be like to live Sylar's life. Instead he thought about how empty he felt without Nathan in his. It would be Christmas soon and Nathan wouldn't be there. Not that they'd spent the last several Christmases together, but Peter had at least known that Nate was out there…somewhere.

They'd always at least called, either on the holiday or close to it, what with Peter's birthday being two days before it. Except when Peter was locked up in the Company hospital, thinking Nathan was dead. He remembered the ham dinner Elle had brought to him. It was the only way he knew it was Christmas, as he'd lost track of the days long before. He'd been so numb that even her sadistic affections were an entertaining diversion.

_Is that what Sylar thinks I am?_

XXX

"Okay, Peter, go dig a tunnel to China or something. At least you tried, but we have showers here." By then Sylar was getting annoyed despite having someone else in his limited sphere. Peter really wouldn't see reason on this, would he? Then the other man began to rave about how fantastic his own life had been. Had been. Dark eyes narrowed at him and his brow grew tense and he pursed his lips at the other.

"For all your breeding, Petrelli, I would have thought you'd learned a civil mouth." Was his only reply, rolling his gaze skyward. _Ah, much better_. After a moment or two of thought on the comment itself, he sighed. "It's better and worse. No Hunger, no abilities, I can just be myself, but….there's…no one here. I'm rotting away in here," Little did he realize that left him open to further comment about how fitting it was, "But you'll see just how fun that is soon enough."

While he didn't say it outright, the feeling he'd been half-heartedly trying to convey had been loneliness. The world was dead now; what could it hold for someone who'd fought so hard for greatness that depended on _people_. There was no one here to give him anything other than insulted conversation and a headache. Although…Peter depended on people just as much as he did, he supposed. Maybe that boded well for Sylar in the end. _He's not used to it._

He also assumed Peter was immortal and that they'd be nothing but entertaining diversions to each other for the rest of all eternity. _Goddamn that fucking ability and the day I took it_. Never mind that it had saved his life from random pot-shots. He didn't think it was worth this Hell otherwise known as Life. _Oh, that's a great idea. We can sit down with cookies and milk and play a freaking board game. If we make it Monopoly, maybe it _will_ take until the sun burns out. No such luck._

_XXX_

_Rotting away__._ It brought to mind the very clear image of Sylar's body propped up behind a brick wall in Parkman's basement. Peter had assumed Matt would wake him up. He was one of the good guys, after all. He didn't exactly count Matt as a friend, but at least not an enemy. They'd worked together, they'd helped each other…off and on. A lot had happened to Matt lately - a lot that Peter probably wasn't in the know about. What sort of effects had Sylar had on him, whilst cohabitating in his body? Matt must have spent six weeks with Sylar in his head and at the end of it he'd been gunned down by a bunch of cops outside a diner in Texas.

Peter looked Sylar up and down and although most of his expression was disdain, there was an element of fear and concern there, too. What if Sylar had pushed Matt so hard that anyone who appeared to be an ally to Sylar fell into the same category? What if Matt walled Peter up right there next to Sylar and just kept piling up bricks? It had already been way too long. If Matt was going to pull Peter out, he'd have done it before now.

_Well, I suppose I'll know when I suffocate and die. But wait…if my consciousness is __**here**__, in Sylar's head, just like Nathan's was, just like Sylar was in Matt's…! _He jerked as he realized he might be truly trapped here forever. Forever. Metaphorically rotting away in Sylar's head, next to his own, literally decaying body. Peter shuddered like he'd seen a ghost, stiffened and turned towards that distant T intersection.

_I have __**got**__ to get out of here!_

He didn't say anything as he left, because if Sylar had tipped Matt over the edge to become the sort of person who would wall Sylar up in the basement, then he might also have fallen far enough to wall Peter up. And in that case, not only had Sylar killed Nathan, but he'd killed Peter, too, and condemned him to a forever of here, in his head. Thank God he didn't seem to have any powers. Peter figured he had at least an hour or two, but he wasn't sure how much time had already passed. The brickwork had looked shoddy - there would be air holes, but no ventilation. He had no time to waste. Not caring what Sylar made of it, he broke into a jog.

Only later would he wonder what the hell he was running from.

XXX 5904^


	3. A Long Walk to Nowhere

Day 1

Peter was relieved and disappointed that Sylar didn't follow him. 'Relieved' made sense. 'Disappointed' didn't, but it was how he felt anyway. He jogged to the T-intersection and stopped. He looked both ways, made a quick decision, and without looking back to see what was behind (was Sylar standing in the road looking after him? Walking after him and somehow keeping pace like Pepe Le Pew? Had he disappeared? Or was he just walking back to his apartment to fix that lunch he kept mentioning?), Peter turned left and slipped out of sight.

He took a deep breath and kept going to the next block. He glanced back. The street was empty - no visible pursuit. He ducked into the cross street and leaned against a stucco façade. He calmed down, or at least tried to. He was breathing hard. Was that because of oxygen deprivation? He didn't know. He doubted it. He seemed to be thinking okay.

He looked at his watch, wondering how long it had been since he'd gotten in here, but that was no help. It was stopped at 12:42. He tapped it and put it to his ear. Nothing. He fiddled with the settings, but as it was self-winding, that really didn't do any good. He tapped it again. Still nothing. He sighed. _Great. Just great. Probably has something to do with why Sylar thinks it's been years. He had all those clocks in his apartment though. Were they running?_ He hadn't paid attention, but surely they were. _Why would Sylar surround himself with clocks that didn't work?_

_Okay, let's think this through. If I'm trapped behind that wall with Sylar, then… Okay, if I'm __**not**__ trapped behind it, then I have days until I'll need medical attention and I think it's a safe bet Matt will get me some. And my mom knows where I went. So if he didn't brick me up, then I'm fine, really, other than the part about being stuck here. Eventually someone will get me out._

_But if I __**am**__ walled up with Sylar, then I only have until my air runs out. Technically, that probably should be, like, now, unless Matt took a break, or had to tear it back down to put me in, or something like that._ He rubbed his forehead. _Sylar thinks it's been years. Either it's seemed like years to him, or Matt told him it was years and now time's passing normally. If it really seemed like years, then if time is still passing that slow, then I'll have…I dunno, weeks? in here before I should be worried. If it was just something Matt pushed in his head like a projected thought, then I'm still out of time. Okay then. I need to get out of here in the next hour or two and if I can't, then…who knows._

He took another long moment to concentrate, emptying his mind, and trying to use Matt's ability to get out. As before when he'd tried alone, absolutely nothing happened. He could think all he wanted about getting out, but it didn't help in the least. "Damnit!" he exclaimed into the emptiness. He balled up his fist, but there was nothing to strike and no one to blame. He let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Peter looked around at the faceless buildings. _Fine. Back to the plan of walking out of here, finding the right door, or whatever._He walked down the sidewalk, passing in front of a storefront for sporting goods. One side of his mouth quirked up as he looked at the baseball bat in there and imagined uses for it. He caught himself and shook his head. _Really, I seem to be fixating on smashing his head in. I wonder - if I killed him, would I get out of here? Would we both get out of here? If I was wrong though, I would have just murdered him __**and **__committed suicide. Even for my 'brilliant' plans, that would be stupid._

He banished his fantasies, but still reached out towards the bat, focusing on it, really reaching. His fingers touched the glass. It was unyielding. He tried again, trying to phase his hand through the glass by sheer mental effort and desire. If this was a dream world, then his will should make a difference. But just like in the real world, it didn't work.

He sighed and put his hand flat on the glass. He pushed. It was hard and cold. He frowned and went to the door. It was open and unlocked. It felt creepy to walk inside, all alone. The store was full of products, unattended. He walked around to the display and reached in for the bat. He pulled it out and hefted it for a moment, a memory of playing ball with Nathan coming to mind. He put it back and sighed. He didn't need it, but he'd confirmed at least that the stores weren't just fronts. They contained things, as Sylar had implied.

Peter walked out, then froze, looking up and down the street. _Crap, which way did I come from? I'm pretty sure it was that way. I turned left at the T…then I turned…um…right? I'm pretty sure it was right. And then I came in here, so I need to go…right. Okay_. He squared his shoulders and headed off to the right. He passed what looked like unfamiliar territory, so he was heartened in his direction sense.

He kept walking for…a long time, not sure how much actual time passed or how to measure it. He tried every door he came to. Walking through them didn't help. He thought various things while walking through them. That didn't help either. He stood restlessly inside a bagel shop and finally helped himself to a couple bagels. He told himself he was just testing and it wasn't because he felt hungry. _I can't be hungry. This is all a dream_.

They certainly didn't seem like three year old products. Not all that fresh, either, but perfectly edible. As long as he was behind the counter, he snagged a bottle of orange juice. The refrigeration units were still running, which seemed odd. He wondered how they were maintained. He caught himself. _Things have __**not**__ been here three years. They're like this because Sylar thinks they're like this. Why hasn't he noticed discrepancies like this?_

He shook his head and walked out, guzzling the juice because his dream self felt thirsty and it was easier just to drink the damn juice than to argue with himself over his perceptions. It was getting dark. Peter stared up at the sky like he'd never seen approaching darkness. _It's been hours - it has to have been. I'm still alive. And I'm still here. So that means either time isn't stable, or Matt didn't wall me up. Three years to three hours…if Matt wanted to use his ability to get me out, I'd already be out. That means…I guess I have to rely on Mom coming to get me. That might be days. It's an eight hour flight at least._ He swallowed roughly. _I might be here…for what will seem like years. With __**him**__._

He sank down slowly against the sun-warmed concrete outside the bagel store. He felt so tired - almost defeated. _Maybe time passes the same in here as out there. Maybe it will just be a couple of days. _He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his drawn up knees, letting his mind drift, trying to tackle his problem from different directions.

_\\Whirling gears, a strange ticking sound, comforting in its familiarity, wishing the world would make sense, the gorgeous beauty of realizing that it __**did**__, the slow passage of the celestial bodies through their courses as lovely as the dance of electrons in the valence shell, bonding...\\_

Peter jerked awake. _What the hell?_ He was certain, completely certain that those were not his thoughts. He wasn't even sure what a valence shell _**was**_. He struggled to his feet. It was totally dark, save for a few lonely lights on inside of stores. The storefronts themselves were dark and the streetlights weren't on. He rubbed at his eyes. _Okay, calm down. So I'm trapped in Sylar's head and I get…thought-leak, I guess. He could have been thinking about worse things, I suppose._

_Wait, was I asleep? Why was I sleeping? Damnit. I don't need to sleep._ In a huff, he turned and headed off through the dark, determined to get somewhere and accomplish something no matter what. Blocks passed under his shoes, probably miles. He kept to a straight line when he could, with the tall, stark buildings looming up around him.

Day 2

When dawn came, Peter realized the area he was in looked vaguely familiar. That he might have gotten turned around at some point seemed likely. He didn't think it mattered too much, really, because it wasn't like he'd thought the place would conform to physical limits.

He walked more slowly, examining the structures, looking for street signs (there weren't many, but there were a few) and memorizing the landmarks. He walked out to a new street and jumped. There was a palm tree. It wasn't like he hadn't seen others, but he'd stood in front of this one with Sylar just yesterday. He turned and yes, there were two others down the side street. _Damn. Huh_. He looked down the road towards where he imagined Sylar's apartment to be.

By now the sun was well above the top of the buildings. He frowned at the day orb, the dream-like thoughts from the night before tickling in his head, something about the drift of the heavens marking the truest progression of time. He glanced down the street and jumped again, for there was Sylar, a few feet from the sidewalk, peering at him. They were separated by a half dozen blocks, so it wasn't like he was right at hand, but for some reason seeing the other man unsettled Peter anyway. He walked forward across to the side street, heading down to those other two palms because he needed a destination.

As far as he could tell, Sylar didn't follow him, a fact that made him glad for a while. Then a little annoyed, as the sun climbed higher; he passed through more blocks of empty city, and he wondered restlessly _why_ Sylar wasn't following him. _What is he doing, back there, all alone? What would I do, if I were trapped here alone and someone new showed up? I think I'd follow them. I'd want to know what they were doing here. Maybe they knew a way out. I'd try to find out how they got here… _

_Of course, all that presupposes that I'd be willing to talk to the person. Maybe Sylar hates me. No, I'm pretty sure he probably does. I don't want him to hate me! I don't deserve to be hated by the likes of him! He's the one who's always been…_ Peter thought about how often he'd ruined Sylar's plans, from Sylar's point of view. His mind didn't like that course, so it jumped tracks._ He's got to be doing something. Maybe he's laying a trap for me. No, that's paranoid. He'd have done something before._

He considered the reactions Sylar had had to him here - running away, conflicted emotions, hope, fear, anger, disdain, unexpected opening up, oversharing of information Peter really didn't want to know, a sort of disjointed rambling at times… He sighed. Okay, so the guy was lonely. He got it now. He'd gotten it before, for the most part, he just hadn't cared. He wasn't sure he cared now.

He went in a furniture store and picked out a nice recliner. He sat down, tilted it back, and settled in. His brain was tired; the sun was setting. His stomach rumbled discontentedly. He'd eaten a muffin around noon, but nothing else. He refused to admit he needed to eat. If he hadn't been so tired from walking nearly nonstop for the previous eighteen hours, he would have argued with himself about needing to sleep, but whatever. His back hurt, his legs hurt, his feet hurt, and his brain was so dulled he couldn't think, so he relaxed and fell asleep after a little bit.

Day 3

_\\He was eating a cheeseburger that was pretty good and some fries that were merely passable while Mohinder rambled on about specials. He talked interminably and it was really, really grating on his nerves. The food was good though. Mohinder addressed him as Zane and it took him a moment to remember the man was talking to him. The peach pie he had for dessert was delicious and his mind had been occupied by a combination of that and a fantasy of killing Mohinder in the same way he'd killed Chandra. He recovered easily enough, making small talk until Mohinder went to the bathroom, then blithely drugging his drink so the Indian would be asleep when he went to Dale Smither for her ability.\\_

Peter stirred uneasily, waking. He didn't want to see the next part and he had a disturbing feeling that if he didn't wake up, he would. He slapped himself firmly and that seemed to shake it. _Why the hell would Sylar be thinking of that, now?_ As if in answer, Peter's stomach rumbled. He tried to go back to sleep, but between his body telling him it was hungry and the apprehension that he would be subjected to having to watch Sylar dream about killing someone, he couldn't rest.

He got up and stalked out of the furniture store, even though it was still dark out and his feet hurt abominably. Dawn was close though. He guessed he was getting Sylar's dreams, maybe not intentional thoughts. That was disturbing. The latter, he could insist Sylar cut it out. The former…well, there might not be much Sylar could do about that. It might just be an occupational hazard of being stuck in his head. He wondered if Sylar got his dreams in return.

He found a diner and helped himself, frying eggs and making toast, going so far as to even brew coffee. If he was going to admit that Sylar's weird mental world required him to eat, then he might as well make decent food. As he ate, he reflected on the passage of time. It had been a day and a half by now. His mother, and anyone else she sent, would have been here by now, if time was passing normally. If he didn't have life support…then he should be getting dehydrated. Although he didn't expect he'd feel it in here, he expected that he might start having some impairment - that is, if time **was** passing normally.

He spent the day circling out from Sylar's apartment, which had become the center of the universe by virtue of having the only other occupant of the universe living at it. He managed to avoid Sylar - or so he thought. He worried the other man might be skulking around after him. He couldn't shake the idea that he _ought_ to be, and so he spent the late afternoon trying to catch his phantom follower. Either Sylar knew the territory too well (which he should - it was his head, after all), or he wasn't there. The frequent stops were also a good excuse to rest his feet and stretch. He hurt, a lot. Even more than the hunger though, he resisted admitting to the pain.

Before the sun set, Peter gave up trying to ambush someone who likely wasn't there and climbed to the top of the tallest building he could find. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it earlier. By the time he very laboriously drug himself up a bazillion stairs and reached the top, it was rapidly darkening. He surveyed the terrain, but there was really nothing to see. It was as Sylar had said - streets and buildings, and more streets and buildings. Distantly he could see hills in one direction and the ocean in the other, but for some reason he couldn't focus on which was east and which was west. That was ridiculous, because only one horizon was light but…

Peter caught himself again. Time after time, his mind tried to apply logic and rationality to this world. It was stupid to try. He leaned against what was probably an air processing unit. _No wonder Sylar believes this is real. I __**know**__ it's not and I keep trying to treat it as real._ He shook his head, not wanting to admit Sylar was right, but here was the evidence of his own behavior. If he didn't remind himself _constantly_, he fell into the routine of thinking this was the real world. He walked back inside, not relishing the prospect of navigating all those flights of stairs again, even if it was heading down this time.

He went down a couple flights, then leaned on an emergency door, stretching the small of his back and idly looking in. He wondered how Sylar had managed to fill all of these buildings with such detail. _He must be a really smart guy. What's that over there? Is that an elevator?_ His brows furrowed. He triggered the door, which was open, just like all the other doors. It shouldn't have been, as a standard security door like this shouldn't open _into_ a floor. Peter didn't bother to argue with himself about reality and just accepted it. Just like he accepted that the elevator worked as it carried him down to the ground floor without incident. _Wish I'd noticed that before climbing all those stairs. Wait…I didn't really climb all those stairs. I just think I did._ He sighed again and slept in the lobby of the building, on a couch, because he was too sore and disheartened to go out and look for a more comfortable place.

Day 4

The next morning, he felt terrible. Peter ambled around randomly. There really wasn't much point to exploring, he'd decided, and in addition to his feet hurting, his thighs ached. His back wasn't all that happy either - he was pretty sure that had something to do with sleeping on hard couches, recliners and crouched against walls.

So he took it slow. It gave him more time to think. He wondered what Sylar was doing. He didn't think the other man was following him. So…what did he do to pass the time? Three years? Peter supposed he might as well admit to the possibility that Sylar had experienced the relative passage of three years, just as Peter was now beginning his third day. He didn't feel dehydrated or "impaired" from anything other than his exertions and experiences here. He supposed that was a good thing.

His feet unwittingly led him back towards Sylar's apartment. He started a little when he found himself on the same block, but after a moment of consideration, he decided he might as well say hello. Avoiding the other man was childish. And Sylar was definitely lonely. He was doing him a favor, really. Peter stopped in front of the door of the building and stalled for only a few minutes before squaring his shoulders and walking inside. He headed up the stairs with a heavy tread, determined to get this over with. Sylar would gloat that he'd come back and Peter would just have to suck it up, because he knew Sylar would be secretly very happy to see him. Peter could handle a little gloating.

He stopped outside the other man's door and knocked loudly, rather than barging in like before. Seconds passed, then minutes. Peter hadn't heard anything. He hammered at the door again. More silence passed. He tried the knob. It wasn't locked. It was also repaired, he noticed, from where he'd kicked it in. Within, the place was empty. He gave it a quick search, including behind that other door, the one he'd worried about before, but it was just a bathroom. There were no dead bodies or anything at all unusual. He left the door hanging open as he moved on.

He walked back outside, beginning to get worried. Where the hell was Sylar? This was his place. This was where he should be. Where else _would_ he be? This was his head. There was no more reason for him to explore than there was for Peter. What if something happened to him? What if Matt got him out instead of Peter, and this was now Peter's own head he was stuck in? No, that was preposterous. But what if Sylar got _himself_ out, now that he knew it could be done, and just left Peter here? Now that was chilling. Peter might be stuck here forever…alone. "_No__,"_ he murmured.

He had no more thought that though than he heard a noise. Not stopping to listen further, he hurried towards the intersection, hastening around the corner to find Sylar - less than twenty feet away and walking towards him, grocery bags in hand. Peter stared at him with wide eyes, then relaxed. Two minutes before, finding Sylar was the most important thing in the universe. Now…he was disappointed and relieved to have found him. 'Disappointed' made sense. 'Relieved' did not, but that was how he felt anyway.

Day 1

_Let the kid have his moment._ Sylar shrugged and turned slowly back towards his apartment, meandering back home. _Home. Guess it is home_. Not that it was much of one or that he particularly desired it to be, but it wasn't that way before all this, three years ago. When he was young he'd moved around with his birth parents since his d- Samson had Intuitive Aptitude as well and he needed to sate it just as Sylar had used to. But for a good twenty-one years he'd been stationary in Queens. _With mom, Virginia….mom, whatever the hell she was._

Maybe he and Peter could compare travel notes or something, although he doubted Peter kept much track of things like that, being the airhead on a mission that he was. Peter would be focused on who he had to save, who he had to throw in a cell, who he had to fight and he wouldn't be looking at the scenery. The medic had managed to show up at nearly every one of Sylar's important kills or manage to get in his way several times a year for the past six (barring the three Sylar had been incarcerated here).

_So…where's he really been all this time? Probably stuck in a coma somewhere I didn't look._

_First order of business….fix the damn door, then lunch._Sylar went out to the nearest hardware store, about eight or so blocks away to get wood, screws, screw driver, weather strip and insulation as well as new lock plates and a circular electric saw because he didn't have those things lying around. After an hour or so of cutting, he'd fixed the door; the signs of Peter's break-in (and that's what it was) now long gone.

Padding into the kitchen, he got out some soup. It was cause enough for celebration by not cooking now that Peter was here, besides, he wanted to think. He briefly considered making enough for Peter, but he dismissed it. He went about the motions of preparing the soup; putting it in a bowl and heating it before he went back to the living room to get his latest book. Settling down on the couch after eating his vegetable soup, he read until he lost track of time (not really), but he was engrossed. He woke up some time later with a stiff neck and moved into his bed. Sylar found himself suddenly very fearful he wouldn't see him again, that Peter would fade like a dream. After frowning out the window to see if he could see his recent and missing companion, he waited despite the dark exterior. He couldn't the medic so eventually he gave it up and went to bed. _Fuck Peter. He's a big boy. /Little idiot kid dreamer/. _

Day 2

When he woke the next morning about seven, Sylar started up from his drowsiness when he remembered he was no longer alone. _Peter?_ Was Peter still here even? Had he been a dream? That got him up more rapidly than usual, the blood rushing through his body making him a little dizzy at first, but he changed his clothes and grabbed a banana, his coat, and headed out the door. He was left to scrape his too-long hair from his face as he ate since he'd forgotten to manage it before he left. Sighing out into the gray morning air, his breath left a slight puff of white in the weather, Sylar walking for the sake of walking….Okay, and he was hoping to spot Peter.

He was in the habit of visiting the library that was about ten blocks or so away. Around lunch time he went by, rooting around in the piles and stacks of books. He hoped that maybe on the off chance, Peter would be here researching. He wasn't, oh well. But Sylar amused himself for the rest of the evening, picking out new books to take home and others to kill time with. _To think, I used to read the dictionary for fun. So much for avoiding life._ It came close enough, he still learned things here and he was so hungry for knowledge. It beat out being Hungry.

Growing bored with reading because there were only so many positions he could contort his body into to stay comfortable and only so long even he could do it, his patience wasn't _that_ amazing, Sylar left the library, wandering around aimlessly.

As he walked, he wasn't particularly avid in checking his surroundings; it wasn't like there was anything here that could harm him. Unless he fell on a rusty nail or choked on a chicken bone or something ridiculous. He remembered the habit of being wary taking a while to leave him. He'd been running for so long, immortality or not. _Wait…__._He paused in his musings, but not his steps. What was Peter doing _exactly_? If Peter thought this was his mind….and he ran off in such a god-awful hurry….what if he was aiming to kill Sylar?

He did spot Peter at one point, from a distance in the afternoon. He knew Peter saw him because the medic paused briefly, then continued on. It wasn't like there was a shortage of weapons and poisons and other ways to trap and torture him, and Sylar knew from experience that he could bleed and feel pain here, not from any self-inflicted wounds, no. Merely the sensations and marks he'd received from the scrapes and bruises and cuts he'd gotten around and about. _What's he up to?_

Arriving back at home as the sun began to set around him and the city, Sylar trod up the stairs to his apartment, tip-toeing past the mountains of books he kept in the hall. _Should I be preparing for an attack or….just wait for him to come back?_He chose the latter. _Did he get lost or something?_ Sylar entered his apartment and got out a pizza crust he'd gotten before Peter arrived, beginning to make it complete with sauce and cheese (lots of that) and pepperoni that he cut along with some sausage and olives. He then threw it in the oven and admittedly read Reader's Digest. It had a few interesting things in it but it was mostly something to read.

Once he knew the pizza was done, he removed it and cut it absent-mindedly, reading the mini-magazine in his other hand. Taking a few slices on a plate with a napkin, he debated leaving the rest out for the missing medic. He placed it in the fridge anyway; he moved to the couch to eat and read again. _I'll work on watches tomorrow_, he thought mildly, _shake things up__. _He found he kept glancing at the door. _Why are you waiting for him?_ _I'm torn between trying to make him understand me and letting him think what he likes. Maybe…if I wait long enough…I'm sick of waiting, everything's always been waiting. Why can't he just see reason this time? Can't anyone see me?_

By the time he'd read everything in four Reader's Digests (_such a dumb name_) cover to cover; it was late and time for bed. He sighed and rose to change into pajamas and such in the bathroom, staring at himself for a few moments, unlike usual. _What do they see?_ He had to ask. Too bad he was unlikely to get an answer…well, ever. Sylar padded to bed and rolled into it, lying awake for a bit, again something odd.

Day 3

Morning; again. _Another day another…ah, fuck. Where the hell is he? He's redefining 'can't run from your problems'_. Rolling his eyes he got up. This time he was in less of a hurry to get out and….do whatever. Clearly Peter wasn't going to be returning any time soon. _What if he took off running….really trying to get away? What would I do then? Chase after him, _he answered himself.Sylar changed into day clothes, brushing his teeth after he ate a few bowls of Lucky Charms (because he could), this time reading Wired. This magazine never really said anything, but again, it was just something to read, distract.

He spent the rest of the day thinking if he should search for Peter or continue fixing and tinkering with his watches like he was doing. _/That one Omega watch_ Heidi _had given him when he decided to run for senator. 'Got to dress to impress, Mister Navy Man,' she'd teased. He kept handing it off to Jeff, one of his security guards who was a former demo man in Korea, because the damn thing always went out of time; he'd manage to fix it temporarily, but never permanently. He'd only worn it because_ Heidi _had gifted it to him. After a few attempts and if it hadn't been for others running his schedule, he'd have missed appointments and events because of it, he threw it away./ _

Sylar paused to frown in the middle of fixing the current watch. _Why does that keep happening? He's _dead_. Nathan's _dead_. Gone, dead and buried. Why won't his memories die with him? I used to regenerate__. _The only thing to do was sigh, stretch and replace the backing screws. The rest of the day was uneventful. A few breaks from sitting and a sandwich later, he settled down to read and work on a Sudoku puzzle for the remainder of the evening.

Sleep was longer in coming that usual; _fuck Peter and whatever scheming he's doing. If he doesn't want to come back….I was alright for three years without him, I can do it again. I will do it again._Eventually slumber rose up to greet his eyelids.

Day 4

Rising slowly, his body a little stiff this morning, Sylar sat blinking in the light for a few moments. _Ugh. Remember when this used to be fun? Waking up every morning to death, bullets, blood, screams and abilities? _

_/"You will die alone. No one will mourn your death."/_

_Yeah and fuck you, too. That's exactly what that katana is for_. He rubbed at the long-faded scar that Hiro had left in his guts six years ago. _Three, according to Petrelli_. He snorted and went about dressing and feeding himself. _Groceries…. How long is that brat gonna stay out anyway? Sure there's plenty of places to crash…he's got the whole city, but c'mon. _Sylar found himself en route to Ralph's, going through the motions of picking up the necessary items. _Chicken and rice for tonight…. Need toothpaste….paper towels….should make spaghetti soon, that sounds good….._

Of course there was no cashier, so he walked out with his self-bagged groceries past inactive security cameras that stared blank and glassy. He was fairly lost in his own thoughts as he eventually meandered back home, pausing as he detected sudden movement and heard a sound around the nearest corner. His eyes locked with Peter's widened pair, noting his stiff posture at first before it loosened up and relaxed. Sylar gave a slight grin. He, for one, was relieved. _He came back._

XXX


	4. Moments of Weakness

"Peter," Sylar acknowledged, "as stubborn as I remember. Seen the light, I take it." To appear nonchalant, he approached the other man. Obviously Sylar wasn't armed or dangerous (_anymore, goddamnit. Good thing Peter thinks I'm more dangerous than I am_) with each hand holding a plastic grocery bag. The same couldn't necessarily be said of Peter….He noted the man's face was drawn and rather pale, but that was to be expected. He'd been AWOL or MIA rather for four days, probably not eating; his body seemed to be intact so he hadn't been trying anything too dangerous.

Sylar would have to intervene if he did try anything extraordinarily stupid (which would have to be really, really stupid for it to qualify in this case). He had absolutely no desire to go back to being alone and lonely, not if he could help it. Peter also seemed to have gained some dark under-eye circles and he looked haggard, all the factors leading to the medic's discovery of reality. Honestly the signs Peter was displaying couldn't help but go unnoticed by Sylar because Peter was the only real scenery.

"I've got food. You should probably eat if you haven't; and knowing you, you haven't. You look pretty rough, man," Sylar commented as he passed by the other on his way back to his apartment. Peter would most likely follow behind if he'd come all this way and it wasn't like he had pressing engagements elsewhere no matter what he believed.

Over his shoulder he said mildly, "You'll get used to it; the quiet, the solitude. I'm-" _All you've got_ was what he wanted to say, but he substituted, "the only one left." _Did that sound as bad as I think it did? _The point he was trying to make was that Peter should give up on the day dreaming. /_Comas and nuclear explosions, worldwide viruses and all that cheerleader business to gain a long-lost, thought to be dead daughter….Maybe it was a good thing _Heidi_ left you__./_

The thought threw off Sylar's equilibrium and he stumbled enough to be obvious; the bags pulled him off balance further and he shook his head with a deep-seated frown. _Fuck you, Petrellis. Just….fuck you. Yeah, Pete, I am sorry to be here. Know why? I didn't get the chance to fuck with your mother! I'm not married, I don't have kids or family, I'm not the type for life-long community service, I'm…not that, whatever the fuck it is. I'm Sylar….Hope he didn't notice that. Don't ask, don't ask._

XXX

Peter gave Sylar's greeting a sneering smile. He gave ground and stepped out of the other man's way, not that interested in getting too close, but the cast of his features didn't put this as a retreat - merely an inevitable avoidance. Now that Sylar mentioned it, he _was_ hungry. He hadn't eaten yet today, though he'd drank from one of the drinking fountains in the building he'd slept in. Even that had been a couple hours before. Or so he assumed. Time was strange here.

He followed along quietly, debating whether he should share a meal, with all the symbolism of breaking bread and putting aside differences the act entailed, or go find something to eat on his own. His trailing footsteps indicated that he'd made up his mind on that even if he was still consciously undecided. It wasn't the eating with him that bothered him, but the idea of accepting food from the other man, or anything that seemed to be of a helpful or beneficial nature. It made it harder to see Sylar as an enemy.

Peter noticed, but ignored the opportunity to fight with his foe over being the only one left. First, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, Peter was here, so there were two of them. Second, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, the world wasn't _real,_ so it didn't matter. He just made a small sigh to himself and tried to figure out how to look like he was walking comfortably when his feet hurt like a bitch. _I wonder if my feet hurt because Sylar thinks they should? No matter where I was, he had to be aware of me…subconsciously, maybe._

Peter also noticed, but ignored Sylar's stumble. He felt the slightest pang that he ought to help, ought to support, ought to at least take one of the bags. That pang of humanity didn't stand a chance against how inhuman Sylar was to him. So the psychopathic killer got lonely and went shopping. It didn't make him a nice guy. Peter's eyes narrowed, then further when he caught a glimpse of Sylar's angry face as the man righted himself.

_What does __**he**__ have to be angry about?_ Peter was here, which was a concession of defeat by itself. Even if Peter's sojourn had only confirmed the mental construct of the world, he had been sure the other man would take this as proof he was right. And predictably, Sylar had gotten to give an 'I told you so' and would no doubt get to give more. As they started up the stairs, Peter's legs and lower back reminded him of all the flights he'd climbed the evening before. He went up with a resolute tread though, lifting his eyes before him. He didn't think he'd ever looked at Sylar's ass before. He immediately diverted his thoughts elsewhere, taking refuge in a sort of defeated anger and heavy resentment. "Do you _want_ me to leave? Let you be the only one here again?"

He stopped on the stairs, frowning up at the other man. Because if that's how it was - Sylar was angry he'd come back, then Peter could damn well go back to that furniture store and pick himself out a nice bed to sleep on. The diner was right down the block and the breakfast he'd cooked there had been pretty tasty. There was no real point to being right here with Sylar. Yeah, they were sharing headspace, but they could obviously get along apart. A stubborn expression settled over Peter's features, even as he thought to himself, _No more do I get here than I want to leave._ He huffed and waited for Sylar's answer.

XXX

_Oh, that clever bastard. _Peter cut to the chase that somehow managed to catch Sylar off guard. Ever the direct one, he'd felt the need to say it aloud. _Hasn't he ever heard of the unspoken rules of men?_ Sylar was quiet for a moment or two, long enough to reach the landing as he heard the other man's footsteps halt. Slowly turning back to Peter, he dug up whatever asshole attitude he could muster to say, "You need me, Peter, remember? And the answer is no; you'll always substitute a punching bag if I ever I need one." _There, problem neatly avoided._

"Speaking of, you should take care of yourself more. There's no healing here, even if you are a nurse," Sylar knew all too well Peter's body was screaming from aching pains, that he tended to run himself to the ground to save someone, that Peter was a EMT and that Nathan used to mock him with the word 'nurse'. "No more special," he muttered to himself, the noise of his motion back up the stairs ideal to cover his comment.

"I'm guessing you went everywhere and ended up nowhere, so your back is killing you and your neck is crackling, your legs…." _Stupid hero punk. Why him? Why me, for that matter? Why couldn't it be a random, sexy, horny blonde or something? Gee, because life has it out for you? You knew you'd get into this when you killed Davis and that Trevor kid. You didn't sign on for heaven. Eternal retribution_. His steps grew quicker as he took the stairs faster. _Purgatory_.

"Your legs are busted up, am I right?" _/__Like after that time Howie Kaplan had beaten Pete in the fifty-yard-dash and they'd-__/_

"Stop it!"

It took him a few moments to figure out he'd protested aloud, the echoes of his outburst and the swishing of the bag he'd swung fading in the stairwell. His back hadn't been against the wall before, had it? _Way to make a scene_. Well aware that Peter was probably staring at him, he shuffled the bags into one hand and delayed anything by fussing with his dark mess of hair that had found its way in his face.

Sylar licked his lips and swallowed, trudging back up the stairs as quickly and as casually as he could, hoping to sink into the floor while Peter _didn't_ ask him why he seemed to have developed another personality, voices in his head (_probably the devil or Mom, if Peter's read my file)_, or had really taken a swan dive into the deep end. _Thank god that sounded so mature and put together, not like a little preschooler squawking at the bullies. God. No wonder people drop dead to take you seriously._

_Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; he'll totally eat with you now. Just chat your ear off about who's in your head._

XXX

"I'll be up later," Peter said mildly, and sat down on the step right where he was at. He was tired. He hurt. He was miserable and depressed. And his only companion was a serial killer who had gone starkers mad. He smiled a little, recalling Claude using that turn of phrase once. It had taken Pete a little while to understand that, in the context Claude was using it at the time, he meant he'd spent a period of his life roaming around naked, but invisible. Obviously it hadn't lasted. Either the weather in New York or brushing up against a rose bush or the like had persuaded him that there was a purpose to clothing other than hiding one's body.

Peter glanced back to see if Sylar had gone the fuck on yet. It seemed he had. Peter leaned back against the steps and stretched. Something popped in his back, which was nice. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. _And here I'd thought I was in shape. Damn. _He glanced up again. At least if Sylar was crazy, he was still clothed. The thought of the alternative - Sylar, naked, running around gibbering in the street - made him chuckle. The humor faded to sadness.

His stomach growled restlessly.

_\Anything else is just crazy talk./_ Peter thought about his brother talking to him in the hospital room so many years ago, after he'd jumped off that building. He reached up and scratched at his cheek. There was a heavy growth of bristles following his jaw line. He supposed he did look pretty rough. The furniture store wouldn't have a shower, or a tub. He wouldn't mind a bath. To get one, he probably would need to move into an apartment. His stomach growled again.

_Alright, alright. Christ._ He drew himself back up and got to his feet. He trudged up the stairs slowly. He found himself outside Sylar's door, where he paused, hand on the door frame. His mind still hadn't settled on what he wanted here - food and human conversation, perhaps to interrogate Sylar about the world here, or to get some form of satisfaction from him, hurt him maybe, and then leave.

He felt compelled to make some sort of greeting though, so he called out, "Hey. You in there, man?"

XXX

The other man obviously wasn't following him _(not after that little display; he's probably fearing for his life_), so much he stated. Sylar was beginning to wonder if things could get any worse, even if things were 'looking up' with Peter here. The medic seemed only to exacerbate every facet of his life to the fullest. So Peter didn't comment, but he was surely thinking something. Sylar just sighed and raised his eyes to look morosely at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, stumbling yet again from inattention, this time fully aware of the lapse. This one pushed his final button and he really did want to make something into his punching bag; he wanted to take a swing at something, cause some damage. _That's because you _are_ damaged, that's what he's thinking right now._

Growling, he shoved open the door and tossed the bags onto the kitchen counter; resting his elbows on the surface, resisting the urge he seemed to always have to scream, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair. Somehow the part about busting up his hands wasn't at the forefront of his brain. _You can't win this one; you won't get anywhere with him. _Slumping, he was busy ignoring the thawing chicken and other groceries he'd gotten when the sound of Peter's voice carried into his apartment.

He straightened up quickly and began digging into the bags, making plenty of noise to cover the previous silence. _What could he want? _Clearing his throat, he called back, "Yeah…?" with a slight inflection of question at the end. Sylar went about putting away his findings, hoping to prepare somehow for whatever the unpredictable man wanted (hide the power tools); pretending that he could avoid whatever it was if he just put the items away as quickly as he could appear to, yet take up the maximum amount of time in doing so.

"Do you want a….tour or something?" he suggested hesitantly. It sure wasn't for the sake of showing Peter whatever 'exit' or 'way out' he thought Sylar was hiding from him. "Draw you a map," he muttered, realizing that his apparent hot-and-cold routine wasn't going to win him any friends about the time he ran out of things to put away in the kitchen. Sylar bit his lip. That meant he had to face Peter's carefully (or not to carefully) constructed features so he wouldn't give away his contempt, obvious hatred and anger at being stuck here with Sylar.

XXX

"Not really. Had one," Peter said brusquely, walking inside a few steps, seeing that Sylar was in the kitchen, putting things away. _Don't really want to go anywhere with him. Plus I need to see what's the matter with my feet. But…on the other hand, it's a better conversational topic than anything else we've talked about, since it probably won't include mention of people he's killed. _"Well…maybe later. I'm sure there's places you know about that I haven't seen." _It's __**his**__ head after all. Speaking of which…_

He walked over to the nearest clock, which was all of about three feet away on a table. He bent to look at it, but his lower back protested. He started to squat, but his thighs protested. Peter winced and stood up, putting a hand to the small of his back and straightening. Frowning heavily, scowling even, he grasped the side of the device with his other hand so as to bring it up to eye level where he could examine it more closely. It was running - that was obvious. He wanted to look at that.

As he lifted, he tilted the clock without thinking. The internals of it made a clattering sound and an off-key chiming sounded. Startled, he nearly dropped it. It chimed again with an odd warble and another clatter, like there was something loose inside it rolling around. Peter put it back on the table hastily, turning back to see if Sylar had noticed that. _How could he not?_

XXX

Sylar couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Of all the people, it had to be one that probably annoyed him the most. _No, I take that back…it could have been Maya or Mohinder. Parkman would bore. Angela or Bennet would have been interesting; at least I'd know where I stand with him. _Passing by Peter, he didn't look at him as he went to put the toilet paper, toothpaste and other non-kitchen items where they belonged. But he did manage to smirk a little at Peter's obvious inflexible pain. The kid's back was really killing him, too. _Ooh, sex-y_, was his mental mockery of the sight and he almost rolled his eyes again at himself.

What he didn't see was Peter grabbing for the precious regulator. If he had he would have snapped and smacked at Peter's grabby hands, but unfortunately the imprecise, careless and broken medic was able to lay hands on his circa 1915 treasure. The sound of small parts clattering out of place raced up his spine and he stiffened, turning slowly to glare death and destruction at the other man. He knew he would really complete the whole hermit or cat lady image by shrieking 'my babies!', so he stalked to Peter and gently and firmly snatched the clock from him.

He knew there was no damage (the pieces merely being shaken out of place), but there could easily have been, it was an antique after all, something Peter knew nothing about appreciating. "New rule, don't touch my stuff," he commanded angrily and it showed on his face. Practically cradling the device, he set it gently on his watch table to be repaired. Again. "I can see why you didn't make doctor," he scathed, "God forbid a pediatrician."

Now his hands were clear, his agitation, annoyance and near-malice were all the more clear to shine through as his hands fisted and he shoved them into his armpits, crossing them over his chest to prevent any homicidal damage to his companion. Sylar felt a prick of embarrassment at having to defend his former trade and current hobby to someone who knew him only as a Sylar, the world's most special killer.

Having Peter around was obviously upsetting Sylar's balance significantly enough that it was probably fucking with his long-since-dormant hormones; specifically the dopamine, serotonin and testosterone, the kind that made fights. He assumed it was because he wanted to know or find out where he stood with Peter. The subject of Nathan hadn't been broached since the medic first arrived, and the continued silence on the matter was surprising. Peter meanwhile reminded him of a child in a china shop. _No wonder I hate kids_. Sylar merely clenched and unclenched his fists where the other couldn't see exactly, eyes black and narrowed at him.

XXX

"I'll touch whatever I want." He looked down at the clock, but it was innocent and besides, he was really worried he might have damaged it. That is, until he recalled it didn't matter - nothing here was real, no one other than Sylar would even know what had happened here. Anything might transpire and there would be no witnesses other than himself and a deranged serial killer who couldn't tell reality from fantasy.

Peter snorted, feeling a sudden very specific urge to set the tone for their relationship, or rather 're-set' it. He didn't like being pushed around, yammered at, talked down to or smarted off to. It was really starting to irritate him. He'd tried to be patient and he'd tried to be polite. The guy was clueless, socially inept and completely immoral, far past the rather loose standards of the Petrelli family (actually, the idea of 'Gabriel' as a brother hadn't been so bizarre, on that front, but the whole time of dealing with him all Peter could think of was how his mother had lied about his father's death - Peter hadn't believed Sylar was his brother for a second, but what he **had** believed was that Sylar believed it…and for a little while, that was enough). Right now, Sylar didn't seem to understand what it was he'd done wrong, or even that he had done wrong, most of the time. He'd been more sane before, but then again, this whole mind trap seemed to have driven him right over the edge.

Peter looked past Sylar, at the kitchen. Maybe he'd find something to eat in there. He had no special desire to do that a few moments ago and really not an overpowering one to do it now, but what he did have was a desire to assert himself here. He took a stride forward, setting himself, knowing what he was about to do.

"Get out of my way," he growled, leading with his left shoulder, his right hand free, moving like he fully expected and intended to move Sylar himself if he needed to. Maybe what Sylar needed was someone to put him in his place and keep him there.

XXX

Sylar was left to blink in surprise; he hadn't expected…that. Did Peter think he could seriously barge in and starting upsetting and poking at his belongings? That was not going to happen. Of course there was no wrong in his mind (at least for the actions of the past three years; he'd been a saint); Sylar was minding his own business quite well, thank you.

He glanced around the apartment, noting that his apartment seemed to have been entered and rearranged, and not by himself. "What… Did you bust in here while I was gone, too?" Sylar turned accusing eyes toward the apparent intruder, "Looking for murder weapons,_ Pete_?" the use of Nathan's old reference towards Peter was intentional.

The would-be younger brother approached him and while he felt the need to back down as Peter would surely demand, but it was his place, damnit. Sylar just squared his body at the other man's tone, the proximity anything but friendly, "No, you won't. It's my place." While he didn't see why Peter felt threatened by his demand not to touch his stuff, he was sure that he wasn't in the wrong to demand what he did; however, the surging dynamics between the two left Sylar unsure of where he stood or if this battle was even able to be won.

The debate of showing good faith and keeping his arms locked to his chest crossed his mind, but Peter crossed a line first. "Should I be concerned about you walking in whenever I make a move, _Pete_?" he sneered, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists still balled up. His jibe clearly biting since he was slurring Peter as something of a pervert, snooping around his place the way he had.

XXX

'_Pete'_ - so that was intentional, was it? Peter had been biting his tongue and ignoring it as nothing but an irritating diminutive, but he really should have thought. With Sylar, it wasn't _just_ a diminutive; it wasn't _just_ an unearned familiarity. No, that was saying something about Nathan, and Sylar shouldn't _get _to say things about Nathan.

Sylar had every (or at least many, Peter didn't know the details and he wasn't sure he wanted to) memory Nathan had had. He had something of Nathan's so intimate and so personal that no one else had ever had it; no one else _would_ ever have it. He'd taken not only his ability, which was obscene by itself because of the murder it typically involved, but it was almost like he had stolen a piece of Nathan's soul along with it. Nathan's murderer had that precious thing, held it, and was throwing the fact in Peter's face.

Peter took two quick steps towards the other man, his chin tucked and the beginning of a snarl on his face. He was actually pleased that Sylar didn't get out of his way and that he limbered his arms. Shitty as Peter felt, it would all be wiped clean if he could beat the crap out of this guy. He'd taken him before, only a few weeks ago really, although a two-by-four to the back of the head would slow down anyone's fighting ability. Rene's power created a level playing field - not too different from what they had here, if Sylar was telling the truth about having no abilities.

Peter led with his left shoulder, which obscured his right arm to some extent. _You ought to be concerned, all right,_ Peter thought, but the time for speaking was gone. He swung his right with an explosive strength, putting everything into it. Sylar seemed surprised, having stood there arrogantly busying himself with mouthing off and being superior rather than noticing he had pushed it too far. It was just another item on a long list of not-right behaviors Sylar had been showing, constantly hitting the wrong note. Peter had begun to think the man was doing it on purpose, trying to goad him. Well, with the _'Pete'_, he was sure.

He smacked him solidly on the cheek, managing to tag him hard even though Sylar had been jerking back and getting his hands up. It was too late for the hands to do much good, but the backward motion took out a little of the force of the blow. Sylar backpedaled and Peter hesitated, teeth bared. He wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a paste. He knew he would lose his advantage if he didn't press immediately, but he had to see if something had finally engendered a recognizably normal reaction in the other man, or if he really was as crazy as he seemed.

XXX

Peter didn't answer or make any form of non-verbal communication other than the snarl that Sylar caught way too late. Before he knew it and before he could react, Peter was on him, and his jaw hurt and he tasted blood from the swift punch to his face; the impact jarring his head around to the side. Moving back, getting quickly away, Sylar raised his hands out of surprise and to protect himself. "Uuhn," was all he could groan from the pulsing pain in his cheek.

Stunned and angry, hurt eyes rose to stare at Peter. _Probably had that coming. Should have seen it coming, too. He always was a little unhinged when it came to people. _He didn't move other than to rub at his cheek; not wanting to set the other man off again and with the idea Peter would ignore him if he remained still. He was dying to snap 'Fuck you' at Peter, but he managed to busy his tongue with exploring the split inside of his cheek.

Slowly his hand dragged through the hair that fell over the side of his face opposite the injury. _You should be fighting back, since when do you let people hit you and get away with it? "Die Alone". /"__I love you, Peter. "I love you, too__."/ Oh my god! Get out of my head! _Sylar barely avoided slinking back to the couch with a book to pretend that hadn't happened.

Contrary to popular belief, the current population being Peter, Sylar did possess survival instincts; the same ones he'd been using for six years, if only three of them were active. Besides, if he felt any desire to do so, his patience had grown (beyond what it had been) over the years to become a force to be reckoned with; he would easily wait in a dark alley to give Peter his due. Too bad that would leave him alone in all likelihood. There wasn't really anything to say; he'd provoked the other man with his dead older brother's nickname for him, even if Peter _had_ started it.

XXX

Peter's urge to continue was so strong that he swayed forward unconsciously, coiled tensely like a spring, a subtle motion that only became obvious as he pulled back. He breathed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes evaluating Sylar over and over for a possible threat – or an excuse to hit him again. When Sylar stopped moving back and reached up to rub at his face, Peter met his stare evenly, watching for the slightest twitch of aggression to react to. Sylar didn't look happy (and there was that 'normal reaction' Peter had been looking for), but there was no sign he was going to fight back.

Peter put his lips together and stopped baring his teeth, but his jaw remained tight. His gaze tracked that slow movement through Sylar's hair before he finally relaxed a fraction and looked away for a second. Regret chased across his face, quickly swallowed up by another surge of anger – but it had been there for a moment.

He looked back at Sylar with a glare. "You don't get to call me _'Pete,'_" he bit out.

Peter turned suddenly and stalked on into the kitchen, muttering, "Murder weapons," to himself, but it was loud enough to be overheard. He looked around the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a wooden block with knives. He raised his hand towards them, then caught himself for the nth time and let it drop. He kept wanting to kill Sylar and he suspected he was going to _keep_ wanting to kill him until he… he didn't know. He couldn't imagine what would make him stop wanting to avenge Nathan's death. What was it he'd told his mother? '_No one wants him dead more than me_.' He looked back over his shoulder in Sylar's direction, wondering if he'd seen that motion, wondering what the other man made of it. He didn't ask, though. Peter just shook his head and huffed.

_What the hell am I doing in here? _His flimsy reasons for barging into the kitchen came back to him, which was mainly a pretense to hit his companion. _Oh…yeah_. He looked around at the reasonably tidy countertops and opened the refrigerator, again glancing back to check status on Sylar. Peter remained wary and edgy, clearly willing to continue the fight at the drop of a hat or a single false move. He struggled to calm himself down, looking back at the contents of the fridge, swallowing and trying to master his breathing. He reached in and pulled out a half gallon carton of milk, then went to searching the cabinets for a glass.

XXX

Sylar caught the forward motion and stiffened, his head coming up (potentially making himself larger and taller to intimidate, but also out of reaction), but he avoided moving back mostly to be stubborn. Talk about taking things out of proportion, he was left to believe Peter was having some repressed issues and was likely to lash out at the slightest provocation.

While he didn't stare back at Peter; he wasn't that stupid, Sylar looked away and kept close track of the other man's movements, completely prepared to duck back if he made another move. He felt Peter's eyes boring into him and that instantly made him uncomfortable; that kind of attention was never good attention (not that he expected any less). _Careful, I might attack you with my hair, _Pete_, _he mentally snapped.

He took to staring at the wall behind and beside Peter that led to the kitchen. Peter wanted to play dirty did he? That was more than unfair but what was there to do? The man was within reason and Sylar knew it. _Catch-22_. Sneering at the name comment, Sylar just sniffed and shook his head in a display of teenage rebellion he hadn't shown even _as_ a teenager.

Eyes narrowing in latent danger as he caught the obvious jab that was humiliating if more harmless than the words themselves. Sylar was powerless, but so was Peter and that leveled the field just as it had weeks before at Mercy Heights. _Yeah, totally leveled, fucking bastard. Play his game; you can always drug his damn food._ Suddenly the worry he'd convinced himself he needn't have about his life statics by homicide came back as Peter entered the kitchen with those parting words.

_Plenty of weapons in there. He's got motive, he's shown he's not hesitant to take a crack at you. But he thinks he needs you…_ He stood there debating whether to arm himself to prevent some kind of undocumented Survivor episode when Peter answered his inner dialogue for him, reaching for the knives he had. _Shit, shit, shit. Die Alone. Die Alone, his mind was busy screaming at the motion. Thanks a lot, Claire, stupid bitch, Lydia. Going to your grave cursing them? Is that really worth your time? Should be praying to whatever god there is because you're as mortal as you were the day you were spawned._

Sylar's eyes had widened, but he stood frozen, waiting to see he if needed to bolt. Should he even run? _We all know Elle shouldn't have saved your miserable neck from the noose, maybe this is what Hiro the hero meant…. _Peter aborted the idea, but that did nothing to ease Sylar's desire for survival and his suddenly boosted paranoia. He saw the medic moving about his kitchen toward the fridge and he made a show of making eye contact before looking away; the high school theatre classes and years of faking anything with Virginia with less, but more intense time spent as a psychopathic killer going far towards making the action casual and natural. Meanwhile his mind was buzzing to think if he'd left any cutlery or sharp objects in the refrigerator. He knew all too well just how dangerous vengeance was in anyone's hands, let alone someone as capable and as wronged as Pete. _He won't need any damn weapon when he decides the time is right_.

His hands fiddled at his sides and he gave thought to blocking up the door to his room with him inside_. Signals, signals, what's he looking for? Milk? What the hell does he want here? _Despite the desire to set boundaries, childish as it was, and kick Peter out after he'd made it clear that he couldn't come traipsing in whenever he so damn chose to beat Sylar's face in while he slept, Sylar did nothing. He told himself it was Catch-22. _Who buys that? He has to trust you, no weapons, _he told himself firmly, squashing his crazed mind's attempt at heightened survival tactics.

"Choke and die," he muttered, barely aloud and completely lacking in real conviction for obvious reasons. It was times like this he really cursed his parents, biological and adopted, for his lack of social skills. Yes, he could talk his way out of a jail cell _(minus Bennet, the fucking little...)_. Granted, it was easier with stupid women like Maya and Candice-Michelle whatever the fuck, because he lacked enough conviction in sex to be able to use it as the casual weapon it was. But his true talents came in getting his way; the super-powered neural pathways and synapses in his brain would find the shortest, more direct route to 'his way' after considering the consequences and every potential outcome. _When in doubt, bitch about it._

XXX

Peter heard Sylar say something, but didn't catch what it was. He looked back out of the corner of his eye, then returned to searching the cabinets. _Spices…plates…glasses._ He got one down, one of a matching set of nice crystal. He paused to look at that. He was sure it meant something – the trappings of affluence in a small, cluttered apartment. He poured slowly and put the carton away, once more doing a status check on his companion. He took his glass and turned backwards against the counter, looking out at where Sylar was still standing and managing to look restless and fidgety without even moving.

Peter took a drink and God, did that taste good. He felt the cold liquid all the way down. _Medically,_ he thought, _milk is classed as a solid._ It would calm his hunger for the moment. He tried to relax. He made a sharp exhalation – an attempt at a sigh, but he was still too wound up for that. "So. Three years alone, huh?" He looked at the milk, chewing his lip a little before taking another drink. "That's gotta be rough." He looked around the room blankly. He sounded insincere even to his ears. He was struggling to make small talk, but everything else he thought to say got vetoed by his brain before it made it to his tongue.

_I had all those questions earlier – now I can't think of them! Can he sense me? Can he read my mind? Did he know I was out there? Why is he here? Why this apartment? Why all this stuff around here? Does he still believe this is real? How can I convince him it's not? Is that what I have to do? Does he get my dreams when I sleep? Why is he such an asshole? Does he understand this is a punishment? Does he think he needs to be punished? Is that why he acts so weird with me all the time – because he thinks I'm part of it? Is there a way to get past that so I can actually ask him this stuff?_

He took another drink and reached up to rub his forehead. He looked at his right hand. The knuckles hurt. He'd been lucky, he supposed, in that he hadn't broken the skin, or his hand. He turned his hand and rested them against the cool glass. He raised his eyes to Sylar, whose face was probably hurting him worse. He was pretty sure he ought to feel sorry about that. What he felt sorry about was that he didn't.

He walked out of the kitchen slowly. His feet still hurt and reminded him of this fact now that he wasn't riding high on adrenaline. He went immediately left, getting no closer than absolutely necessary to Sylar. He looked at the sofa. He'd intended to sit on it, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get up fast enough if he needed to. "We've got to get along with each other." He glanced over at Sylar, then at the clock he'd manhandled earlier. He looked back at the other man. "Okay?"

XXX

Sylar's expression ranged from narrowed eyes to a blank look at Peter's sarcastic attempts at conversation, the lack of emotion on his face as it smoothed out conveying his singular thought very clearly; seriously? Peter was probably biting his lip to hold back his laughter at baiting him because Sylar found nothing about it funny. He made no answer to such a lame attempt at humiliation, instead leaning back against the wall in disinterest.

Peter was quiet for a while and Sylar noticed him pressing his fingers to the cold glass and he looked away in disgust. The whole thing was making him feel incredibly used, but that was not a new experience when dealing with Petrellis. Peter had broken into his house after he'd busted the door, snooped around, then come back and upset more things then punched him and raided his kitchen to ease the pain in his knuckles from the (in his mind) unwarranted blow. Peter moved and he stood straight again, but stayed still as the medic passed by, clearly and thankfully avoiding his person.

Keeping a close eye on Peter, he moved slowly to follow him into the living room, standing nowhere near the other, but he saw the aborted thought to sit at the couch pass through Peter's head and he glared at his back. Now his couch was sub-standard? Was this Claire in shape-shifted form? Because his 'guest' was starting to remind him of the cheerleader, what with the hitting and the pickiness not to mention the brainless conversation, or lack thereof.

Crossing his arms again, he shifted his weight. He knew that was the closest to an apology he Peter was ever going to cough up, so he took what he could get. "Yeah, okay, Peter," he conceded quietly, "You…" he started then stopped, deliberating whether to speak his mind, again, making direct eye contact looking up at Peter to show him how dead serious he was, "You're stuck here, man. Get a place, get some hobbies that don't include saving people. Settle down and find a sex toy because we're going to rot here." Words of wisdom however unspoken Peter might prefer them to be.

XXX

"Fine." He eyed Sylar again and finally decided there was no counter attack coming. He sank down on the couch, but not without a wary glance yet again at his companion. That was the last though. He leaned back and put the heel of his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck. "I might be stuck here for a while," he admitted reluctantly. He put his hand down and took a drink.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop looking for a way out. Regardless of whether you believe it or not, or whether I can convince you or not, can you just accept that I don't think this place is real?" He looked over at Sylar quite earnestly.

He started to put his glass down, then noticed there was literally no clear space on the desk next to it that was large enough to set a glass on. Everything was books and clocks in bell jars next to other jars of little metal parts, sitting on top of yet more books. "Why do you have all this _stuff_? Did you bring this here or was it here to start with?"

Once upon a time, Peter had had the normal allotment of 'stuff' that most people his age had - university textbooks, old clothes, CDs, a television, a trendy laptop that fit nicely in his equally trendy messenger bag, dishes that supported a place setting of six (like he'd ever have that many in his apartment!), along with furniture - a bed frame, dresser, table, end tables, sofa and a comfortable chair, among other things.

He'd come back after being locked up in Company jail to find his place had been cleaned out and had some Jewish couple from Indiana living in it. It was reasonable - he hadn't been paying rent while locked up. After that, he'd lived a very sparse lifestyle. He hadn't missed it much, actually, though he was unhappy about his mother telling him his place looked like he had a mental illness. Noah's snide comments about it had not gone unnoticed either.

_Hobbies that don't include saving people…yeah. My whole purpose here is saving people. Noah kind of implied I was a little obsessive about that too._ He finished off his milk so he wouldn't have to worry so much about where to set it and rested the empty vessel on his knee for the moment. He frowned over at Sylar, but it wasn't a personal judgment. He was angry at the world; Sylar just happened to be the closest part worth looking at.

XXX

He exhaled a breath, sensing that Peter's violent streak had passed, so he relaxed enough to slide his hands into his dark jeans. "I don't expect you to stop," he said with some amusement, "I give you about a year and a half, maybe two." Sylar's gaze grew distant as he examined the wall again; a little lost in his own thoughts of the years he'd had alone.

"You'll find it doesn't matter what either of us believes, Peter," Sylar replied in the same tone of earnestness, but his voice and eyes were sad, his mouth downturned. He shrugged and shook his head at the medic. "The stuff?" Giving the man a strange look as if to ask why it mattered to him, he replied slowly as it addressing a child, "Three years is a long time alone."

Closing his eyes briefly, he went on to answer the rest of the question, "I brought most of it. I…haven't…I've been busy; I haven't been here in….a long time." He shrugged again to avoid the answer he had to give, felt compelled to give, "And now I've been here a long time and its worse. It was….how I left it six years ago."

Clenching his jaw, he turned slightly away and leaned his hip against the desk his watches rested on. "And what brings you to New York, Peter Petrelli? I thought you were…." He waved a hand vaguely, "elsewhere with /Ma-/Angela or Parkman or something. And don't give me that bit about coming here to save me to save your girlfriend." Sylar's tone changed to be firm and still be socially acceptable.

The impact of Peter's fist was a possible reason for Peter to be here from Sylar's way of thinking. Peter was a Petrelli, however (normally) decent and well-meaning he was, he still had Angela's blood in his veins. Now that Angela had set Sylar's bar that much higher by turning him into her beloved eldest, Sylar was willing to believe the woman was capable of anything; this could be the most elaborate mind-fuck to date in his short but memorable career.

XXX

_If I'm still here in a year and a half, that would be…what? The afternoon? An hour or two? Not much, really. I'm probably going to be stuck here at least a decade. I wonder if time would pass any faster if I spent a lot of it asleep? But then I'd have Sylar's dreams to deal with. I don't think it will be that easy._

He listened to what Sylar had to say, frowning when it sounded like he was talking down to him. Peter didn't think he deserved that. Did Sylar do that to everyone? No wonder he didn't have anyone he could go to when his power manifested. No one wanted to be around the jerk.

"I've already told you," Peter said in a tired tone. _Maybe if I just say it differently?_ "I came to this place because I've decided the world is a manifestation of Matt Parkman's power and that-" _even someone like you shouldn't be stuck in here. No…on second thought, this is a good place for you to be. I just wish I wasn't stuck in here with you. More like, it's destiny that you save Emma, and that's why I'm here. Fucking destiny. I hate destiny. What was I saying? _"-it's my destiny to get you out of it." He snorted at the silliness of the whole thing.

'_I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny. It's my turn to be somebody now…'_

As if to himself, he continued, "You don't have to believe in it. Most people don't." Without thinking, he bent down and started picking at the lacings for his shoes. He needed to get them off and have a look at his feet. He caught himself and paused. _I need a pharmacy. And I don't want to do this in front of him._ It was not so much because such was rude or overly familiar, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be without his shoes. It was a tiny vulnerability, but even that was something Peter didn't want to display.

He sat back up, changing stride back to the questions that had been percolating in the back of his head for a while now. "I'd be happy to go somewhere else, if you thought I could actually get there. What's the furthest away from here you've been?"

XXX

'_Because I've decided…_' That failed to sound pious and helpful by a long shot. What was the saying? 'I think therefore I am'? Of course if he chose, Sylar could easily turn the magnifying class of examination on himself, but that was no fun. He'd had years to contemplate his own sins and faults, both of which he knew were in significant amounts. Why not pick Peter apart in his head (more literally if he bought Peter's scheme).

Sylar was forced to pause in his characteristic mental shredding of the other man at his use of the word destiny. Destiny. It meant nothing now. To think how much stock he used to put in that word, that idea, hurt his head and made his chest twinge. How many times had he used that word to people who couldn't understand? He closed his eyes, as if pained, and he was; his cranium heated up as it was torn between two sets of memories racing though him.

…

/"I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny." _Um, okay….What did he mean by that?_

"Whatcha doin' Pete?" He'd called back.

"It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!"

"C'mon, Peter, quit screwin' around." But even as he spoke, he knew what was going to happen. _My career down the goddamn drain because my idiot kid brother is too caring, kind and in love to grow a fucking pair. Please don't do this to me./_

…

"If the soul exists, scientifically speaking, it exists in the brain."

He'd chuckled then, sitting down and earnestly fixing his intent gaze on the Indian doctor, "When I was a kid, I used to wish some stranger would come and tell me my family wasn't really my family." Staring at the desk before him in shame as he spoke, but as soon as the words left him, he kept his blackening eyes to the wood to hide his anger. "They weren't….bad people, they were just….insignificant. And I wanted to be different."

Smoothly he looked up again, deadly rage coiled in his frame, seeking an out, seeking acceptance, understanding. _Understand me__! _'_Special,_' The word that had been trained into him for as long as he could remember. "I wanted to _change_. A new name, a new life." Tilting his head away, his ability silently at work in his mind, he spoke in disgust, "The watchmaker's son….became a watchmaker." Next pleading, "It is so futile. And I wanted to be…important."

"You are important, Gabriel." _Yesss. Yes, I am_.

…

_/ _Dad was dropping him off at West Point with reluctance. Nathan knew Dad's plan was that he go into politics. He'd always had the interest. But he wanted to fly; he wanted to make a difference, be a part of a change, but little did he or his family know just how he would fly. Far higher than anyone had ever dreamed_. No more being crushed under the political mill by Dad. Poor Pete, he's gonna get eaten alive unless he can get out. That's what I'm doing, _he told himself, _getting out._

"Nathan, as the oldest in this family, you have a certain responsibility. I can't count on Peter; he's not like you," his father placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder, large, warm with the potential to be comforting if he hadn't led off with 'responsibility'. Nathan avoided eye contact at first, but Dad wouldn't relent, those dark eyes boring into him with all the strength of a die-hard lawyer.

"You have a bright future, Nathan. I need you to carry on the Petrelli legacy. It's your destiny to carry our name to the highest places in the world. But don't forget your roots." Nathan nodded once, slowly, adjusting his military issue duffle on his shoulder, turning and carrying everything he needed into the future, away from his father./

…

"They're out there. I can feel them. So innocent, so unaware of what's happening to them." He remembered turning away to smirk at using the Indian geneticist. Looking back, ignoring the frigid winter Montana air, he finished more innocently, "We'll find them, Mohinder. All of them; together; the two of us. It's our destiny." _Why that memory now? _Mohinder looked like a deer caught in the headlights, not that it was a new look for him_. Obviously you came on too strong and you lost the mole, you lost the _fucking list_!_

…

_/_Ma had come in during the election to see if he was still on track for blowing up New York to heal the world. _She was involved…? In this madness?_

"Yes, you don't know everything about me, Nathan," she paused to inhale slowly, eyeing him, "But I do know everything about you. And I know what you're capable of."

"You think I'm a mass-murderer?"…/

…

_Stop, stop, stop! This isn't me! This isn't mine! I'm not him! My name is_-

…

He'd come to at the sound. Bright lights blinding him out of his drugged slumber, flinching from the sharp pain that stabbed his head and eyes. _My leg…Where am I?_

A voice…distant and mechanized spoke to him, "You lost a lot of blood. We sewed you up the best we could." Groggily, he looked to the source, dimly making out a tall man in a gray suit, short cut blonde hair, holding a clipboard with piercing blue eyes behind the horned rimmed glasses he wore. _Cell, I'm in…a cell. Prison…government holding cell_. He sat up quickly at his next thought, throwing off the heavy, scratchy wool blanket that covered him. _Experimental torture._

"Turns out you're not so untouchable after all." The man hummed as Sylar stared him down, pulling his mental muscles to access his ability. _Cut the bastard's lying throat_. "You'll find your abilities won't work. Not here. You're not going anywhere. _Gabriel_." The man was unflinching under his gaze, how odd. _Damn bastard's smug. He's pleased at this, that's what I hear in his voice._

"My name is Sylar," he'd replied softly.

"Now it is." The man took a breath before droning on with his misinformation, "It wasn't so long ago you were Gabriel Gray…An insignificant watchmaker."

Sylar was already moving, swinging on the platform of a bed to stand, hissing as he moved his leg too quickly. He braced his hand on the thin mattress, staring up at the man as more pieces fell into place. "I restore timepieces," he corrected in the same soft voice, keeping the pain from it. Balancing and moving to walk around the head of the bed towards the porcelain sink at the back of the cell, he continued, "You wanna know why I was so good at it?"

"No, why don't you tell me," was the mocking reply.

Glancing back to give a deadlier look as the drugs began to clear from his system, limping as he took a few steps. _Not good. _"Because I can see how things work." He paused in his attempts at walking to lift a scornful eyebrow in teasingly serious threat, "What makes them….tick," his tone intimate, "Like you," he drawled.

"We're interested in how things work as well. Everyone else we've…met has had only one ability; you've taken on several," the man in the horned rimmed glasses interrogated with the subtlety of a snake.

"Guess that's what makes me special," Sylar shrugged, proud to be able to speak of the fact, his accomplishments.

"That's important to you, isn't it - being special?"

He detected the sarcasm and the bait in the short sentences and he answered, purring, "It's important to everyone," so easily avoiding that sin.

"I think you're insane. I think the infusion of so many alterations to your DNA as corrupted your mind; all this power is degrading you."

Sylar stalked towards the glass and the man behind it, snarling quietly, "And yet here I am, alive and well, and once I get out, I'm gonna collect one more ability from your _daughter_…Sweet….innocent," Oh, he could taste it, his voice rising to counter the agent's reply, "Ripe. Indestructible."

The man repeated himself, barking, "I said that's enough, Gabriel." And it was the final straw.

He'd snapped, lunging into the class with all the impotent fury of a caged panther. "MY NAME IS SYLAR!"

…

/…"Important men make impossible decisions. President Truman dropped two atomic bombs on Japan to end World War II; Killed thousands to save millions."

"That was different, Ma; we were at war," he felt compelled to point out. The situation was totally different. Nathan was not going to sell his soul….lightly at least. "I can't accept this," he shook his head, trying to get her to recant.

"That is your one weakness, Nathan; you have no faith. So how could you possibly believe this bomb could actually heal the world if you have no faith in the idea of destiny?"

Nathan rose, restless and unconsciously avoiding the issue, but she continued. _Dog with a bone, my mother. _Folding his arms in on himself, he made a sour, pinched face where she couldn't see, his back to her._ "_Your destiny, Nathan, is to set the course of history after this unspeakable act as occurred." Nathan just closed his eyes against it all. _How can she say that? I know she's cold, but this…_

"And people will look back on what you do as the freshman congressmen from New York and they will thank you for your strength…for your conviction….for your faith." He nearly flinched at the points she was making, distracted by the tapping of Gary's knuckles on the window of his office. Turning, he slowly raised a finger to halt it in his universal gesture of 'just a minute'. His mother used his motion to stand before him.

"In my day we called it being _presidential_." Glancing from her to his jacket she'd removed from the hanger, he slowly turned away again, this time to accept the jacket, already….accepting this burden, he knew. Wincing before he faced her, he begged her with his eyes, knowing already that he'd lost this coin toss and won the election.Straightening his lapels, Ma gave him her signature motherly air that had him every time. "Can you believe?" she asked softly, "Can you be the one we need?"

Nathan moved behind his desk, assuming the position, shifting his shoulders back in preparation of the blame, the outrage, the decision, god, the decision. Hands on his hips, he stood tall, gazing at his mother as she slowly smiled her candy, winning smile. "That's my boy," she had whispered./

…

Stalking silently behind Bennet and Petrelli, tapping the man's shoulder to get his attention, he flicked his fingers, sending the agent flying back into a pillar, keeping him out of the fight. The younger man turned to him with those wide hazel eyes, backing away and preparing for battle. "What took you so long?" he purred, then inquired, "Haven't I killed you before?"

"Didn't take," Peter had replied with bite in his expression, unmoving. Sylar chuckled, reaching out his arm to capture the man's throat in a telekinetic grip, prowling in a large circle around his catch. "You think I'm gonna let you ruin it all? Take all the glory?"

Hearing the second heartbeat approach and the hammer of a gun being squeezed, he turned in time to see a large man firing bullets at him. Sylar unconcernedly raised his other hand, halting the bullets in mid-air, curling his fingers he turned them and sent them back at the shooter, penetrating into his torso and gut. He then called a parking meter up from the concrete, snapping it into his palm, failing to notice the tall blonde that approached him.

Full of righteous fury at everyone in his life that had tried to hold him back, hatred for those that succeeded, he snarled, "Did you really think you could stop ME?" He made to swing the clubbed end at Peter, but was halted by the woman he hadn't seen coming. Turning as she grabbed the meter from him, she swung and connected the metal head into his stomach, dropping him to the smooth sidewalk. _I am NOT the bomb. I am in control. I'm better than this. Mom…. I-I'm better than this._

The distraction, surprise and pain freed Peter, who stood and spoke to the woman, "Go back to your family. I got this." Sylar sneered into the ground before he rose to his knees and he was grabbed by the back of his collar, turning his face into Peter's fist. Bracing on hands and knees after he was punched again, his mouth bleeding copiously, he began to chuckle madly.

The chuckle turned into manic laughter_. I win. I did it. He thought he could beat ME! _He looked up to see the glow of a mutual power lighting up Peter's hands, the man gasping in horror at his own limbs. "Wait, NO, NO!" he shouted, walking past Sylar toward the statue of Kirby. Sylar took the opportunity to stand, taunting him further, "Turns out you're the villain, Peter." He smirked triumphantly as the man glanced terrified at him, never mind that his look of fear wasn't for Sylar himself. "I'm the hero."

…

The memories tore into him, tears leaking unbidden from his eyes as he shook, unconsciously clutching at his head. Sylar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, groaning loudly from pain, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He wasn't aware he'd sunk to his knees, his head clunking against his desk, raising his hands to fend off the attacks that plagued his mind. "Stop it! Leave me alone!" His shout ended with a dry cough and gasp for air as if he'd been screaming himself hoarse, bending at the waist towards the floor.

XXX

Peter had looked off out the window after sitting back up, thinking about what was out there, wondering how far Sylar had strayed from here. He need not have stayed 'here' the whole time. His mind could have dreamed up a series of places to be before this place. Maybe they were all out there, metaphorically speaking, of course. Maybe he had a string of places … No, that seemed unlikely. He'd said there was nothing else out there, which argued either he was hiding something or had never gone anywhere. Despite all of Sylar's other flaws, he hadn't been all that much on the concealing-things-business. Peter dismissed it and decided to go with the assumption the other man was telling him the truth as he knew it, at least until Sylar proved himself devious.

The sound of a groan caught his attention and he glanced back, then jerked in surprise when he saw Sylar was on his knees, holding his head. Peter struggled to get himself out of the couch. As he'd expected, it was soft, low and encompassing – under normal conditions no trouble to get out of, but in a hurry, with his back and legs weaker than they should be and aching, he clambered to his feet clumsily. He hesitated, trying to divine what was wrong from where he was at, despite his medical training telling him to go to the man, touch him, calm him, and check for symptoms.

_He wouldn't have any symptoms. We're in his head. Is Matt trying to get him out? _Peter tried to open his mental senses and _listen_, which was simple to do in the outside world, when he had Matt's power. He did it now though and nothing happened. It was like listening for a sound that wasn't there.

His attention was dragged back to Sylar with the man's shout. That really argued that some outside force was influencing Sylar, doing something to him, perhaps trying to end this little bubble of 'reality' as Sylar saw it. _Matt? Matt? _Nothing. _Crap. Matt, if you can hear me, get us the hell out of here!_ Sylar looked like he was in real pain there. As an afterthought, he tacked on, _And whatever you're doing to Sylar you should probably stop._ It wouldn't do to get out of here only to have Sylar too mentally messed up to carry out his mission.

"Sylar?" he asked in a steady, loud voice. "Sylar, stop fighting it. Is it Matt?" He took a few steps closer, wondering if he should hazard touching him and trying to get them out again.

XXX

Sylar could only grip at his skull, gasping from the overload and barely able to see. Every part of his brain was racing, feeling like it was torn apart; frontal lobe- consciousness, judgment and emotional response with memory for muscle habits, problem solving and….word association. Parietal lobe- location for visual and touch orientation and integration of different senses to allow understanding for a single concept, recognition and perception. Occipital lobes- vision. Temporal lobes- memory acquisition, categorization of objects. Cerebellum- his movements.

_I know all this, I know all this. What's that sound?...a voice? Peter. Peter! /__Pete__/ DIE! YOU BETRAYED HIM! YOU BETRAYED ALL OF US! I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!_

Panting and inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Sylar slowly came back to reality, beginning to see the room he knelt in again. He saw Peter standing and looking at him like he was about to have his whatever-lobotomy and get the straightjacket treatment. _He was sitting a minute ago….ages, years ago. God, just go fuck yourself and die Parkman. Angela, Bennet, NATHAN._ Now what had his companion been saying?

Haunted and pained dark eyes stared at Peter in confusion from the floor, "W-what?" he managed to croak, not comprehending the questions or commands, whatever was said. "Parkman's not here, I'm not in….not in his head anymore. I went…" he frowned, trying to remember a half-dreamt dream that melted with reality. "I went to him to…take away my abilities, but…." _I'm insane. You can say it. Parkman did. I'm not that damn crazy by myself._

"Why won't he die? I killed him, you…" his gaze sharpened at the other man, zeroing in on him like Sylar was starving and Peter the steak. "You dropped him, I…." he chuckled, amused for a moment in his conquests of evil, the thrill at having won. "I made you drop him and….why is there no one here, Peter?" softly uttering the man's name, his voice had trailed off to a whisper; one that begged an answer as if to an innocent, frightened child as his face took on a look of childlike confusion. On some level he didn't understand why he'd been hurt. Didn't everything make sense to them? Why couldn't they just see?

Sylar leaned back against the desk, straightening up and taking his time doing it, his brain still throbbing with splitting shots of pain. Staring at the medic, he wondered why he stood there, looking so helpless. _Oh, yeah…that's right. You're not his brother. _Somehow not being able to hold someone in place and speak his mind, ease his conscience, his soul to someone who he wanted to care, but hated him bothered him greatly. "Where did they go? Why would they…."

Here he was believing he'd gotten over needing people when one showed up and fucked up his….everything. He resented, he hated, he craved and he needed on most basic levels to feel and be understood. Caring and love he knew were too much to ask; he'd begun the slow and painful process of letting those go finally after years of clinging resilient to the idea, the theory.

Coughing, he shoved back chunks of his hair, glanced up through it at Peter who still stood and stared. He hoped clearing his throat would signal to the other that his questions needn't necessarily be answered. Peter didn't know anyway, right?

_I will rise from the ashes again._

_XXX_

_Wait…what?_ Peter knew he wasn't brilliant. He'd met brilliant people, geniuses even, and he knew he wasn't one of them. He was smart enough in his own way of course and he had gifts - just different ones. He stood silent and unmoving while Sylar rambled through his mental breakdown because he was trying very hard to figure out what the hell the man was talking about. There were common threads there…they had meaning. There was a lot of emotion and if Peter was good at anything, it was understanding how people felt - even if his ability to do that seemed a bit abridged here in Sylar's head.

The only person Peter had 'dropped' lately was Nathan and from the brief expression of gloating that passed over Sylar's face, that was exactly who he was talking about. He deserved to be beaten into the ground for even mentioning that incident, but at the moment he was on his knees babbling, so Peter just stood and listened while his face darkened, eyes narrowed and his lip curled. Things clicked into place and began to make sense.

So Sylar felt bad that no one would tolerate his bullshit. So he'd noticed that no matter how many abilities he had, none of them gained him friends or family or loved ones. (Elle the sociopath excepted.) So he was lonely, and for all his intelligence, he hadn't figured out how to be nice to people, or gain their trust in a genuine fashion or be a good friend in turn.

Peter snorted very softly after Sylar stood, an expression of deep disgust on Peter's features. "Where did everyone go? You made them drop their loved ones off buildings, Sylar, and who knows what else. They hate you now. No one wants to be around you. On some level, even you understand that."

He blinked. His eyes were wet - hate that he couldn't vent about everything Sylar was, anger that Sylar might have staged that whole episode on the hospital roof merely to mock him and maneuver him into letting Nathan fall, the stupid shred of hope that had flared when Sylar asked why he (Nathan?) wouldn't die - all strong emotions that found outlet only in his tears. Peter shook his head and headed for the door, limping a little. He drew up and looked at the bloody handprint there. He glanced back at Sylar and opened the door.

XXX

Again, Sylar knew he'd struck out. In his head, he snapped at the ghost of Nathan, _You can take my misplaced desires to the grave, fucking politico._ Sylar hadn't even been thinking of being attacked again at the mention of Peter's murdered brother, the one who tormented both of them. Normally he would have thought of the damage he was inflicting, but...he was too damaged at the moment to think of Peter.

The look he was given immediately informed him that Peter was not and never would be an avenue to converse with and attempt to figure things out with. That road had been swiftly blocked. His goal had never been to make friends; at least, he didn't think so. He'd expected to meet people, definitely not as intimately and as aggressively as he had; everyone pretty much fell under this category: wronged by Sylar, having attempted/succeeded at homicide/torture many times, unforgiving.

What he hadn't expected or….taken the time to consider was how his actions would remove him from what he now knew he (apparently) needed.

'_They told me I need a connection. A friend. I don't wanna be alone…and somehow you're supposed to help me.'_

Somehow in his drive to become special, powerful, fix the world somehow before it drove him insane and he broke it instead, he had so thoroughly repulsed every person that he knew that he had no chance of friendship, not even with a normal. Sylar had never been able to comprehend human emotion, particularly his own. So ironic that he be paired with Peter the wonder-empath; someone who understood and felt what the person was feeling before they themselves felt it.

That type of connection was only fathomable to him on a clinical level if he considered empathy as a power. As a personality type, a character trait, it was beyond him. He'd only ever managed it on accident and he would have little idea of how to go about it purposefully.

Peter spoke and Sylar knew it was nothing but the truth. If he knew that already, why had he bothered to ask? _…and somehow you're supposed to help me. _Sylar was beginning to understand the true depth of the pit of helplessness he'd cut himself into; no plea of his would ever be heard since he'd hurt far too many loved ones of all the people he knew to ever be given a sliver of redemption. That he did understand. Acutely. He'd felt it every day for three years.

Ducking his head down, the hair he'd pushed back falling over his cheekbone again; it tickled, but he ignored it, staring numbly at his feet. _Let Peter cry, he has something to_ cry for. Sylar didn't move when Peter did, allowing him his much needed escape after Sylar's unnecessary meltdown. He would have to be more careful in future to avoid….how the hell was he supposed to control something he couldn't? _That's an unreasonable demand he's silently charging you with. He doesn't want to deal with it, and why should he? It's not his problem._

He stood for several moments, giving Peter a little lee-way before tromping quietly after him. No one (other than Claire and maybe Bennet) made him feel more brutish and out of place, and, yes, deformed and monstrous than Peter. /_He was born with a silver spoon. He had everything handed to him; money, colleges… / _Padding a good ten or so feet behind the man, not wanting to incur his wrath further, but he found himself speaking before he could close his mouth.

"You're right. But people sure do line up when I can do something for them," he snipped, aiming his comment at Pet- well, any of the Petrellis for that matter, those living and dead alike. Look at Peter. Probably the most honest man, the least-hypocritical man he knew (_he did have his moments, Mr. I-shall-not-abuse-the-nail-gun-and murder-out-of-rage, oh, by the way, control your IA, Sylar, while I cut open dear Ma's brainpan_) yet here he was, sticking with the family business by using Sylar.

The only thing, the only shred of consciousness in Sylar's head stayed his balled up fists from connecting with Peter's scrawny neck was the fact that Peter was the only other person alive. And he might not be given another chance once the blow was dealt.

XXX

Peter walked out in the hall, steamed – relieved and disappointed that he didn't get to unleash any of the tension coiled within himself. He wiped his eyes, glad of the closed door between them now. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down them. He hadn't thought it would be this _hard_. It wasn't the duration that bothered him, although he certainly wasn't keen on the prospect of being here for years, trapped, separated from everyone he knew and cared about. It hadn't really sunk in yet what that would mean for him and when it did, he was going to panic. What was tough now was the idea of not hitting, not hurting, and not murdering the idiot. He walked down the stairs a bit slowly, thinking about this impulse of his own and trying to divine if it was how he truly felt – which he'd assumed, until now – or if it was some aspect of being in Sylar's head.

Then Sylar interrupted his thoughts by opening the door, looking out as if to see where he was. Peter grimaced up at him and went back to a normal pace rather than the introspective meandering he had been doing. Hopefully all Sylar was doing was checking to see if he was really leaving – and seeing that he was, he'd go back inside to his groceries or clocks or whatever.

But the asshole started to follow him instead. Peter shot him a nasty look for it, but he went on outside of the apartment building without other comment. Maybe Sylar was just going to some other apartment or room. When he followed him all the way outside, Peter stopped with the intention of glaring at him – maybe he'd get the message – but Sylar took the opportunity of having his attention to speak.

"You think so?" he answered dryly. "There's things you could do for me, but I'm not even bothering to ask. I don't want your help." He caught himself. "Well, aside from the dream. That's it – get you out, have you do something worthwhile – and maybe it's just an accident and I hope to God you don't-" He snapped his mouth shut, startled at what he'd almost said, having intended to finish that with '_save everyone by killing Emma and taking her ability_.' The dream hadn't _**felt**_ like that was a possibility, but predictions of the future sucked. They were often contrary and unreliable. So he finished lamely with, "don't do anything worse. After you get out." He sneered at Sylar in case there was any doubt of how unlikely Peter found that to be.

He started walking down the street, examining the storefronts as they passed. He was looking for a mart or a general store or a pharmacy – any old corner store would probably do and he was sure there was one nearby, within a block or two, but he didn't have the place memorized well enough to know if he needed to go right or left, two blocks or four.

"Just go back to your apartment, Sylar. I don't want you near me." _You piss me off. You upset me. What was that song lyric – you challenge my balance? I wonder if there's music in here? I wouldn't mind listening to the radio. I think the title of the song was 'Wonder' – lyrics sounded like it was someone with an ability._

He paused at the intersection. This was the corner Sylar had come out from around, with the bags of groceries. He probably hadn't gone far to get them and what Peter wanted was basic first aid supplies. A grocery store would have those. And he could get food while he was there, because he sure as hell wasn't eating anything Sylar offered him. He turned down that direction.

XXX

What the hell did that mean, exactly? 'Things he could do for Peter'. He snorted loudly enough to be rude, mostly in an attempt to get some standing with the man and get over his little scene moments ago. He was still very shaken, cranky from the headache it left pounding in his skull. Su-ure Peter didn't need him one ounce. "What would those be, Peter?" he chirped, miming innocence and helpfulness. Seriously, he was doing anything to crack this guy open; Peter was positively annoying. "_Have me do_ something worthwhile, huh?" The idea was laughable and he scoffed at it. He knew the game, he knew this little drill.

This was still a Petrelli he was stuck with, so the rules would be the same: Ignore the puppy dog eyes, in this case, the glares, until Peter wanted to get creative, which Sylar wasn't necessarily looking forward to. Sylar had his good deeds, but he tended to keep them under the radar for safety reasons. If the people he knew learned of his 'weaknesses', hell, even his goals and desires, they would be used against him in an instant.

"If you keep this up, Peter, who knows what I'm capable of." He just rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he would 'get out'. Poor kid couldn't accept a hard fact of life, could he? Sylar was tempted to begin making hand-mouth puppets as Peter spoke just to be a dick, but he didn't. "You amuse me. You _need_ me, Peter," at first he was serious, then he pretended to implore of the man.

Surely Peter understood Sylar's need for attention, even if his attempts to get it were rather crazy, admittedly bipolar (with good reason). To remind Peter that he wasn't getting out and that Sylar did NOT like to be ignored, he lengthened his strides, walking beside and two steps behind the man about a yard away (out of reach). "What are you looking for? I thought you said you didn't need a tour?" _Know your way around the city already, do you?_ He wanted to rub in.

Glancing at Peter once, he soon looked away and went about admiring the scenery he'd already viewed, keeping his hands in his pockets, hunching in as he walked. He gave an inaudible sigh at the futility of everything. _He won't even let me help. I'm completely useless here. I'm not that much of a threat now, am I? He doesn't know that._

XXX

At Sylar's first question, Peter flipped him off silently and kept walking, unfazed. _Having you do something worthwhile might be a nice change of pace. You ought to try it, psycho._ He looked at the apartment buildings and reluctantly agreed, mentally at least, that he needed to pick a place out and settle there, if only for a night or two until he decided where he would be for the long haul.

_What does that mean, to be living somewhere in Sylar's head? It's just a mental construct, but why does it manifest like this? Is it because we dream of real life, so our mental spaces would look like real life? Is this what a nightmare would really be for him? For most people there'd be…gore, and scary things. I guess when you're the bogey-man, those don't scare you anymore. __**This**__ does._

Sylar made another stab at provoking comment from him. Peter wasn't particularly avoiding being provoked. If he was giving the silent treatment, it was out of a lack of desire to communicate, not a desire to hack the other man off, though he knew full well it would have that affect too. He listened to Sylar's increasingly desperate attempts to get some attention from him and Peter's silence quickly began to fade into intentional cruelty in holding his tongue. When Sylar moved up closer to him, Peter faded to the side. He'd preferred the previous distance. Actually, he would have preferred Sylar stayed in the apartment altogether – there where Peter could find him when he needed him and staying out of his hair the rest of the time. Yet here he was.

Maybe he could make him leave? "If _**I**_ need _you_ so much, why are _you _tagging along after_ me?_ You think I'm going to find something out here you might want to keep hidden?" Peter didn't think that was likely, but he said it anyway. "Or are you just so bored that baiting me is the only entertainment you've got?" _Now that's probably true._ As biting comments to run Sylar off went, they were pretty weak. He muttered, "Enjoy the hell out of it, Sylar. You've already made it miserable enough for me to be here that I'd do almost anything to get out, _without you_. Keep it up and I'm sure I'll find new depths of desperation to explore."

There had to be other ways. Maybe he could use Matt's power to reprogram Sylar. Maybe he was meant to steal shape-shifting from the bastard and that was him saving Emma. Maybe Sylar saving her was metaphorical somehow, but he couldn't imagine how that was. He huffed and looked at the buildings. There, on the corner, was a...grocery store? His brows rose slightly, as did the corner of his mouth. _Just what I was looking for._ He headed for it with a couple faster steps, then scowled at Sylar as his mind played forward to having the jerk shadow him the whole time he was in the store, commenting on his selections and being rude.

_Just go away! _He didn't bother saying it though. After a point, even negative attention was attention. He sighed and copied Sylar's body language unconsciously, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

XXX

He just sighed at that, having plenty of responses to it, but he was too tired to fling it at Peter. _Classy,_ he thought, _completely original._ Sylar just clenched his jaw at the increasing silence radiating off Peter in angry waves; oh, and Peter felt the need to move away. _Who hit whom here?_ He wondered. _I'm not poisonous…per se. _Opening his mouth to retort something smart and snappy, but paused to consider his words, rather the effect that they would have. _You need to tread carefully; don't lose this one._

"I'm- what? I offered you a goddamn tour, man, there's nothing in here that's going to surprise me. Sorry, no dead bodies…" under his voice he muttered, "conspirator." Peter would just _love_ that, wouldn't he? If he found some dirt, some skeletons, whatever the hell it was he thought Sylar could _possibly_ be hiding in this hellhole.

"Because I-" Oh, convenient that he couldn't come out and answer that. _Damnit_. He had pushed too far, too fast and Peter had called him on it. Did Peter have a similar need to be recognized that he needed to hear Sylar say that he needed the medico? Of course Sylar wanted the company, the conversation, whatever it be about.

As a man who based himself, unfortunately, on the attention he received, most of it being negative which probably explained him accurately, being without people to give him any kind of reaction was torture. But in the end, he was a man who did what he wanted, what he needed to do and...dealt with the damage later.

Personality warred with genius in his head; the former fucking with the latter until his goals were diluted and tangled. Ironically, he was aware of the saying 'Good attention, bad attention; it doesn't matter so long as it's attention.' Something he found himself living and relying on more and more as the years had gone on.

"You're not getting out, Peter. It will be easier for you to accept that, man," he offered quietly, keeping pace to fall behind as Peter sped up, sensing the futility yet again. Sylar was obviously not impressed by Peter's hard-nosed displays and insistence to 'get out', so it wasn't taking up any of his precious brain space; he wasn't hopeful or even worried about the prospect.

"Take care of your feet; they'll just get worse." _Nathan? Again? You fucking pr_- Sylar found his body tensing up, but he managed to control his reaction. _He is_ not _your goddamn baby brother_. He knew where they were and most likely where they were headed, so he didn't stare at the building or make a comment of any kind. Why bother?

The doors whooshed open allowing Peter to stalk in like a man on a mission (rather than like a man avoiding the hell out of something) and prowl around for whatever it was he was looking for, which Sylar imagined to be food. Dumb kid probably forgot to eat the same way Sylar had when he'd been on the road and on the run. _Again, similarities everywhere. Why can no one see that? Why do I have to be the monster? _

Sylar was used to reading body language and he was picking up more hostility than he would prefer to place his person around. Peter pulsed with annoyed anger and it actually grated on Sylar's mind, seeping into his emotions. It only jacked up his headache further. He slunk a ways behind Peter out of boredom, wariness, loneliness and curiosity, mostly curious to see what Peter was here for, what he picked up, hell, even what he looked at.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a mildly nasty look for the comment about not getting out and a sullen one for the quip about his feet. He held his tongue, denying Sylar conversation because he could - and besides, talking with him hadn't gotten him anywhere but worked up and angry. The man's continued presence was like a stone in his shoe.

He stalked into the grocery store and drew up just past the cash registers. He gave the place a cursory scan, confirming it was indeed the sort of place he wanted to be in. To his immediate right was a candy display. He reached out and snatched off a Hershey bar with almonds, ripping the wrapper loose and letting it hang to the side. He took a big bite, not stopping to savor it, just crunched it up and swallowed. He looked back and forth at the various aisles more slowly and took a second, smaller bite at a normal pace. It tasted good, just like chocolate should, just like he remembered it. He sucked at his teeth and then nibbled off an even smaller bit, revealing an intact almond. He studied that, then gently took the nut in his teeth and worked it free, eating it by itself.

He felt better. _Blood sugar rising_. He looked over at Sylar, who was quietly watching his possibly-odd candy-eating habits. Peter's expression eased a little. He looked away and the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, like he wasn't so completely poised to fight at any moment. He let out a deep breath, gave a last look at the signs over the aisles that revealed what lay in each, and headed off to the left.

He took two limping steps, then turned back towards the entrance, going up to one of the other check out stands and liberating a couple empty bags. He quit limping again, having caught himself. He gave Sylar another 'checking' glance, but there wasn't any excess of hostility in it. He was just seeing where the man was. He wasn't comfortable with him being there, but there wasn't a lot he could do about him following him around. At the moment, he didn't feel up to threatening him with anything to make him go away. Sharp comments and the like weren't at the forefront of his mind either.

Peter headed back through the store, going down the medications aisle. It occurred to him that if there were pharmacies here, then there were probably hospitals, with fully provisioned stockrooms. It was something to think about, though he didn't see a lot of point to drugging Sylar. _Maybe myself, on the other hand_…he thought with amusement. He wasn't serious. His mouth quirked a little at the internal joke anyway. He snagged a bottle of Tylenol and dropped it in his sack. He wandered on down the aisle, taking another bite of his chocolate bar.

Peter stopped to get a bottle of alcohol and another of peroxide. He searched around for a moment, not seeing what he wanted. _Ah, over there. Tubes._ He walked back the way he'd come and grabbed a tube of ben-gay. He put it in his sack and glanced discreetly towards the front of the store, giving Sylar's location another status check. Peter was hyperaware of where the other man was at, relaxing only gradually. He moved away and found another unbroken nut in his candy. He bit it off whole, sucking the chocolate from around it.

Peter picked up a box of moleskin and another of blister plasters. He finished the candy bar and wadded the wrapper, looking around, wondering where he should dispose of it. He put it in his sack and stretched. _Next on the agenda: food._ He meandered down a few aisles, trying to think of what he wanted to eat. He didn't want to fix anything, as appealing as the idea of prepared food was. He went down the bread aisle and took down a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. He could happily eat that all by itself and when he was a kid, he had sometimes done just that.

_I need to get something other than bread though, or I'm going to have to limp my lame ass down here again in a few hours._ As he moved back to the front of the aisle, he turned and looked at Sylar, not to see where he was, but just to look at him. He hadn't said anything annoying for a while. Peter decided not to break that good trend by inviting conversation. Instead, he headed over to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He snagged apples, celery, carrots and a sweet potato. _I wonder if there's already food in the apartments? I suppose I could ask._ He went back towards the front of the store. _Or I could go find out._

In any event, his steps slowed as he reached the doors. They swept open and he ambled outside because of that only. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go from here. He stood there looking around, trying to weigh in his head how far away he should be from Sylar so as to avoid the bastard, and how close to be because…well…he wouldn't really admit, even to himself, that he didn't want to be off by himself.

XXX

/_Almond Hershey bars….He remembered Peter chowing them down by the dozen in med school. Poor strung out Pete had needed the sugar to even stay on his feet and keep his eyes open, let alone keep his brain online. Every so often, Nathan would have his assistant send Pete a box. Ma use to give him looks when she'd catch Pete with one like it was some kind of Nazi anti-appetite spoiling plot, but he'd kept doing it anyway. ("Kid's a nurse, Ma, he knows about diabetes") This was America and Pete was wafer thin and strung out for the energy. Hell, they were close enough that Nathan knew how he liked to eat them; large, chunks torn off into his mouth then sucking the nuts clear before crunching on them like they were the best part of the bar, something Nathan didn't exactly understand. Nuts were plain, chocolate was…well, chocolate. He still held a random memory of teasing Pete about said nuts; his own higher-sexed brain making a few connections about how, exactly, he liked to devour the legumes. Yeah, he'd known about Pete's little secrets in school. He'd mused a time or two that the kid might actually get laid more than he did himself with whatever his cute little (turn your head and cough) nurse routine was. Sometimes he surprised himself with the older brother role, but he was twelve years older than his kid brother, so he hadn't ever really considered it a choice. He remembered being baffled by the whimpering, pink mass that resembled one of those dolls the little girls seemed to fawn over when it, his newborn brother, had been set in his arms as a kid. Dad had never given him anything, even if the unspoken 'offer' was present. Nathan knew it had fallen on his shoulders that day, even if he didn't know it that moment in the hospital. Ma always did say that he took up more space…./_

Sylar just stood with his head down as tears stung his eyes. He had no other reaction to give to the memory; it made his chest ache hollowly, somehow chilly inside. _God…to have had a brother, a sibling…parents, really_. Was it any wonder he'd become a killer? _Then again…the sibling would probably have gone before Mo-Virginia. _Sylar found himself leaning his butt back on one of the register's conveyer tables, raising wet, wide, darkened eyes to track Peter's every move. _Get to know him, figure it out, he's not rocket science, he's….What was Pete? _He met the glances the man threw back at him as he rolled the thought over in his mind, but didn't give a sign of any emotion to the attention.

Peter….Peter was an adversary, technically an enemy of the highest rank. Deadly, ruthless, and capable. But the man had opened up a time or two. The smallest glimpses only created more questions than they answered and Sylar was oh-so curious (one of his weaknesses). But he was still a brother in some very fucked up way, to Sylar, not Nathan. He held memories of Nathan's disregarding, mocking, insulting behavior, chopped, rude responses to 'My foot hovered before it hit the ground. _Hovered_!' Sylar knew that feeling. He would have understood, even if he'd never developed his own ability.

Some people couldn't understand being special. Peter…he understood, but he didn't seek it out, instead choosing to be selfless and helpful (to everyone but Sylar). Sylar knew he never would have 'fit in' as a Petrelli (reasons being Claire and Bennet; the options of being shot and stabbed on a daily basis not appealing even to his potentially masochistic sense of self); he knew he'd take Peter's place as the blackest sheep, assuming Angela ever released him from Level 5 period. But he felt such similarity to Peter; surely the other man knew? Maybe he could sense it somehow…It was too much to hope. _His empathy is broken after all…_

After taking mild note of the items Peter picked or gazed lingeringly at, Sylar lifted himself up to sit on the black conveyer table. The motion seemed to earn him a longer look, he only returned it, his eyebrow inching up slightly in question. Moments later, Peter shambled from the store and Sylar could see him looking around, telegraphing 'lost' all over his face. Sylar plopped down to his feet, shuffling out after him, careful to keep his distance and silence. Peter seemed more receptive that way, even if Sylar was brimming with questions. He didn't offer any comment or directional help since Peter seemed eager in the extreme to part ways.

XXX

Peter swung his bag pensively, looking up and down the street. He gave Sylar a glance and dropped his eyes before looking away at his possible destinations. He was softening even further in his stance against him – not that it really changed anything, except that Peter wasn't angered by Sylar's mere presence. _How long did that take? A whole ten or fifteen minutes of him keeping his mouth shut?_ The prospect of years stretched ahead of him. He sighed.

_Wasn't there a psychological experiment like this? _He started walking slowly back towards Sylar's apartment. _Not being trapped somewhere with a psycho-killer, but having to sit across from someone at a small table and make constant eye contact with them for…I dunno, two minutes. It's longer than people think. Then you had to rate afterwards how you felt about them, whether they were a good or bad person. Just looking at someone for that long, not talking, not doing, nothing else – and people universally decide the stranger is more likable than someone picked at random._

_So here I am stuck with Sylar. I hope like hell he'll quit being a condescending ass, or at least keep his mouth shut._ He glanced back at the man again, but Sylar was still silent. Peter relaxed a little more and looked around at the buildings, the trees, the empty sidewalks. _It's kind of restful in a way._

He was alone with his thoughts – not a state Peter had ever been very good at. He was prone to brooding in solitude if he wasn't able to keep busy. He didn't want to 'brood' at the moment. He wanted to find an apartment, eat, take a hot bath, and lay around with his feet up, waiting for time to pass…he supposed. It would end when it ended. He just had to wait until then.

Waiting. Alone. With his thoughts.

"So, um…what do you…_do_ most days, here?" He had to have been doing _something_ all this time. Peter kept moving forward steadily, not looking at Sylar, not wanting to do anything to encourage another burst of sarcasm or slur against himself.

XXX

Sylar only moved so far as to look in Peter's direction as he emerged behind him from the store. However, he did give a startled glance at the man's back as he headed back towards Sylar's place. Either he was looking to settle close or he was being friendly or condescending enough to go back to Sylar's domain. Peter seemed more at ease in the silence Sylar provided so he didn't speak, attempting to enjoy even the illusion of companionship.

Plodding after the man, a distance behind, Sylar was more interested in the questions he had for Peter and trying to discern what his own next move should be. It all seemed to depend on Peter. _So this is what going crazy (for the dozenth time) feels like. I thought I gave up on waiting on other people. _He gave a miniature sigh to himself. Maybe some things never really change. _Take Peter for example_.

Sylar started slightly at the oddly asked question, surprised to be addressed at all. Blinking, he licked his lips, moving a hand to shuffle through his hair; a defense mechanism he'd developed suddenly now he had company since the last haircut he hadn't bothered to observe. "Uh, whatever you want. There's reading and shopping and cooking. You don't strike me as the homemaker type, but there's always arts and crafts and furniture décor and rearrangement," he chuckled lightly to show that he was indeed joking, not snarking.

He felt compelled to leave masturbation _off_ the list since that would be….awkward and Peter would figure that out for himself. That was literally none of his business. He supposed someone could make that a serial habit….he shook his head to clear it. It was awkward even in his head and for once his overactive mind wasn't doing him a favor_. I need a life. Badly. It's starting to show_. He also didn't feel the need to point out that Peter could spend his time making forts and cleaning guns, sharpening his knives and perfecting his poisons. That would be pushing him in all the wrong directions.

"There's always writing and board games, card games, too," he provided helpfully, honestly. "There's always learning a new language or learning to sew or something." Shrugging, he gave a small frown at the thought, "Just…find a hobby, basically. You'll try nearly anything to avoid boredom, but it will come for you anyway. Find something….stable." _Huh, stable. Coming from you, he'll leap at the chance for a weekly chess game with you._

XXX

_Are you the 'homemaker' type? Sylar the homemaker. _A memory came to mind of Sylar…no, Gabriel, feeding Mr. Muggles a bit of waffle. The man was wearing an apron and taking care of a little boy. He'd come over and hugged Peter warmly, put his hand on his face, and acted happy and balanced, rather than the desperate, haunted man he was all the other times Peter had seen him. It was a weird scene - simultaneously proving Sylar _could_ control his hunger and asserting that doing so was so difficult that he hadn't achieved it for long years.

_He was controlling it last year, when he thought he was my brother. How hard is it to master?_ He mulled over their previous conversation about post-it notes. It made him uncomfortable shortly, so he let his mind jump tracks, listening as Sylar elaborated on his answer.

_Writing. I wonder if he keeps a diary? Some sort of journal of his victims? I doubt it. Doesn't seem his speed - I doubt he thinks much about the people he killed - their lives were just speed bumps on the path to getting more power. Not much point in writing here anyway, since no one can read it but us. It's just a mental exercise. Though I suppose that's the point. A few hours have seemed like years to him…and I'm sure someone from the outside would have done something for me if I'd been lying around for three or four days now._

He eyed the buildings they were walking past. _So where do I want to be? Same block? Two blocks away, like here? Does it mean anything to be further away?_ He felt a bizarre urge to settle in virtually next door to Sylar, but all he needed to dispel that was to remember his several failures in conversation so far today and his track record in trying to get anywhere (in more ways than one) the first day he'd been here. He stopped walking, looking up at what were probably nice, mid-sized family apartments. It was a lot more than he needed, but he didn't plan on staying there for more than a day or two - until he felt better and had a better feel for what was going on.

Even though he'd already decided where he wanted to spend the rest of the day, he was reluctantly to simply walk off from Sylar and leave him standing in the street. They weren't exactly having a conversation, but they'd had an exchange that had been perfectly civil. It was a start. _Maybe I should just leave it at that and take my victory where I find it. That's what Nathan always counseled._ But no, Peter had never been one for that strategy, so he asked, "What do you do, though? What are _your_ hobbies? If you really think we're going to be stuck in here forever…" _Even by my assumptions, it's going to be a really, really long time._

XXX

The idea of Peter keeping a journal (_oh, the empathy_) or writing an autobiography or worse, a self-help book or 'Reasons Sylar Should Die' memoir best seller was alternately horrible and amusing. If he went with the memoir, he supposed, Sylar could always sign the first million handwritten copies. Still he continued, more ideas coming, "If you're interested, there's always graffiti. But you're only destructive w-" With a nail gun. Ted's power. "When you…have to be," Sylar finished lamely.

Sylar himself was frustrated at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. As a watchmaker all those years ago, he'd had ideal control of his words, even the emotions he let slip to the surface. As Sylar, himself, now, having his personality, his mind rot away over the years alone had apparently left significant amounts of anger. Anger he hadn't realized he still possessed.

Peter seemed to be looking around….for his own place? Sylar was a little shocked he would consider something so close to himself, not that he was complaining if that was the case. He'd be thrilled to have someone, to….actually _have_ something period, let alone so close for him to view almost as he pleased. Of course, he technically had the whole world for his own, but maybe because Peter _wasn't_ his _anything_, perhaps an enemy, it was appealing. A challenge, perhaps. And a challenge the medico was in spades.

Peter spoke again, posing a question that had Sylar gaping a little, unsightly as it was, at the man's back. _Did he really just…? _As baffled as he was by the question, his brain was already coming up with the answers for him. "Wh- uh…I….read a lot. A lot. I don't cook for fun, but I do cook to eat. I do puzzles on occasion, I can draw a little. I collect stuff and fix up furniture sometimes." He did hesitate when it came to divulging a potential secret of himself, one that could set him back all the accomplishments and murders he'd bled and suffered to achieve.

Deciding to forego it at the moment; Peter may already have put two and two together about the earlier clock incident, he had a question of his own to ask that couldn't wait. "Um….Peter?" Sylar asked quietly, "Have….have you read my file?" Random and it probably drew more attention to the question and the motivations behind it because of it. Some secrets were best left buried. He had to see what he was working with.

XXX

Peter jumped on the question, more because of the tone it was asked in than the words themselves. Truthfully he initially had no idea what Sylar was talking about, but there was an earnest, quiet tone there that wasn't confrontational or aggressive. It caught Peter's ear instantly. "Your file?" _Medical file? IRS file? That file the FBI supposedly keeps on everyone? No, wait - the Company file. I'll bet that's what he means._

He looked back at Sylar, shifting his feet enough to be angled towards him, like they were talking to each other rather than Peter speaking forward at the world and Sylar addressing his back. It had seemed safer that way - less direct - and Peter suspected he was pushing too far, too fast just with that small movement, but he'd already made it. To take it back was worse. No, let Sylar recoil or rebuff instead, or adjust to tolerate it, depending on his capabilities.

In the meantime, Peter studied Sylar's expression, seeing the caution and reticence there, along with something that wasn't mere curiosity. The other man _needed_ to know this, which cemented what they were talking about. "Your Company file?" Peter asked, just to make sure. The shift in Sylar's expression affirmed it and Peter looked away, not wanting to be too intent.

"No," he answered shortly. "Me and the Company aren't on good terms, Sylar," he said with a snort. They'd tried to maneuver him into blowing up New York; they'd locked him up for months; they'd developed a virus that could destroy nearly all the world's population, and then _**kept**_ it; one of their founders, his father, had stolen his abilities (which may or may not have been related to some plan to give everyone abilities, and then to lose control of the situation such that a future version of Peter thought it needed to be stopped); they'd cooperated with the mass abduction and imprisonment of specials, including Peter himself…really, at what point in all of this would Peter have had an opportunity to read Sylar's file?

He chuckled at the thought, still looking away. To make it clear his humor wasn't at Sylar's expense, he said, "No, we're not on good terms _at all_."

Why would Sylar care? Why did Sylar think Peter was interested in his life, or multiple imprisonments, or victims, or whatever the file held? _Well, I did ask about his hobbies. Maybe he thinks I'm curious about him? I guess I am, though really I just wanted something to talk about._ Direct as always, Peter asked with a hint of a smile, "What's in there that you don't want me seeing?"

XXX

The way Peter pounced on the question, giving him that Peter look, going so far as to turn towards him and give him a glance told Sylar that he'd managed to sink himself. He had the man's complete attention, how ironic that he didn't want it on this particular subject. Something on his face must have shown, since he didn't bother to answer the obvious (to him) question, only shifting his weight as an 'answer', but it had Peter looking away.

Having Nathan's lovely memories, he knew Peter was not chummy with the Company, but he did know that he had almost unlimited access should he chose to exercise the right. Then again, Peter was literally a jump first, think later guy; that much he knew from experience. He was the lovable ignoramus, mentally chuckling to himself at the image.

Peter answered in very vague and hazy terms in the negative to his hesitant inquiry, so he gave an uncertain nod in response, hoping to let the subject drop. Of course Peter's amusement made him a little wary of mockery, but the man dissuaded it quickly; leaving Sylar to tilt his head in equal measures of puzzlement and amusement at Peter's display of good humor. Peter didn't show it often any more (not that Sylar knew much about it).

He couldn't really escape the returning, very fair, question. Sylar didn't want to make Peter any more suspicious than he was already. Come on, Peter still thought he'd managed to kill someone (everyone) or hide a secret portal in his closet or something equally ridiculous. But the EMT had also admitted that he was staying for a while and that gave Sylar….mixed feelings to say the least.

Oh, somewhere in the back of his mind he did hope for the freedom Peter proclaimed to be truth and reality, but….he had no choice but to be pragmatic about the whole thing. (And, really, that was just be totally unfair if Peter only had to 'stay' a week _with_ company, mind, while Sylar spent three years alone.)

The smile, however, did nothing to ease his worries. "I'm entitled to have my own demons, Petrelli," he said, mild and firm, nicely getting him to back off. It was about the extent of his manners, but he did hold his tongue on mentioning who exactly was involved in creating said demons, i.e. Mom and Pop Petrelli. "You've made it clear they're none of your business, except….the obvious one," again, avoiding naming names, this one Nathan's.

"It's not like it's going to come back and bite _you_ in the ass, so don't worry. I was just….curious how much you knew, that's all." _My god, stop talking already. Thought you wanted his attention_ off _your damn file_. To back it up, he set about looking innocent and harmlessly normal. Odd how he felt the need to keep Peter away from something that could barely be classified a secret when he was the only other being alive. Pride was funny that way.

Really, did it need protecting? No. Sylar just preferred avoiding further humiliation, but….was that worth all the subterfuge? Perhaps it was merely another weakness, another opening for Peter to get inside that he somehow, for some reason sought to prevent. He'd had enough of his own personal identify crises (_Thanks, Mom, Elle, Bennet, Samson, Angela, Arthur and Nathan_) prior to being mind raped and manipulated. His own experiences, his actions hoping to show the specialized world what he was, who he was. And that someone was no longer a watchmaker. _I restore timepieces_.

How far he'd gotten with the community, he didn't know for sure; he only ever heard the negative murmurings and whispers, the plots and grievances laid against him. He knew he'd managed to erase his birth name (to everyone but the state of New York PD) and become reborn as Sylar, the most dangerous special. Feared; respected only in regard of the levels of fear he commanded and the intensity of actions the others would commit to see him dead, worse, imprisoned; even selling their own souls to give him the same measure of pain he'd caused them, also the family some would sacrifice to use him as a weapon.

At least Peter had answered the question, a result he hadn't been sure about; this opened the door for more of Sylar's questions. Meanwhile he was strangely touched; Peter would be thrilled to know, that the other man had inquired about something as mundane as his hobbies. He wasn't, however, so delusional as to believe it was concern or affection by any means. Peter was merely asking about what he was dealing with and probably trying to fill some space. He was obviously learning that Sylar was really the only thing that would fill the space.

He decided to try his luck again, "Assuming you're from….another reality," what a coined phrase that was. Peter used to be able to teleport after all. _Fucking teleportation_. "Um…what am I doing there, exactly? I doubt Parkman is going to stand by and…." And what, really? Um, try to find his (apparently still existing in Peter's La-La Land) kill spot? Incase him in carbonite or burn him to ash and hand him in a jar to Claire or Bennet, maybe Angela to gloat over? Mentally rolling his eyes at himself and the endless imagination; he was trying to figure it from the perspective of Peter's overactive one. Hey, he'd phrased it...delicately.

XXX

Peter backed off as desired at Sylar's firm non-answer. _Ones,_ his mind added, _**plural.**_ Whatever had happened to Claire was his business too, no matter how insular Sylar wished to be in limiting who he thought Peter should be interested in. And not that blood relation was all that mattered - there had been others Peter had known about fairly directly - Jackie and Isaac came to mind immediately, then there was Claire's biological mother, whom Peter recognized as family if only of a distant sort. He'd never even met her, but that didn't matter. It wasn't like he didn't care about all the other people Sylar had killed, or that they were somehow insignificant and beneath Peter's concern by virtue of unfamiliarity. The implication that they _were_, or _should be_, seriously got under Peter's skin.

Peter's jaw worked slightly. His back tensed up again (and hurt). His eyes narrowed. He drew his head down and his posture shifted. Sylar was looking away, though, thinking through something other than the effect his words had had on his companion, unaware of how completely that had shut down Peter's attempt to reach out.

Sylar asked his question, again mostly looking away until afterward. With difficulty, Peter listened and actually gave a moment to consider it. _You're being bricked up behind a wall in Parkman's basement. You'll never matter to anyone ever again. No one will find you. Your body is going to be buried and you'll be trapped in your head forever. _It might have helped Peter's cause in getting Sylar out if he'd said any of that, as Peter knew it might motivate Sylar, playing on his sense of self-preservation if nothing else. But he didn't feel inclined to share anymore. Pettily, he'd rather keep something like that, something Sylar would want to know, to himself. He answered honestly, though a bit less directly than he might have otherwise. "You're unconscious, just like Ma was at Pinehearst." Let Sylar imagine his body lying still and safe in a bed somewhere. The reality was more horrific.

Peter gave a smile that was very foreign to his face, a smile of someone who had seen a bit too much and been scarred too deeply by it. Eyes still narrowed, the smile didn't make it past his lips, but it wasn't fake. It was just as bitter as day old coffee. Because whatever was happening to Sylar was probably happening to Peter too. They were linked now, one way or another. He wondered, again, what Matt would do with him. Obviously, he wasn't going to pull him out or else he wouldn't still be here. That meant … what?

Peter exhaled sharply and looked upward, stopping his mind from the fruitless, stupid circle that he'd run in too many times already. He was here, and that's how it was, no matter the reason. He hurt, and he was tired and hungry and he wanted to plant his fist in Sylar's face again for no more than a comment that Sylar didn't understand. And that was what pissed him off so intently - Sylar didn't understand, _at all_. He had to get away from him again.

He turned to the building and took a few steps towards the door. "Don't follow me." A moment later he glanced back, expression hard and still angry, but feeling the need to add anyway, "Please." Partly it was politeness, and partly it was a genuine plea. He didn't want Sylar to follow him out of contrariness, or some misplaced need to prove he could. It would start things - things Peter didn't want started.

Peter pushed open one of the glass double doors and walked into the apartment building, getting about twenty feet before sagging against the first wall he came to, head hanging, bags dangling limply from his hands. The whole situation tried to crash down on him at once. He wasn't beaten yet though - not by a long way. After a few seconds, he bore up under the burden, straightening again. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, going to the elevator, his stride getting increasingly steady. The doors parted immediately and he walked inside, turning. His face was chagrinned as he realized the outer doors were transparent and he'd had a moment of weakness in view of the other man.

The elevator doors blocked off his view.


	5. Settling In

Day 4

Peter looked at the bank of elevator buttons blankly. He felt emotionally drained and that meant he couldn't think. The buttons went up to eight. _Top floor? Bottom? In which case, why did I get on the elevator? I'll look like even more of an idiot if I get out and there probably aren't any apartments there anyway - just offices and services. My luck Sylar would still be standing there, watching._ He hit the button for eight and reminded himself it wasn't like he was going to be staying wherever he ended up. He could always move later.

He walked out into an empty hallway, looking at doors distinguishable from one another by only the numbers. He went to the first one and…knocked, because he couldn't bring himself to just walk in. There was of course no answer. He knocked again - still no answer. He sighed and tried the door. It was unlocked. He swung it wide and looked in. "Hello?"

In all of his wandering, he hadn't gone inside the buildings very much. He'd gone in ground floor, commercial establishments, but Sylar's apartment had been the only one he'd been in. It had been creepy enough going in an empty store. It was worse going in an empty residence. He kept expecting to see an elderly person passed out on the floor, or a cat vanishing out of sight, like the times he and Hesam had been called to investigate by concerned neighbors or relatives.

There was nothing there, though. The rooms were also strangely sterile. There were no pictures of loved ones, no clothes left out on the floor, no hair in the hairbrush that was neatly put away in a drawer. The few articles of clothing were separated by the same distance in the closet; folded identically in the dresser. Everything was set 'just so,' staged for his perusal.

_Well, first thing's first_. He walked to the door and locked it. He put his vegetables away in the refrigerator and set the bread on the counter. Unable to resist, he got out a slice, then a second, and ate them together like an empty sandwich. He took the rest of his acquisitions to the bathroom, noting there was a shower head over the tub so he could bathe or shower as he wished. He figured he'd do both. He considered what order to do things in and decided that as much as his feet hurt, any bandaging and wrapping he did wouldn't do any good if he took a bath right after, so he plugged the drain and started the water running.

He put the toilet seat down and unlaced his boots, gingerly removing them. His socks were grey, but they had a few dark spots on them now, unsurprisingly. He peeled them off and threw them into the trash. _Need new socks__._ He twisted his foot up to look at the bottom. He was blistered in a patch under the ball of his big toe, on the top of his little toe, and across his heel. His other foot had a similar wear pattern. He shook his head and stripped off his shirt. He suspected it was a bit ripe. He tossed it on the sink and followed suit with his pants. His underwear he tossed on top of the socks in the wastebasket, then climbed into the tub.

He played with the water settings, heating it up a little more, and settled back. _I wonder if there are hot tubs around here? Or swimming pools? I thought I saw the ocean…I wonder if there are seasons. I suppose there are, since Sylar thought of it as 'years.' _He let the hot water soak into his muscles and ease them. He leaned forward to rub fitfully at his calves, then his thighs, before leaning back again and resting.

It had been a while since he'd really relaxed. Even before he came here - grieving for Nathan disturbed his rest and taking his mother's ability hadn't done him any favors. _In more ways than one__._ Once here, his sleep had still been tense. He couldn't guard his mind then. _That probably has a lot to do with it. That and never being sure if Mr. Murder-happy might show up__._ He sighed. _That's…probably uncharitable. He probably…he must have a good side in there somewhere, or at least a side that's not…_ Peter sighed again and shifted, finding a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and drifting. He let his thoughts wander in the lassitude that comes between lying down and falling asleep.

_I wonder what he does with his free time, that's so secret or embarrassing he wouldn't talk about it? What, does he knit pictures of kittens?_ The warmth seemed to be seeping into his bones, calming him and soothing. Peter let his mind unwind too, letting the stress of constant concentration disperse.

He was a very focused man and when he paid attention to something, he paid attention with everything he had. It was a trait he'd shared with Nathan and their father - a peculiar ability to make a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world to them at that moment. It wasn't a lie, either. No one wanted Arthur's hawk-eyed attention, and everyone wanted to be Nathan's friend, if only for a moment. Peter had a different effect on people, but it was no less intense.

He replayed the conversation they'd had on the street outside, what few words they'd exchanged. Was the question about the file trying to change the subject? His mind turned over the tone of voice, the body language, Sylar's expression, his gaze, his motions and stance - he didn't consider them clinically, but as a whole, assuming them inside his own head like a set of new clothes, trying to gauge what it felt like to be Sylar at that moment, trying to understand his motives.

Finally even that bit of mental work exhausted him and he fell asleep in the bathtub. He twitched a little, not noticing as the last of the barriers in his mind came down. A memory, or a dream, came to him. He was…someone else, someone with long, thin fingers, quick and delicate, yet still masculine. _\\__He was working carefully at a watch, incorporating a part he'd fabricated himself, having failed to find an adequate replacement. He wasn't sure he had the diameter right, but that was how it had gone for a long time with his Sylar__.\\_

Peter twitched again, eyes moving back and forth under his lids. The watch was familiar.

_\\Of course it was. He'd worked on it for years. It was his pride and joy._

_The bell over the door rang. He looked up and saw one of his occasional repeat customers, Mr. Thomson. He told the older gentleman, "I'll be just a minute," in a voice that was almost Sylar's - but too young, unguarded_ (Peter heard the difference instantly)_ - __and made a final adjustment to the gear. He'd been right though - the diameter was wrong. He'd have to go back to the Swiss shop and beg a little more time with their machine to make another part, this time just a tiny bit smaller. The customer leaned over the counter; looking at what he was doing there at the workbench he'd set up near the front window._

"_Whatcha got there?" the older man asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest._

"_Oh," he said, looking up. He wanted to know what he was doing? It wasn't the first time the man had asked about his work, which was part of why Gabriel remembered him as a customer. "This is a Sylar Field Edition. It's my hobby watch. I've been trying to repair it for years now, but they're very rare." He started to warm to the subject, smiling and turning towards the man. "I've been having to make custom parts for it, because the three I found were all a little corroded on the inside and-"_

_The man laughed - he **laughed!** - and shook a hand at him in negation. "No, no. I'm sorry. I just thought that might be the watch I brought in last week."_

_The smile fell slowly off his face. He was an idiot. Why had he thought the man cared? He recovered his smile, but it was false now. With a bit of effort, he made it look almost as genuine as the one he'd worn before. "Of course, Mr. Thomson. I finished that one Tuesday and called you yesterday. It's right over here." He moved to the register and produced the repaired chronograph for the man's inspection. The older man barely looked at it. It was a woman's watch, his wife's, Gabriel recalled him saying. He stuffed it in a pocket almost as soon as he'd seen it, not asking what had been wrong with it, not even checking if it ran. Gabriel blinked once at the careless treatment of the timepiece, swallowed and rang up the sale._

_The customer left. Gabriel stood very still next to the register, berating himself inside. He had such a rare interest, a virtually extinct hobby and he knew that. He'd known that all along, but it didn't stop him from looking for someone else who might be interested. They didn't have to share it - they just had to be … they just had to show an interest in **him**… It was a stupid desire, because no matter what empty words his mother gave him about how special and interesting he was, he knew no one else felt that way.\\_

Peter struggled out of the vision with the utmost of difficulty. He roused himself, waking, and shook his head a little to try to clear it. Mission accomplished, he took a deep breath and then settled back into his previous position, mulling over the revelation. It seemed unlikely to be a dream, at least in that Peter's mind might have made it up. It had to be another of those thought-leak things and this time he could understand perfectly why Sylar would be thinking about this. He'd expected that only happened when they were both **asleep**, but apparently not. It was closing on noon. It was improbable that Sylar had gone home for a nap. Grumbling about his sour luck, Peter relaxed again.

He tried to recall all the details he could about the scene. He shifted a little and let the water swirl around him, letting him almost float. He'd been drowsy before and however unexpected the intruding thoughts were, they hadn't been upsetting. He settled back down quickly, falling back asleep.

_\\A waitress addressed him as he sat in a diner, pretending to contemplate the menu. She said "Oh, nice watch. That's a, um, Sylar Field Edition, right? You know those were modeled after the watch that Allied Command John Pershing brought back from Russia after WWI."_

"_Are you a collector?" For just a second, his face relaxed, his mouth opened more, and his eyes widened._

_She saw his response, muted and brief though it was. "Uh, no," she laughed - **she laughed at him** for his moment of hope - and spoke quickly to head off any interest he might have in pursing that side of the conversation. "No, I just um, read about them in a magazine and I just remembered. Just something my brain's been doing lately, just remembering everything."_

"_Everything?" Sylar asked with a slight edge to his voice._

"_I'm my very own wikipedia." Sylar thought she sounded like a ditz.\\_

Peter breathed harder, trying to wake himself again but having less luck. He'd heard the tone in his (Sylar's) voice. He knew what that meant. He could remember/feel/know the thoughts that had been in Sylar's head. There had been a smirking, calloused disappointment…

_\\He really hadn't expected more, but for a second there he'd thought that maybe…maybe that he'd found someone with a similar passion, but no. Of course not. Just an empty-headed waitress with an ability she was milking to increase her tips, no doubt having mentioned his watch solely for that reason. She wasn't interested in the Sylar - it was just another useless fact stuck in her head by an ability she didn't even seem to appreciate. He would appreciate it. He would value it, cherish it, just like he had the watch…\\_

Peter clenched his teeth. He knew where this was headed and he had no desire to see it for himself. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the side of the tub and splashing. The flash of pain and the noise finally pulled him out of it. This time he sat up and threw water on his face, scrubbing at himself. _As if I needed a reminder that he's a killer. Someone laughs at him and he thinks he needs to murder them._

Peter shook his head and got carefully to his feet, pulling the plug on the tub. He didn't want to risk another lapse and get bombarded by another…whatever these were. Peter pulled the curtain closed and turned the shower head on to rinse off before the tub was empty, enjoying the sound of water against water. It brought back other memories; ones he was sure were his alone - walking in the rain after slugging Nathan, trying to get a cab, running into Simone. He smiled. That had been a good night. Sort of. The smile slipped away as he thought about why he'd been out there in the rain - Nathan had publicly humiliated him by claiming Peter had tried to kill himself.

He frowned and got out of the shower. He didn't like this 'alone with his thoughts' business. He dried off and saw to his feet, thinking that after eating lunch, he'd spend the rest of the day exploring the building because he needed to do something to keep his mind busy, and the idea of 'reading' or whatever Sylar had suggested just truly didn't appeal to him. Maybe eventually, because he supposed it was okay as a way to focus your thoughts, but he wouldn't really be learning anything new. That was impossible, after all.

He found underwear that fit him, to his surprise, in the dresser drawer. They were a little tight, as was the dark t-shirt he pulled out, but they were okay. The socks were a better fit, but they came in a small range of sizes anyway.

He roamed through the building to find that most of the apartments were carbon copies of the one he'd been in. There were always details different - one might have a room decorated for a kid, with a dinosaur theme or all done in pink; another might have crocheted covers on all the furniture, bringing to mind the elderly. But there were no people. One empty apartment after another weighed on him.

Peter suspected it was a feature of the place; a deliberate aspect of it; a part of the prison Matt had made for Sylar. Of course, now that Peter was _in_ it, he was affected as well, but at least he understood. Sylar didn't seem to have that benefit, even now that he'd been told. Understanding it didn't mean Peter didn't feel it, but he didn't leave the building.

_I don't have to. I'm not lonely. And there's no one out there anyway but Sylar…a man who can't even get through small talk with a waitress without finding something to take offense at__._ So he stayed inside, busied himself searching for supplies that he might need - a few more clothes, he scavenged a few cans of food from other apartments, he found a messenger bag and a backpack.

When he finally laid down for sleep that night, he prayed for a dreamless night. He needed the rest dreadfully. The bed was soft and warm. It was comforting. He'd propped up a tower of canned soup against the door in case Sylar tried to get in - it was stupid, and he thought it almost impossible, but he hadn't been able to relax and lie down until he did it, so that was just how it was. His slumber was undisturbed, by demons within or without.

Day 5

Peter woke early, before it was even light outside. He showered again, this time washing his hair. He shaved, not really approving of the choice of toiletries in the apartment, but they would do for the time being. He stood before the sink contemplating the toothbrush, holding it before him. He sucked at his teeth and looked at the hairbrush he'd been using. There'd been not a hair on it when he pulled it from the drawer. It hadn't looked brand new, but the use marks it had, if any, were sort of generic. The same could be said of the toothbrush.

He tried, and failed, to convince himself that he was in Sylar's head and this was perfectly sanitary._ It's all a dream. The toothbrush doesn't even exist._ He sighed. _I don't even have to brush my teeth. I can just skip it and get one from the store today – a new one, in a package – if that's what it takes to make my subconscious feel better__._ He stared at the toothbrush, an expression of defiant mulishness creeping over his face. _Fuck my subconscious!_He stuck the toothbrush in his mouth and turned on the water, getting out the toothpaste. He brushed dry for a little bit until he was sure he'd swapped germs with whatever illusory mental construct had previously owned it and then wet it and applied toothpaste to brush properly. He glared at himself briefly in the mirror. _There!_

Feeling strangely victorious, he headed out into the world instead of staying in. His feet still hurt, but not as bad and his back and thighs were much improved. He still took the elevator, though he wondered if 'exercising' here would make him _think_ he was stronger and had more stamina. It was a thought. He liked exercising. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for free weights, though if he didn't see any in apartments, he was pretty sure that sporting goods store he'd seen the first day would have something appropriate. Even a jump rope would be nice.

_I need to clear some of that crap out of my apartment. There's too much stuff in it. All of_ his _stuff. Not the sort of stuff I want in my apartment. I wonder … if everything I do here is just a mental exercise, then maybe I could get some good out of doing things that benefit from concentration and mental repetition, like music__. _He smiled a little and thought of Emma as he walked down the street in the pre-dawn gloom, heading immediately for the diner he'd fixed himself breakfast at before. Doing so took him past Sylar's apartment. He hesitated as he turned onto the street, eyes sweeping up and down it. It was empty. The lights above were off. He headed on.

At the diner, he found the place as messy as he'd left it. His brow furrowed at that. He guessed he'd imagined that it would fix itself after he was gone, but really, he hadn't thought about it at all. He cleaned up, then made himself scrambled eggs with bell peppers. Scrambled eggs with onion had been Nathan's favorite breakfast dish (unless you counted an omelet with onions). He almost never ate either because of the effect on his breath. It was probably the sense of the forbidden that made him love them more. Peter tossed some onions in a little late in the cooking process. He didn't care what his breath smelled like. This time, he cleaned up before leaving.

He walked back, feeling competing urges to see where Sylar was and what he was doing, and to swing wide to avoid the man's residence. His mind threw up other possible places to explore, but he refused them. He would stick to the plan he'd had that morning. Sylar was not going to keep him from being wherever it was Peter wanted to be. He wasn't _afraid_ of him, for God's sake. He walked down the street in front of his apartment resolutely, but it was empty.

He turned the corner to head to his apartment and there was the man, sitting on the front step across the street from the building Peter was already thinking of as his own. His stride didn't falter, because now this was not him intruding onto Sylar's space, but Sylar in his. Or… sort of. The street outside was mostly public, at least insofar as 'public' meant anything here.

He wondered if it was purely coincidental that Sylar was directly outside the building Peter had been planning on exploring next. It didn't matter. Peter walked over to him, pausing four or five paces from the other man. He glanced at Sylar in acknowledgment, then looked up at the building façade. "Hey," he said, still looking up.

Day 4

Closing his eyes with a sigh, Sylar turned and began to meander back towards his own humble abode, leaving Peter as…_requested_. Just when he'd been getting…not comfortable, but…acclimated to the sheer brain-blowing boredom of being alone, Peter waltzed in and turned everything on its head; everything was now _without_ Peter. Living this mind-numbingly boring life now had an additional factor. The EMT was as unlikely to sit and play a game of chess with him as he was to break out into a soft-shoe number. Meaning Sylar would have to reacclimatize to Peter.

The other man wasn't going to be thrilled with his presence either, making the job that much harder. He would have to be polite, avoiding annoying and angering, even saddening his companion which was a harder task than it seemed at first glance. Peter the empath, Sylar the psychopath. Someone who understood every human emotion meeting someone who could barely begin to grasp the concept, who failed to understand even his own subtle emotions? What a pair.

_Alright, alright. I need to be thinking of what I can do to keep him around, keep him__…_interested _for lack of a better word. God, that sounds like a wife desperate for an indifferent, ED-affected husband__._ Sylar went so far as to stop walking at the metaphor. _Anything but that. I won't beg__._ Or so he told himself. Frankly, he couldn't guess at his limits at this point. He could be very well capable of….outrageous actions to get what he wanted. That much was very clear over his less-than-stellar track record.

Sylar was surprised at himself as he began to walk mindlessly again; his pride….where had it mysteriously vanished? When, even? _Somewhere around….oh, yeah, being mind-fucked__._ If he was still in possession of his pride (and powers), what would he be doing now? Torturing Peter, without a doubt. Yet somehow that struck him as strange, no, not because of the lack of pride and powers, but because of the hypocritical nature of that thought. Sylar knew he would gladly torture, abuse, break and even kill Peter had he those things; he'd been ready to at Mercy Heights.

Here he was, however: partially alone, powerless and no sense of accomplishment or even his so-called god complex to see him through. Mortally immortal with the exact opposite of himself, Peter. _But he has my flaws, the same as Bennet, the same as Claire, Angela even__. _Briefly the thought to call out to Matt, the unseen, unbelievable, fat LA cop in the sky…. _Oh, help me now_, he mentally moaned, _I don't want to die from a doughnut crumb when he finally decides to snuff me_. _Because so help me, that is_ not _going on my damn tombstone- death by fat LA cop in the sky's doughnut crumb. Parkman is not God._ Shaking off the image with some physical help, he went back to his original idea. Was this some kind of test? Throw the boa constrictor….(well, Peter certainly was no mouse) live prey and rate his progress? No, that made obviously no sense. Neither of them had powers.

_Go back to the beginning. Peter….'came' in here of his own free well, so he says, to get me out. All over some prophetic dream he's had (probably a nightmare), that his random girlfriend of the week is going to….kill lots of people._ Sylar straightened as he stopped dead again, turning around to glance back at Peter's building as if it were the man himself. _That's it, isn't it? She's special. How else would she even register on his map? How easy would it be to kill thousands of people with the right ability? Don't I just know it. Meanwhile….I'm…"sleeping" somewhere, in no real danger…so I hope. Where does that leave him? He can't be two places at once- Time travel. Is…is he from this time? I don't know any Amanda, Amy, Emily, whatever the hell her name was. It's possible._

Nodding at his own cleverness, he set the thought away to ripen, focusing instead on where he was physically walking, what he was doing._Interests….Peter can't cook. He's not that big a reader, too ADD or too much of a dreamer for that_. Nathan's memories were seamlessly tapped into (for once by choice, this allowing him some kind of power over the run-away recollections; they didn't overwhelm him this time. Sylar chuckled gleefully) and he ransacked through the files looking for hobbies and interests.

_Wow_, he thought, _his list is….nearly as short as mine. That's__…._ His mind had been about to supply 'that's so sad', but he caught himself before it formed in his mental voice. _Pathetic. Guy like that, he's got everything but control and killer- no, he's got killer instincts._ Sylar was torn at the thought between gloating and sorrow and a twinge of bite-sized guilt. Arthur. He'd had his own neck broken and before that been thrown off a roof with Peter, then the whole nail gun thing…._Yeah, he's got the balls. Looks, money, enough personality to make almost anyone bend over for him and what does he do with his life?_

_Baseball- not playing it, but watching it; Nathan had gifted him with a ball signed by the Yankee's Batting champ Paul O'Niell, .359 in 1994, a game they'd seen together. At least it's a decent hobby._

_Music- the guy liked to play instruments, something you forgot to mention. Strange how it doesn't trigger one of Sky-boy's memories. He plays piano and guitar fairly enough._

_Helping people- Uugh!_ Sylar knew this was going to be a problem instantly. He was the person in need here, Peter was….well, was he supposed to help? Certainly he was under no obligation unless he suddenly decided to overlook the whole Nathan thing and undo the wrongs of his kin. _Un-fucking-likely. If there were any animals here, I bet they'd go to him__._ While Sylar was and had been good with animals, the past six years (only three of which actually mattering) the creatures tended to treat him like a well-learned electric fence.

_Continuing on…_

_Travel (Europe, huh?), swimming and diving (Okay….), blah blah blah…nope…nope…Board games….the kid used to like sex when he could get it, that much I can tell. _At that, Sylar tried not to snigger, he really did, but the idea of Peter Petrelli, I-talian Eagle Scout, boy-wonder charming his way into some invalid cougar's bed was honestly sickeningly amusing to him. _Chess, checkers, board games….card games when they're relatively clean or unless you get him to…well, well, well. Popular TV shows, movies (those are wasted), exercise, he speaks some French, likes politics._

_Ah, shit. Should have invited him over for dinner. Again. Not that he'd accept, of course_. Sylar was fairly confident that the offer would eventually be granted, even if it took some time. Time they had to spare (even if Sylar doubted his sanity had it to spare). By then, Sylar had purposefully bypassed his apartment building and headed towards the library, intent on his purpose. He made a mental note to stock up on 'Peter food' for the next time the man decided to raid Sylar's kitchen.

Musing on this, Sylar entered the library. It never crossed his mind that Peter would feel under a lens or feel objectified as he racked up memories of Peter's favorite foods: mac 'n cheese, chicken alfredo, the cinnamon bread…. _Focus_. He went to the sports section and after leafing briefly through the selections, he chose a few on stats and biographies; specifically of New York's Yankees and Mets teams, the two he assumed Peter would have the most exposure to.

Taking up the books, he headed back towards his apartment, going up three flights of stairs to his rooms, closing the door behind himself without much care. Sylar set the books down on his single table, passing into the kitchen. He was hungry and the urge to feed was starting to affect him and he hated that; even if he was usually so focused on something he would actually forget to eat; again, something he knew he and Peter had in common. Now what to make?

Sylar drew out a can of chicken noodle because, yes, he was a little stressed, but when had that become news? _Stress is all in the mind. Oh, fuck you, Chandra, just….go to hell._Preparing the soup in a bowl, he threw it in the microwave and sat down with a flurry of motion to still as he read the stats book. Joe Torre, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Alex Rodriguez, check, check, check, check; damn….forty World Series wins from 1921 to 2009. Yeah, he would have remembered that with the red-head's ability, but he didn't have it and he'd never heard that information.

He wasn't a total loser in sports; he knew the teams, a few of the big players, but nothing substantial. Sylar had known the Yankees were a bit of a disreputable and famed wild card while the numbers were hazy. The microwave made a 'ding!' of finish and he rose with the book in his hand, still reading, to remove it and grab a spoon, returning to his seat. All the while his eyes never left the book, drinking in the information as he failed to notice the fading light outside.

Nathan's memories aided him in knowing which games they'd seen together in person or via the television but soon he grew uncomfortable sitting in the wooden chair, moving himself into the bedroom with the book attached to his left hand. Laying the hardback on the desk after he'd gathered up his pajamas, he quickly stripped and redressed for bed, tossing the pillows into submission and settling in under the blankets.

His last thought was, _Hey, maybe this could be fun_.

Day 5

Sylar awoke the next morning, finding the book on the floor next to his cot. It drew a frown from him to see something so valued on the ground. The sight prompted him into action, rolling from the bed to grab it up. Once he straightened with it in hand, he was forced to shove back his unruly dark hair when it fell all over his face. Sighing, he padded into the bathroom to take care of business, entering the kitchen once he'd done that and dressed. Yawning as he sat at the table, Sylar opened up the hardback as he poured out Lucky Charms, catching on too late as he missed the bowl, spilling the cereal over the table top.

He groaned. _I hate it when that happens._ _/"Why does this keep happening?"_ At an extra tooth in his mouth. _That's not my fucking tooth. It's not mine_. _It's not mine!/_ Sylar set the bowl under the edge of the table, scraping the cereal back into it from the table top, pouring milk in, this time with his attention on the carton, not the book. After he'd finished, he took an apple and the book and left the apartment in search of Peter, rather, to stalk Peter's place for when he left.

Arriving not long after, he sat on the steps of a building across the street from the medic's place in the nice morning sun, stretching out his too-long legs and opening the book again. It wasn't a book for the mild-reader by any means; chock full of facts from cover to cover, it was no walk in the park for someone like…Peter, for example. But Sylar thrived on those facts. Surprisingly Peter showed up much sooner than he anticipated; he'd been kind of expecting a barricade situation with the man. Even more so surprising was that he'd already been out and about.

Peter wasn't limping so bad; clearly his feet pained him less than yesterday, but the man stopped shorter than the average proximity distance. Some long-buried or half-learned social ruling triggered something in Sylar's head and he stood quickly; all awkward legs and arms, nothing like the graceful, predatory killer he'd been before. Holding the book in one hand, the other quickly burrowing into his pants pocket under his pea coat, he replied, "Hey. Peter," Sylar tacked on the man's name, unsure of why he had, noting the man's clean-shaven face and continually broken watch.

Sylar wasn't staring (pretending to stare) at the building, instead he gazed at Peter, trying to discern the man's shifting moods. _I can do this. I can win him over__. _"Like your new place?" He asked randomly, just to start a conversation on the right foot this time. "Quite the choice, huh? I mean…" _Don't belabor that again, he doesn't like that. He doesn't want your assistance in settling in._"Uh…I found some board games." _Smooth, that was real casual_.

XXX

He watched the other man scramble to his feet and there was something unthreatening about the motion. It was different. Peter contemplated that, but he couldn't figure out how to characterize it. It was like Sylar stood up with less poise, less prepared to uncoil in an attack – maybe that was it, that his posture was unguarded. One of his hands was occupied and the other was in a pocket - yes, definitely unguarded, so much so that he wondered if it was intentional. Peter grunted and looked past him at the door of the building, his gaze called back when Sylar said his name. He gave a brief nod and looked away again, inwardly relieved that they'd managed to exchange greetings in a civilized manner.

He glanced back at the other building when Sylar referenced it. He supposed it was appropriate to call it his new place. He still didn't plan on staying there, though getting through a dreamless night had been a relief. _Maybe that has something to do with it – I'm only vulnerable to those thoughts if I'm uncomfortable? One night hardly proves anything. I might as well stay a few more to find out._

_Board games?_ Well…he supposed he would eventually, probably, sit down and play something with Sylar if he got bored enough. And if Sylar learned, at some point, to self censor. He wasn't interested at the moment. A quick glance around confirmed Sylar hadn't actually brought any such games with him, so that saved Peter the rudeness of declining.

Peter wasn't real sure how he felt about Sylar being here, waiting for him. He looked back at the building he'd picked out for today's search. He supposed that three relative years alone, being mentally tortured, would probably make someone a bit desperate for company. And so Peter didn't try to run him off. He wasn't interested in playing games though. "Board games, huh? That's cool. Maybe some other time."

_I found some cool stuff in the other building… no. He's been here a long time, and that's an opening for him to be a smug, arrogant bastard and I'd rather not start that. Again._ "I'm going to look through the rooms here." He gestured at the building in question, hoping belatedly that Sylar didn't take that as if he was searching the city for bodies, which in a vague sort of way he _was_. Bodies, a presence, a life force, something to relate to other than Sylar. And there was the other angle that this was Sylar's head. Peter wasn't the curious type by nature, but he wondered if there was an end to the level of detail he'd find and if somewhere, there was something darker and more mysterious than empty room after empty room.

Suiting action to words, he moved forward, deliberately not taking the wide berth around Sylar of the day before and instead giving him only a normal amount of space. He opened the door and moved inside, looking around at the foyer. _I wonder if he could tell me what's in every room before I go in them? 'The tour' he offered…maybe after I get done here. Then I'll have a better idea of what's in all these buildings._

XXX

This time Sylar noticed the attention Peter was giving him as he stood. Honestly, he didn't know if that was a good or bad thing or what to do with it, so he didn't bother to acknowledge it. There were no obvious signs of where Peter had been or been doing; he assumed the medic was out for a walk. The man looked at him at his name being voiced; a natural enough response and Sylar met his eyes as he did, almost asking permission to be in his presence.

The nod he received was answer enough and Sylar relaxed further, the set in his shoulders easing into casual that would be unfamiliar to Peter. That alleviated many doubts in his mind as to Peter's mentality and…strength, if that was the right word. The empath would keep fighting and so long as he did, they would be fine.

Peter addressed the board games and Sylar nodded back, enthused about the idea. He hadn't played a board game in….eleven years? Grinning lightly, he looked back to Peter's building, which seemed to be the focus of the day. "Why? Do you need something?" Tilting his head, he turned back to Peter, his grin fading into a slight frown, confused. "Um…what….what would you be looking for?" Suspicion did begin to creep up in his mind. He tried to avoid being defensive and on the attack, managing not to turn and stare Peter down (his favorite method of getting an answer).

However, the space between them closed on Peter's accord and he blinked in surprise and delight. Grinning again at the man's retreating back, he followed along behind towards the building. "Seriously, man, what's going on?" _Besides not much?_ He so helpfully supplied them both mentally. Jostling his book and apple, he darted quickly forward to catch the door as Peter opened it for himself. Clearly he didn't expect Peter to hold the damn door open for him or anything. Of course, he wasn't thinking about the suddenness of the motion and how it might strike his companion.

Honestly, Sylar was happy as a clam to be near someone, hell, have the option to converse, even if it wasn't exactly welcomed. It was equally strange to be…close to a person and not have to worry and keep his guard up (well, as much). No weapons other than words, no cells, drugs, no _abilities_. That was the real crux of it all for Sylar. To be this close a special and not feel that….gut-wrenching need to fix and discover _(minus that goddamn watch of his!)._ _Cotton and ice….heavy on the ice_. On top of it all, it would appear that he'd won over Peter….while he kept his mouth shut, that is. _That's why I brought the book_, he supposed.

XXX

When Sylar's hand landed unexpectedly on the door a foot above Peter's, the empath jumped and stiffened, freezing in place for a moment. He bristled and it felt nearly literal - like every hair he had attempted to stand straight up. He turned and looked at Sylar with a long, level look and one slightly raised eyebrow that was a lot more threatening than any amount of hysterical response. It communicated very clearly, _'I do__** not**__ want you that close to me_.' Or perhaps it was actually saying, '_Get the fuck away from me_.'

Peter let go of the door and walked inside so stiff-legged he hardly bent his knees. He got a little space and felt better immediately. _Stupid overreaction. All he's doing is holding the door. Don't want him holding the door. Shouldn't have walked so close when I went past him then, idiot. I'm __**still**__ overreacting._

With an effort, he drew his thoughts away from berating himself and looked around the foyer. There was a spacious little lobby separated from the foyer by a set of interior glass doors. The lobby was a bit shabby around the edges but, like most everything in Sylar's world, it was clean, empty and open. There was a board on the wall near the division between the foyer and lobby, next to a bank of buttons to ring individual apartments. There were no names on the board - no way to indicate who was supposed to live here. Peter pressed one of the buttons anyway.

XXX

_Oops_. Why oh why was he not born with the (natural) ability of being social? That would have come in handy and made things….a lot easier. Peter telegraphed restrained hostile awareness the instant his hand landed on the glass. Sylar himself froze and waited until Peter got his desired (required) space even though he desired to crowd him in the entryway. He could have easily; a quick excuse to be close.

Sylar assumed Peter would recall just how useful he was without abilities and weapons. Peter stalked off with a burr up his ass, looking like he needed to puke from fear and possibly anger for getting within Sylar's personal bubble, even by accident. The glare he was given was only a cover he could tell. He frowned, following several feet behind; _God, this is ridiculous. Walking twelve steps behind. What's next, bowing and scraping?_

His face taking on a scowl at the back of the man's head as he walked further into the foyer, only glancing at the surroundings. Peter moved in through gated doors and Sylar settled for opening the door again for himself due to his distance. _That should please him_. The medic began to explore the lobby, peeking around in the few doors. Of course Sylar lingered behind, not getting in the man's space as he looked into the rooms for several reasons.

XXX

He stared vacantly at the board for a moment, remembering going by to pick up an Irish guy named Chris while on his way to Julie's birthday party. The ring board for the redhead's apartment had looked just like this. He'd hoped to hook up with Chris, but the guy had showed up with Ivan. Peter had ended up with Justin instead, which was probably a good thing all the way around. _God, that has to be more than ten years ago, because I think that was my second year in college. Wonder what ever happened to any of them?_

He reached over and opened one of the glass double doors just like someone had buzzed him in, having waited about the right amount of time while thinking. He was unconscious to the pattern, carrying it out without realization - no doubt in the same manner that Sylar carried out many of his own habits in this nightmare world. To anyone cast in the role of an observer, though, it would be immediately apparent. Peter glanced back at Sylar still shadowing him, moving on through the door abruptly enough to avoid any possibility of Sylar's arm reaching above or past him to catch the door.

He looked around. He had elevators, the door to an office, another door to…Peter looked inside, through the glass built into the door…_laundry room. And over here is…ah, an exercise room_. He stood in front of the door for a very long, still moment, eyes cataloguing the equipment. He saw no free weights, jump rope or anything small and portable. He was uninterested in the stair machines or the treadmills, but the stationary bikes might be useful and the weight machine could be disassembled. _I've always wanted one of those_. He held himself on the door frame, leaning close to the glass panel in the door, looking off to either side with wide eyes and obvious interest.

For some reason he picked then to finally answer Sylar's question. "Just looking for stuff. I don't _need_ anything, really," he said distantly. He'd seen enough. He pushed away from the door and went to check what was behind the other ground floor doors. Janitor's closet, storage, and a…he looked at the sign on the door: Facilities Room. He pulled the door open. It was a large, open room featuring a couple long folding tables, a few neat stacks of folding chairs, some blank, empty cork boards on the walls (the sort that really should have had announcements pinned to them), a folded up ping pong table, a foosball table, and an upright piano.

Peter went straight to the piano like it was magnetized. It was old, battered and not a high-end piece to start with, but it was here. He glanced back warily at Sylar like the other man might interfere somehow or get between Peter and the precious piano. Peter shifted to the other side of it, so he could better see Sylar in his peripheral version. He folded back the fall and pressed a single white key, listening to the deep tone it produced. He pressed the next and then the next, several in sequence. It wasn't tuned properly.

Peter pursed his lips and frowned. He'd watched the repairman who came by to tune his mother's every few years, so he knew the basics. _It's not like I don't have plenty of time__._ He thought about sitting next to Emma, doing something simple like playing, making music, and connecting with someone. He looked down thoughtfully at the keys under his fingers and stroked their smoothness. It had been a long time since he'd connected with someone and that's why Emma meant so much to him. It wasn't romantic - it could be, it might be eventually - but what had thrilled him at the time was the simple human element after so many months of self-imposed isolation. Emma had brought him back in touch with the world and the people in it. She'd let him remember he was an empath first, before anything else.

He sighed and looked up at Sylar.

XXX

Peter lingered significantly over the workout room and Sylar glanced sideways at the man. He had bulked up recently. Surely it was all the freedom fighting. _Wonder what's behind that__…. _Eventually Peter stopped daydreaming and moved on to the next door, actually entering the room. Sylar lingered in the doorway, making half an attempt to look invisible and just observe. Making a beeline for the piano, Peter lifted the top and plunked a few notes, making Sylar wince; it was horribly out of tune, something that made his spine shudder.

Somehow, the noise was pleasant in an emotional sense; to have music and know that the sound came from another person was comforting. He frowned slightly again as Peter turned to him and sighed_. __What did he want, a duet?_"In case you're wondering," _Which I know you're not_, "I can play something if I hear it. I can't read music." _Just thought I'd…throw it out there__._ Given the man's reaction to Sylar's hand being placed flat on a piece of glass in his area, Peter was not likely to allow Sylar to _sit_ next to him and allow their arms and fingers to brush.

Sylar was beginning to think Peter would take a slow death by poison before he allowed any such activity; he wasn't subtle about it. Not all that surprising, really. This time it was Sylar who was first to leave the room, turning from the door frame and moving to push the button for the second floor on the elevator. _Leave Peter to whatever far more pleasant memory he's having. Lucky bastard. He'll come up eventually__._ He didn't really consider any meaning behind the piano, go figure that Peter would find something in it. The idea was more than a little foreign to him.

Of course the elevator car was on the first floor; where else would it be? So Sylar entered it and turned around, absently smacking the second floor button again, not really waiting for Peter. Rubbing at his face, he groaned to himself as the doors began to close. This was incredibly frustrating.

XXX

Peter looked down at the standard piano bench with a blank expression. It had not and still did not occur to him that Sylar might have been implying they sit together as he had with Emma. He imagined the implication was more that Peter would play something, get up, let Sylar sit down, and Sylar would try to copy it - rinse and repeat until Sylar got the hang of it. _That sounds…really tedious. But there is that issue of having enough time. I wonder if I could actually teach-_

There was a ding of the elevator door opening. He lifted his head. Sylar wasn't in the doorway anymore. Peter strode over quickly to look out the door, seeing the elevator closing and Sylar finishing rubbing at his face. Peter's face looked mildly surprised, but he stayed where he was. The doors shut.

_Huh. I wonder where he's going? Is there something here he needs to hide?_ He considered Sylar's body language, since Peter had said he was going to explore here. _Nope. Not hiding anything__._ He turned and walked back over to the piano._ I wonder what he's going to do?_

He opened the bench seat, which he'd been planning on doing anyway. As he'd hoped, there was sheet music and a couple compilation books in it. He leafed through them, just looking at the titles. A lot were familiar to him. Much of it was religious, but not all. Nearly all of it was on a beginner level, which was good, because Peter was much better with a guitar than the piano. He saw a few favorites of his in the mix. Peter replaced them and shut the seat. _Why would Sylar leave? Does he just want to be the first one there?_

XXX

Sylar moved on mostly because he couldn't really handle watching Peter zone out on some happy memory with _people_, with _friends_. He wasn't aware the other man was alerted to his departure, not that it mattered any. Any amount of suspicion placed on Sylar's shoulders would be nothing new.

He half-sat, half-leaned on the railing of the elevator as most people did on the brief trip up and found himself staring at the painted down escape hatch of the roof of the car. Blankly, he eyed it for a moment before snorting; really, the idea that somewhere, there was a disintegrated maintenance man who'd fucked the paint job of painting and screwing down the hatch.

The ridiculousness of it stuck with him as he exited the car and into a bland gray hallway, the typical New York fare. _No one will need to make a quick escape out of _that _elevator, will they, José?_ He shook his head with a mix of emotions; pushing open the nearest apartment door on the left since the door to the right was a janitor closet and that was just bound to be full of goodies. He started in, alone, by taking note of his surroundings.


	6. Empty Chamber

Day 5

The paramedic wandered back into the lobby, looking at the display over the elevator door: "2" in friendly green diodes. Peter looked around. If there was anything else to see on the ground floor, he was missing it. He went to the door to the stairs, just to be contrary, and…paused just inside the ground floor landing. He let the door close very gently and quietly, then walked slowly and stealthily up the stairs. As he'd hoped, there was a window in the door.

The hall was empty. Peter made a greater effort now to close the door soundlessly behind him. It still made a distressingly loud click. Peter crept down the hall, looking at the few doors. One was open, the first to the left of the elevators. He could hear sounds from within. He looked around the door frame.

Sylar was standing next to a desk, sorting through the contents as though looking for office supplies he might wish to stock up on. He looked up at Peter without the least bit of surprise. The Italian was a little offended by his own apparent lack of success, not that he'd been trying to get the drop on the killer. _I was just…paranoid, I guess__._ There hadn't been anything he really expected Sylar to be doing, after all. He'd just…thought Sylar would be…_doing_ something…something nefarious.

Peter turned and went to the apartment across the hall, suppressing his urge to knock because he didn't want to look stupid in front of Sylar. So instead he barged right in, leaving the door hanging open behind him much as the other man had. He sighed and looked around the place, trying to figure out what it was he was looking for here.

XXX

The room was fairly basic, the person had been clean and organized, clearly someone who worked most of the time and didn't spend their time at 'home'. A light blue paint covered the walls with off-white curtains that Sylar was pretty sure was from JC Penny due to the tacky, faux expensive taste of them. The wood of the furniture was primarily, okay, all of it was a matching cherry.

By the time he heard the obnoxiously loud _cla__-__ap_ of the stairway door (he'd _always_ hated those damn things), Sylar had already snooped on the mechanized, battery operated clock on the wall; and was currently shuffling carelessly through the desk's drawers, having left his possessions near the door. _Post-its….black Bics….receipts…paper clips, god, how useless….Pencils but no sharpener….Stapler, labeler, white out__…._He only turned around to let Peter know he wasn't going to allow the medic to pull any funny business with the majority of his back turned.

He managed to hold back his chuckle at Peter's put-out expression; clearly Hero Breath thought he was cleverer than he really was. Of course, watching his companion from the corner of his eye as he went across the hall; he sniggered and covered it with a cough as Peter paused at the door, looking rather puzzled as how to handle it. Sylar honestly almost walked across and opened the door for the poor boy, just to show him how to do it. Hell, Sylar's own door had suffered worse. _Should have made the brat fix it. Ha. Not like he knows what manual labor is. Sir Petrelli._

XXX

Peter had been in a lot of people's homes. His job as a paramedic called for it, giving him a rich and varied background in the subject of how people really lived, rather than mere speculation. He'd grown up in rich, but he'd seen plenty of poor, middle class and the dwellings of a few families as well off as his own. Whoever lived in this apartment had been a little wealthier than average for the floor space. They'd lived here a long time, he suspected.

Later middle-aged, in addition to upper middle class, by money and lifestyle if not square footage. They had ornate shelves covered with figurines and bric-a-brac. Several displayed a collection of bells, one for each state and notable tourist attraction they'd been to. He picked one up and rang it. It had a pleasant tone and he smiled, thinking about the souvenir of happy times. _Is this here because I've seen so many of them in other people's homes? Or has Sylar seen something like this - a collection of things from every state? Or is it here just because I think there should be something here, and my imagination is filling in the gaps, like a real dream? Ha. 'Real dream' - what would that make this? A fake dream?_

XXX

Leaving the desk none-too clean as when he'd found it, his interest was for the bedroom next and he homed in on it, padding in like he owned the place, which he kind of did. Modern and put-together, the place screamed of a working woman; men weren't this organized unless they were severe Type A and OCD along with some serious other disorders. Pushing the door in without fear, he moved in to stand beside one of the two bedside tables; he opened the drawers quickly and began to paw through them.

He was picturing a brunette, about five-ten, wore heels twenty-four-seven, the impossible pencil skirts and tight hair buns, maybe some stylish glasses…. _Focus_, he told himself as his thoughts were straying far from the contents of the drawer, even the apartment itself. It served no one any good to dwell on long-gone occupants.

So, sighing, he went back to sorting through the drawer. _Hair clips and elastic…things, pony tails? Some cough drops, light reading glasses, Tylenol, nail polish, sleeping pills and…__. _Sylar's eyebrows rose slightly at the next 'medication' of sorts. While he didn't find any other 'incriminating' evidence, his previous Irish Catholic upbringing made an unauthorized appearance before he squashed it, shoving the container to the back of the drawer.

His attention was drawn away from it to the tissue and radio-clock atop the table. _Finger nail clippers, pen and paper pad….meh, nothing of interest_. Slapping the drawer shut, he picked up the clock (of course it didn't keep the damn time, how could it? It was an analog) Muttering to himself as he didn't bother to prize the back apart since all he would see would be wires and a fucking battery inside. Sylar set it back to the table's surface and stood abruptly.

The bathroom was next on his hit list, as it were, but it only got a brief perusal because, really, what interest could a woman's bathroom hold for him (especially with no woman in it)? The only thing he could think of that would shock him was a chainsaw or a butcher knife….maybe a corpse. Perhaps Peter was having more luck…

XXX

He moved on, letting his fingers trail the edge of a narrow table set against the wall. It wasn't even dusty. There was a small aquarium on it, burbling along. He bent, face to the glass, looking for whatever was supposed to be inside. The water was crystal clear and although there were actual plants in it, there weren't very many places for fish to hide. He studied it for a very long time, but it was empty - not even one of those sucker fish. Nothing dead either - just empty, just like these apartments. Unsettled, Peter straightened and looked for something more pleasing to examine.

He spotted a turntable and perked up. His mind reaffirmed the age-bracket of his imaginary former occupants - 50, maybe 60 years old. It was interesting to explore even knowing it wasn't real. He was finding out little things about how the world worked just by looking around (_today's lesson: No point in trying to go fishing_). He wondered if this gave him an insight, however oblique, into Sylar's mind. Now_ that_ was something he was actually curious about, although he as of yet refused to admit it.

He found a record, "The Best of Simon and Garfunkel," and put it on. He chewed at his lip as he squatted to place the needle. He checked the settings on the machine, having only used one of these a few times in his life, while over at Brian's house. He scratched at his cheek. He was pretty sure it was right. He flipped the switch. There was a muted pop and the speakers hummed. The record rotated. A faint scratchy noise emanated. He waited. Obviously, this was that blank part around the outside of the record. The needle gradually circled inward. The scratchy sound continued.

Eventually Peter began examining the controls again. He changed settings. He turned it on and off. He moved the needle further in. He tried a few other records. Nothing but a scratchy noise, because in this hell, even the sound of another human voice was forbidden - at least, insomuch as it might come from the world around them. He could communicate with Sylar, at least. He wondered if the man could sing. He flipped the machine off and wandered across the hall to look in on him.

He found him coming out of the bathroom, looking supremely bored. For some reason that made Peter smile. Sylar was not here, on the second floor of the apartment building across the street from where Peter had slept last night, because this was his idea of a good time. He was here because Peter was and Peter found that warmly amusing. It wasn't that far amiss for why Peter was back in the same room with Sylar. Every time he got away from the man something drew him back and he wasn't so ignorant of himself as to not notice it. So he gave Sylar a wry smile and said, "Want to go check the ones down the hall?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar telegraphed firmly, relieved and showing it. Swiping his apple and book again, this time he set them by the elevator, knowing he wouldn't leave them behind that way. He followed behind Peter as they walked down the hall to enter a random room (hard to be random or decided here, really), turning the knob to go inside it.

Oh, boy. A smaller apartment, clearly the byproduct of a bachelor, that's all Sylar could describe it as. While the place wasn't filled with garbage, per se; chip bags and pizza cartons or beer bottles, it wasn't clean in the best sense of the word. A game console and connecting wires to the controls were strewn over the worn rust-colored couch with a single Pepsi can on the glass coffee table, the condensation long gone.

XXX

Peter looked around the place with a sort of pleased surprise. Not that he approved of the mess - far from it - but it was the first really messy place he'd seen. Sylar's had been cluttered, not messy, but most of the other places he'd been in so far had been sterile, antiseptic even. This was…well, it looked a lot more lived in than most, he supposed.

He left the living room to Sylar and went further in, finding the one bedroom in the place residing behind door number one. Door number two was probably the bathroom, he assumed. The bedroom was equally a mess, but in addition to the food boxes there were clothes strewn across the floor. He looked at the battered dresser immediately to his right. Not wanting to walk in further right away, he opened the top drawer - socks, and ratty-looking ones at that. He shut it.

XXX

Sylar was immediately put off by the perceived 'mess' and he stood near the door way, hesitant to go in further. Ugh; it reminded him somehow of Zane's place all those years ago; subconsciously he peered around as if waiting for Mohinder to pop out with a tuning fork and large syringe.

Taking a few steps in after Peter (who didn't appear to mind so much), he shrugged to himself and plunged in, wondering if he should fear for his life. "If we find a corpse keeled over the Halo set, man, I'm done," he muttered mostly to himself. Honestly, he didn't want to look in the bedroom, kitchen or bathroom.

Sylar dared to peer into the kitchen and didn't find anything of note there besides a suspicious lack of culinary tools….well, not suspicious if he considered the fact that this was the pizza-and-beer type who probably couldn't cook to, ha, save his life. He glanced in Peter's direction briefly. _He's clean, though; spartan, actually_. Meanwhile, Sylar feared the mold-monster.

XXX

He opened the second drawer, a deeper one. It was heavy and came out reluctantly to reveal two out-of-fashion sweaters. Peter frowned. One did not have to be a sleuth to deduce that a drawer full of sweaters should not be that heavy. He lifted one, to discover an image of mammaries of massive proportions staring up at him. He dropped the sweater immediately and looked guiltily at the open doorway. No, Sylar wasn't there. He could hear him noising around, but Peter didn't know what he was doing. Regardless, he wasn't in the doorway.

Peter picked up the sweater again and felt around in the drawer. There was a good four inches of magazines in there, in a double stack. He lifted sweater two to find more epic endowments of the female variety. It was very much not Peter's kink and never had been. Not even remotely. He was pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum, if he had to pick based on physical form alone, which had never mattered much to him anyway. He folded the sweaters back and closed the drawer.

XXX

He decided to go skeleton hunting and went to the closet between the dead TV and the kitchen, opening the small door. One of his eyebrows crept upwards as he saw various amateur and high school trophies, a bowling ball (_oh, the cliché_), several jackets, a cardboard box that revealed a whole plethora of Transformer action figures. Admittedly, Sylar sniggered a little. _Expecting the little cousins over much? At least that was this guy's excuse_.

For the hell of it, Sylar decided to see what games and movies (that wouldn't work) the former occupant had stashed. He crouched at the TV, opening the stand's cupboard to peer inside at the contents; Nintendo, Playstation and X-box? _Overkill_. _What was this guy, a 'professional' gamer? _Grand Theft Auto, the obligatory Halo, some Tom Clancy, Call of Duty, Kill Zone, baseball, basketball and football, Marvel vs. Capcom, Final Fantasy, Mario and Pac-man?

Opening one of the cases at random, he discovered all was not as it seemed. "One of those things you don't want Mom finding, huh?" he mused aloud, tossing the pack back in and shutting the cupboard as he stood. He would have leaned against the wall as he waited, but he frankly suspected the dull tan paint was toxic as well. So he stood and waited for Peter to leave any minute because this apartment clearly had nothing of interest.

XXX

Watching his step, he walked around the corner of the bed, looking at a pair of crossed swords hanging on the wall. They were very shiny. He leaned closer and examined them, then touched the blade on one. As it had appeared - dull. Props. He looked across the room at the poster of a dragon on one wall. There was another sword, much shorter, near the headboard of the bed. He cocked his head at that. It was situated so someone on the bed could reach it. He went to it. The blade here wasn't as glossy as the others, but a careful touch revealed that it was much sharper. He wasn't sure how sharp, not seeing any reason to press and cut himself, but it was certainly serviceable.

_Huh__._ He didn't know what to think about that, so he opened the nightstand that was directly in front of him. Inside there was a single object: a pistol. He stared at it for a very long moment and finally picked it up. _Heavy_. He turned it over and examined it. _Safety's off__._ He clicked that over, then looked at it again. It was a good fit for his hand, but he wasn't familiar with it. He released the magazine, which looked full. He turned the gun and looked inside. He was pretty sure there was a bullet in the chamber. He racked the slide, ejecting it. It made a loud, characteristic sound.

XXX

Out of nowhere, Sylar heard the familiar sound of a gun slide being pulled and released, next the sound of the magazine being ejected and reinserted. He stiffened instantly, turning slowly, expecting to see his companion with the gun pointed at Sylar's pupil.

_Gun. Of course there's guns here. Why did he have to be the one to find it?_ While Sylar's first reaction was to grab a knife from the kitchen, hell, the wire from the game controller would work to strangle Peter; he forced himself to calm down and find his control. Taking a breath, feeling incredibly mortal, he padded softly to the bedroom door and peered in.

XXX

Peter bent and retrieved the ejected bullet. _Hollow point_. He was entirely absorbed by the gun. He tried to fit the bullet into the magazine, but it wouldn't go. He frowned. Whoever had had the gun had wanted to have every bullet available when they reached for this, much as there was nothing else in the drawer to possibly distract the hand if it was dark and one was in a hurry. He put the magazine back in and chambered another bullet, then released the magazine and put the extra he'd ejected earlier into it. He reinserted the magazine, returning the gun to the state he'd found it in. Except that the safety was on.

XXX

Peter was fiddling rather intently with the gun; a pistol, he noticed. It was no Company-issue, the Kimber SIS; he'd arrived in time to see Peter pop out a single, additional hollow point, designed to expand on impact. With the firearm, with the bullet, Peter could do more than just kill Sylar; he could shred off a limb or blow his genius brains out to cover a wall.

Sylar waited quiet and invisible for the moment in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Redemption could be death, he realized. Not just having one's powers removed and becoming mortal, hoping to rejoin the general populace (unlikely), but extermination.

Would Peter be the one to pull the final trigger? As much as he longed to run or better still, grab up his own protective object in the form of a weapon, he knew that it might fatally escalate things and ruin his chances at more than just survival.

The normal adrenaline rush, the surge of fear he knew academically he should be having was rather muted and dispassionate. He'd done his own considerations around year two and a half here. One of them had been suicide. Sylar didn't really fear for his life, not like he should, like he used to. In the past, he'd fought tooth and nail to climb out of graves and break out of prison cells; all for his evolutionary drive. Life didn't mean much here because there was none.

Peter had gotten plenty of chances to off Sylar before now, but was that because he preferred his kills with a cold heavy firearm and the impersonality of the shot when he did the deed? Then again, Peter could get plenty dirty with a nail gun and his fists, too. He certainly hadn't hesitated when it came to brain washing. The seemingly innocent medic knew his way around guns; Sylar knew that much from Nathan and personal experience.

The other man proceeded to weigh the gun and test the sights before staring at it too long for Sylar's comfort (but it wasn't about his damn comfort now was it?). Peter pulled it close to get a closer look, at what, he didn't know, but Sylar gazed at him from the door frame, careful to keep his body out of sight, not presenting Peter with any kind of target for a fast shot.

XXX

He held it out in his hand, testing the grip, looking down the sights. _It's good enough_. He blinked, confusion marring his features. _Wait … good enough for what?_ He pulled the gun closer, turning it sideways and looking at it intently. _What the hell am I going to do with this? Shoot Sylar? What good would that do?_

Realizing he'd been standing there focused on nothing outside himself, he jerked his head up and looked to the doorway.

XXX

Suddenly, Peter looked up at him and their eyes met; neither moved for a long moment and Sylar didn't say anything about what he'd obviously observed. There wasn't anything for him to say to it. Under suspicion and under an abundance of death penalties, two of them from Peter's immediate family, Sylar didn't expect any other treatment.

He'd hoped for it, but he didn't expect it; that Peter considered the gun told Sylar enough. Had it been anything else in Peter's hand, no matter how dangerous, Sylar would have turned and walked away; but he was not about to turn his back on a gun, not when he knew what he had coming and what he was up against. He couldn't combat something like that with logic.

_/Die Alone. Die Alone./ Maybe this is it. Your cards ran out a long time ago. You picked a bum hand at Stanton. He's loaded, he's got reasons and he figures he'll save more lives than I will in his "dream" doing this now__. _Sylar stared, not at the firearm, but into Peter's eyes with his own rather dull, dark ones; because the eyes would give away his decision before his hand and finger ever did.

XXX

Peter looked at the other man fixedly, but after the first second he hardly saw him. Nathan's body, in the storage unit; the weight as he moved the corpse with Noah Bennet's help, lifting it out of the trunk; the strange empty sensation as Noah finally had to shove Peter out of the plane as it began its gradual course down - Nathan's last flight. Peter blinked rapidly, breathing harder. He looked down at the gun.

Killing Sylar would be a murder-suicide, of that he was fairly sure. But what did he really have to go back to? An empty apartment; an empty life; saving people one person at a time - it seemed so noble, but then why did he feel so defeated by it? He turned the gun slightly, the barrel pointing generally at himself. If it fired at that particular moment and angle, it would merely hit the wall next to him. Another twitch and it would hit home.

He remembered that desperate man, Malamut, in the office building who'd shot him only a few weeks before. It had hurt, not as much as that huge sniper round Danko had gotten him with, but it had hurt anyway. More from the surprise, probably. He'd thought he'd had the man.

\_"You want to punish the people who have hurt you. I know what that feels like. I want to torture the guy who murdered my brother. I want to make him scream. That's all I can think about. … Look, I promised my brother I'd be a hero. Don't make me a liar. Not today."_

_Punish the people who have hurt you … be a hero._

"_Don't make me a liar. Not today." BANG!\_

He took a long, deep breath. \_I want to torture … make him scream\_. He looked over at Sylar again, noting how the man carefully hid his body; the caution and edge of fear on his face; waiting, rather calmly given the situation, for Peter to do something decisive. He'd felt Sylar under his hand, next to his body, flesh and blood, heard him scream: _Do it! Kill me!_ His eyes narrowed, remembering putting his hand to the man's forehead and trying to snuff him out, letting Rene's power wash through him and every memory Sylar might call his own pouring out of the man. He'd tried to exterminate him. He looked back at the gun, taking it more firmly in his hand, pointing it ahead at the mattress of the bed before him.

\"_Do you really think Matt could purge every sick thought from that head?"_

"_What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?"_

"_That's all I can think about."\_

Was there anything else _to_ think about? Emma, the carnival, the dream - it all faded to unimportance. He was here. Sylar was here. There was a gun in his hand. Surely at least one of these bullets would hit the bastard. A sour smile flitted across his face. Sylar was pretty hard to kill under the best of circumstances. Kill him here and maybe he'd be a vegetable forever. It seemed possible. Sylar dead - Peter ejected from his mind. Really, it was the obvious solution and Peter could find another way to solve Emma's dilemma - time travel, shape-shifting - any number of solutions were out there. And if it killed Peter with Sylar, that wasn't really a problem either.

_\"Running into danger, going off after Sylar - you're not going to do anything but get yourself in trouble. You've got to stop." "No." "You've got to stop!" "I **can't**. … if I keep moving, if I just act on instinct, then I don't have time to think."_

"_That's all I can think about." "I don't have time to think." "…just act on instinct."_

"_I promised my brother I'd be a hero."_

"…_just act on instinct."_

"_Not today."\_

He put the weapon back in the nightstand, shutting the drawer.

He turned back to Sylar and said quietly, "There's nothing in here I need. Let's check the one across the hall."

XXX

He stood watching as Peter tilted the gun about; towards himself, towards the bed, finally away completely. This took over the course of about a minute or so but it was Peter's face that held his attention. Grief; the kind that made Peter look older, the kind that drew lines in his face and made him appear haggard. The unfocused look of someone recalling a memory, the helpless and hopeless look of someone who'd fought too long and too hard with so little gain; the temptation raging in his soul, the spirit-draining drive for vengeance and more so for justice. All the emotions Sylar knew well and assumed of Peter.

How easy would it be for him? What could possibly be holding him back? If the medic spoke true about Matt and this being a dream…then Peter would lose nothing. Hell, the kid would get a goddamn medal for murdering Sylar's mind when so many others had failed. It would be easy enough to destroy his body without fear after that.

If Peter was wrong…. He would lose nothing but the company; that may or may not drive him crazy, depending just how badly he wanted to dance on Sylar's grave and for how long. If Peter guessed wrong….Peter could die, too. If this was Sylar's 'mind' and he was killed….wouldn't Peter get stuck inside, too?

Surely the temptation would win; Peter may have been the better man of the two, righteous and wholesome, a real hero. But Sylar had robbed him and robbed him blind. Claire, attempts at Angela, succeeding with Arthur and more deeply felt with Nathan. Isaac, Ted, Elle and the others.

Sylar had been ready to die many times; expected by others (and himself) to die and stay dead. He always kept trying to test his limits in life; how else was he supposed to bring himself up? He never expected to pay for his….sins in this way. Nor did he devote time to his dramatic, thematic death scene (unlike Hiro, who would probably suggest falling on his katana; but Sylar had already done that). Not a thought was given to the 'after' part, his body or his soul; that just wasn't his style.

Actually…he didn't even have a final thought prepared, not a prayer or a wish to be had; no apology or plea. For someone who'd died far more times than Peter had, plenty of them before being immortal, Sylar knew how death went. A tiny sting, a bare second of shock before blackness and loss of gravity; no white light, no heavenly choir, and there sure as hell weren't seventy-four virgins waiting for him. _Serial killers_ didn't get those.

_/No One Will Mourn Your Death_./

He watched as Peter took a deep breath, his body shaking a little, gripping the handle, smiling bitterly again; this time in a self-deprecating way. Sylar himself didn't move; preparing himself not to stir if Peter turned and came closer for the shot. _Redemption_ was the only thing on his mind.

He wasn't surprised when Peter did turn, but his eyes did widen when the drawer was opened. _What, more ammo?_And the gun placed inside it. Standing still, Sylar's expression loosened unconsciously, brown eyes softening. All he could do was nod, unable to trust his voice and unsure how to take the unintended gift of Peter's enduring empathy. A little wobbly around his knees as he finally shifted his weight, he backed away from the doorway.

_Mercy from Peter?_ That was going to take some getting used to…

XXX

Peter walked out of the room on autopilot, coming as close to Sylar as he ever had and without even bothering to look at him as he went. No wariness, none of the caution and vigilance of their previous interactions here. He felt shell-shocked. He walked out of the apartment and rapped twice, perfunctorily, on the door across the hall, suddenly not caring if Sylar thought he looked stupid.

He didn't wait long, though, opening and walking inside. He looked around the place with dull eyes. It was another small apartment, symmetrical with the bachelor pad they'd just been in. This one might have also belonged to a single male, but it was neater, if still quite full of things. The living room was crowded with books and entertainment paraphernalia - television, computer screen, various peripheral gadgets. He gave the bedroom and bath a quick glance each - no bodies, no occupant - of course not. That was all that mattered at the moment.

XXX

Sylar frowned a little on instinct as Peter passed; the kid looked worn down and numb. Apparently Sylar was no threat to Peter, at least at the moment. The medic would most likely change his mind and decide otherwise at a later time. Dutifully, he followed back into the hall to the next apartment of choice. Sylar himself was a little…off balance from the discoveries, the change and he failed to so much as raise a considerable brow or make a comment at the knocking. He didn't even clear his throat.

Entering much more casually into the next apartment, Sylar check the rooms opposite of Peter, bathroom then bedroom on seeing where the other man went. The pair weren't friends, they weren't really anything….How much did he really know about Peter? The idea was to keep close but not go near each other, hence the switched routine to avoid contact.

XXX

Peter wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He looked around at its interior and pulled out a can of soda from the door. He walked back out into the living room and flopped down on the couch after giving it a brief inspection. He wouldn't stick to anything and there was nothing to move out of the way. He vaguely wanted to continue searching, but for the moment he just wanted to recover. Process. Stop feeling numb.

The soda was cold as he took a deep drink. Not his favorite brand - it was a Pepsi and honestly he didn't care much for either of the big name products, Coca-Cola or Pepsi - but honestly he would have taken a beer at the moment and he disliked _that_ even more. Caffeine, alcohol, whatever legal drug of choice he could find. Given his companion here, caffeine was probably the safer choice. He didn't want to get impaired around Sylar.

_\'__Do it. Kill me!__'\ _Sylar's request haunted Peter's thoughts. What bothered him even more was that he'd tried to do just that. He'd tried to murder someone.

He looked up at Sylar and then away, feeling a little of the homicidal impulse fade. He'd felt it almost continuously since coming here. Every time he picked up anything remotely like a weapon, it was there, tickling at the back of his mind or even flagrant in the forefront. _It isn't me. It isn't what I __**want**__ to be__._ He sighed and took another draught, feeling the drink cold and sweet and bitter in his mouth, the faint burning of carbonation fizzing in his throat. He rolled the can against his forehead.

XXX

When he returned to the living room, he saw Peter sit down with a can of pop in his hand, the gesture one of defeated unfeeling. Suddenly Peter was looking exhausted and he had no physical reason to be, but he could understand the emotional drain that was obviously the culprit. To give the man his moment (surely he needed one), Sylar slunk to the kitchen himself.

He didn't need anything; he had his apple still, but he made a show of looking around the kitchen, opening all the cupboards and drawers. Once he'd finished with that, not finding anything vaguely of interest, he leaned against the kitchen's door frame, profile to Peter so as not to appear to stare. But that's just what he felt the need to do; check on him. He did notice the EMT seemed to have a headache or….maybe it was one of those perceived mental aches.

Sylar was surprising himself left and right with this whole 'help and guide and appeal to Peter' business.

XXX

Peter looked at a magazine on the TV tray serving as an end table next to him. He reached over and picked it up: BMX Plus! He frowned at the titles of the articles advertised on the cover: _How to make your race bike even faster! Check out what Ross is rockin'! Installing locking grips__._ He tossed it back down. That was so far outside the range of experience he'd had lately that it was like a foreign language. It gave him culture shock just to contemplate it.

His life since he'd gotten his ability had been anything but normal. He'd wanted that – what his ability had brought him. He'd sought it out. He'd embraced it even. But doing so had separated him from the people he wanted to save. He had so little in common with them anymore. He had become like a ball in a pinball machine, constantly reeling from one disaster to another, trying to stay ahead of the repercussions to his actions, trying to live a moral life when a making a mistake could level a city, or wipe out 93% of the world's population. He no longer lived the sort of life where '_How to make your race bike even faster!_' made any sense.

Peter mused aloud, "Sometimes I wonder what's going on with everyone else out there in the real world, what kind of life they have, how they get by and if they enjoy it. There isn't any other way to _be_ for them. But those of us with abilities don't have that option. Not usually. I guess a few do. Or try to, like Matt and Claire and … hell, I guess my mom. She at least managed to raise Nathan and I without us knowing."

_\'That's crazy talk.'\_– Nathan telling him that having abilities was ridiculous. Later his brother had called his own ability "freakish."

_\'Now that's as strange as it gets.'\ _– When Peter had tried to share with Simone, heady with the importance of his power, she'd shut him down. It was like a bucket of cold water. Every time he'd thought about telling someone else about it, he remembered her reaction. Hers, and Mohinder's. They had made him feel stupid and neglected, small and insignificant. He knew he wasn't.

Which brought to his mind asking Mohinder, \_'__You ever get the feeling you were meant to do something extraordinary?'_\ And he did. Even now. Even here. Peter still felt there was a meaning to his life beyond just being a normal paramedic or whatever. It was why when he'd had the dream, he'd dropped everything to live that life again, diving headfirst into the situation. And here he was.

_\'When I'm by myself, I'm not much of anything.__'\ _He was defined by who he was with – his ability had always worked that way. He looked over at Sylar and smirked. _Well, I'm not by myself…but I'm not real sure what I am when __**he's**__ around. I suppose__…_ He thought about when he had put the gun back in the drawer. _I suppose I'm not a murderer. That's nice to know__. _He started chuckling to himself and muttered, "At least it's not contagious." He started laughing harder, because it seemed incredibly funny to imagine a world where people's defining characteristics: plumber, student, paramedic, serial killer - might be contagious and easily transferable, like Peter's ability. _Sylar the plumber__. _Peter set his soda to the side before he spilled it on himself. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands on his face, and laughed.

XXX

Randomly, his companion spoke and he turned to face him as he did and what he said made little sense and meant everything at the same time. Surely Peter wasn't just NOW coming to terms with that fact?

"For you and I….there's never going to be a happy middle ground; we're never going to blend in if that's what you're as-" His companion erupted into insane chuckles; a sound that had no business coming from Peter. Why did he have to have his breakdown now, here, with Sylar? _Guess that's maybe what he feels like with you__…. _Had Peter been….aware and thought about things (possibly before 'leaping' as it were), he'd have seen years ago that the idea of 'being normal' was impossible.

It was a kind of all or nothing situation. It sucked. Peter had at least had family, friends, coworkers and people to talk to; people to be human with so Sylar didn't pity him very much at all. Peter may have always felt that he stuck out somehow, but he'd had people. He'd had a brother, for god's sake. If he'd had his abilities he would have laughed _at_ Peter and shook his head in amused disgust that it had taken him this long to figure that out.

His eyes widened in stunned horror as Peter took a turn for the hysterics and he was left to…what? Comfort? Ignore? Give him space? Oh, it was like every one of those awkward romance movies where the woman started bawling over the corny pick up line the guy made (start bawling for no reason actually…) and every time Sylar was left to pity the poor man who had to bear it. Sylar squirmed in the doorway, completely uncomfortable and he settled for _looking_ comforting. 'Um, Peter….?' He wanted to ask, but didn't interrupt the flow of unrestrained laughter.

The laughter was nice, he realized next. Mirth from another human throat; unabashed and (somewhat) wholesome. He relaxed once he knew nothing would be expected of him and he just listened to the sound. Such a beautiful sound; made even more so from the fact that it came from a man who laughed so rarely now. In a way, Peter's laughter was a gift. _Damn, he's…he's real stressed_. Again, Sylar had very little pity to spare for him. _Silver spoon_.

Poor Peter. He'd learn though, wouldn't he? Learn of despair and neglect and abandonment. Of hopelessness, crushed dreams, mind-shredding loneliness and of utter helplessness. Plenty of tears and tantrums and all-out screams pleading for a sign or for mercy, maybe damaged phalanges, knees, knuckles and fingernails. Sleepless nights filled with nightmares when he would manage to sleep, the burn in his eyes the next day, the ache in his back and neck...Yet again, Peter had something Sylar hadn't had when he'd learned all this. Peter had Sylar.

For someone who'd received so little pity in his life, so little plain-and-simple _help_, it was difficult for Sylar, as a labeled psychopath, to empathize. "Just take it easy, man. You don't….have to worry about that anymore," he murmured; idea of helpful and comforting. Sylar leaned in and swiped the magazine Peter had picked up, leafing rapidly through it, trying to take his time and appear interested. _Motorcycles?_ Of course, it was as unfamiliar to him as it had been to Peter.

XXX

Peter wound down from his fit of laughter, taking note of Sylar having come within arm's length of him. Maybe that was what snapped him out of it - or maybe it just came to a natural conclusion. He leaned back, putting the heels of his hands to his eyes. _I wanted to kill you__,_ ran through his head and he very nearly blurted it out. He chuckled again, because in his current frame of mind that would be a funny thing to say. He had enough sense left to control his tongue though and so he said nothing. It had been perfectly clear, after all, from Sylar's face that he knew what Peter might have done with that gun and just as clearly that he'd put it aside.

He put his hands down, sighing and letting the last of it pass out of him. _Too much tension. I'm walking around carrying too much tension. I keep expecting him to do something. I keep expecting __**me**__ to do something - to him. There's nothing else here for me to __**do**__!_ The frustration of being stuck here was wearing on him.

XXX

Peter clammed up the instant Sylar moved for the magazine. _Really? _He had to ask himself. _I'm fucking powerless and I didn't even move all that fast._ Of course he knew he'd done a fantastic, probably unrivaled job of making it easy for others to hate him, what did he expect? While he knew it wasn't Peter's fault, he still glared at the damn worthless sports magazine.

When the man chuckled again, seemingly unable to stop his round of maddening laughter, Sylar was about ready to snap at him. 'What the fuck is your problem? Just get over it already! It doesn't hurt so bad once you let it all go….' Maybe even 'you need some serious Zen (might I suggest yoga?)'. But he managed to keep his mouth shut, pursing his lips to help with the act as he tried to pull a Cyclops move on the publication in his hand.

XXX

He gave Sylar a very assessing look, up and down. It was a rude look and he knew it. He looked at him anyway. _This is the guy I get to be trapped with for the next however-long?_ He reached over for his soda and got to his feet. He rubbed at his still-sore back and moseyed over towards the side of the room opposite Sylar, turning his back on him. He looked at the contents of a shelf set, silently reading over the titles of books, looking at a handful of odd curios - tiny metal figurines of tanks and jeeps, brightly painted. He took a deep drink and scratched at his forehead, glancing behind himself to status-check on Sylar.

XXX

Somehow he felt a pair eyes on him, the quality of the look was different, he knew. Slowly he turned his head to eye Peter right back, brown eyes widening as he noted the direction and type of gaze Peter was raking over his whole body._ Did he just….No, no way. Is he….?_ He shifted his weight, standing up straighter. That type of look usually spoke of disgust and danger, followed up with a biting comment or question.

And what did Peter do? Look him over, as if he were something to be inspected, found him wanting or of disinterest, pick up his pop and walk off. _That fucker. You….bastard, don't you dare ignore me! _Sylar was busy snarling mentally, _Emo Petrelli bastard spawn; don't you dare treat me like that_.

Once Peter had turned his back, Sylar glared holy and self-righteous murder at him, trying to mentally rip the man's spine out from his jacket-clad back. No such luck. He had the urge to strangle his companion just for being too annoying to crack open. Bash his head in, make the medic stare at him and force the man to see him. He barely restrained a step in Peter's direction.

The nurse would be the perfect fodder for his latent desires. They even had a gun. But while it may have been a clear message to his psyche, he knew it would be the wrong decision to make. _A challenge. I like a challenge. He's a challenge__. _Maybe if he kept telling himself that Peter would live another day. _He wants to play a game, does he? I'm very good at games. You're on, Petrelli._

XXX

His mind was blank. He tried, with an effort, to pull thoughts into it. Peter didn't have a constant internal monologue, not most of the time. He felt things, he responded to those feelings; he wanted to express things, his mind found the words to do so. Sometimes he thought things 'out loud' in his head and sometimes he did not. This was one of those 'not' times.

He shrugged to himself. This was emotional processing. It didn't always make sense. It didn't have to. In the meanwhile, he turned to one of his standard coping mechanisms and buried himself in 'work' - that of the moment being to examine the contents of the room in more detail. He was sure he'd had a good reason to do so at some point. He pulled down books at random and checked the interiors - they all had text in them. He didn't bother to read them. He didn't care. He was just checking.

He tried to flip on the computer - it did not activate. He looked over at Sylar, almost asking a question. _Does anything electronic work?_He looked back at the computer, imagining Sylar's cutting response (not that he could think of what he'd say specifically, but Peter knew it would be biting), putting him firmly in his place as someone who didn't understand the world they were in and needed his help. He looked at Sylar once more, now wary. He moved on, looking through the drawers of the computer desk and examining the contents.

He finished his soda as he headed to the bathroom, tossing the can in the wastebasket. He found a very good electric razor plugged in and sitting on the counter. He flipped it on. It worked. He turned it off and unplugged it, putting it in his pocket. Most electronic devices did function here, he considered. There were just some strange anomalies that did not, like television, radio and apparently computers. Even the turntable had worked, it just hadn't played.

He opened a drawer. _Toothbrush, toothpaste, clippers…hm__._ He regarded his nails._ I wonder if they grow here? If so, I wonder who cuts Sylar's hair?_ He snorted and continued looking. _Shaving cream - why would he have that__** and**__ an electric razor? Huh. Band-aids. Condoms__. _His hand paused in the process of sorting through things. _Condoms. Don't need those. Is Sylar even gay? _He swallowed and shut the drawer, suddenly uninterested in whatever else was in there.

He stood there staring blankly at the sink for a while. He wanted very much to leave suddenly, to go back to his apartment and stay there. But Sylar was here and he'd want to know why and telling him he was going to carry back this electric razor almost certainly would not fly. He wasn't all that sure why he wanted to leave himself, except that it had something to do with that box of condoms and the rude look he'd given Sylar earlier. He turned mechanically to the combination bath/shower and reviewed the products there - completely uninterested in them, but keeping his mind off anything else.

He left the bathroom, intent on continuing his methodical, pointless search of the rest of the place. He went in the bedroom next.

XXX

Sylar turned the glossy page roughly, tearing it a little as he saw the other man pass from bathroom to bedroom out of the corner of his eye. _Just tack him down like a butterfly on a board. /I wanted to crucify you in Times Square./ Stop him from moving, fix his brain, own him, shut him up, get inside his head, get the answer._

The next action he wished to perform was shredding the magazine for being present, being in the way, being so damn useless. A hindrance. _Angry at a magazine? That's a new low_. If Peter looked, he'd see Sylar's face probably get pale with anger. The other had man merely poked around the room with faux interest. Honestly, he'd just lost interest in 'exploring' the way Peter felt the need to.

_Because, seriously, what the hell are we gonna find that's so damn important? New shoelaces in this year's colors? Sure as hell isn't BMX magazine or the fucking Kimber. Oh, no, I know. A secret door somewhere, a dead body, no, maybe a skeleton. Maybe Hiro or Claire hiding out somewhere; what the fuck is he 'looking' for?_

Sylar growled at the man once he was in the bedroom, already sick of his presence. Just to show his disapproval, he threw down the magazine, pages fluttering wildly and stalked out the door; closing it loudly enough to make a statement as he entered the hallway. Clenching and releasing his fists as he started to pace while he waited, simultaneously debating whether or not to move up to the next floor.

Then he thought on it; _why was Peter looking at me like that in the first place?_

XXX

Peter combed quickly but thoroughly through the bedroom, interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming. He jerked, startled, and moved to look out the bedroom door, which he'd left open. He listened. Hearing nothing of note, he looked into the living room. No Sylar, front door shut. _Well, he can't have locked me in here._

He'd noticed Sylar was angry. He didn't care all that much. He supposed he should. He looked at the front door for a few moments, then wandered into the kitchen thoughtfully. He started looking through drawers on autopilot. _What might an angry Sylar do? _Any of those things Peter had already contemplated seemed more likely - murder, torture, whatever inventive cruelty he might come up with.

_Maybe he left to get the gun?_ For some reason, that seemed entirely implausible. Peter could trot out reasons why it was unlikely - Sylar's loneliness, his desperation, his lurking around him and repeated approaches, trying to find the right distance to be at - but none of those rang quite true. He tried to pin it down. His constant paranoia of Sylar had to have _some_ basis, after all.

_\'You're not a killer, Peter. I am.'\_

_Was I even alive in that future where he saved Emma?_ He wasn't sure he was. Sylar was - or at least what looked like Sylar. Peter pulled out a can opener that looked good. The apartment he'd picked didn't have one. He stuffed this one in his back pocket for the moment. _I should have brought down that backpack this morning when I left, or the messenger bag._

He looked in the refrigerator again and snagged a cheese stick. There was nothing else in there of note, though his mind absently catalogued that perishables didn't go bad here. He moved on to the mostly bare pantry. _Cheese puffs, pretzels, beef stew, canned soup, mac and cheese - I like that stuff, already have some in my apartment - hey, some of those cracker and cheese sandwiches. I have lunch_. He picked those up too, putting them in the same hand as the cheese stick. _Didn't I see a bag around here somewhere?_

He looked around in the living room, trying to recall where the bag was, because he thought he'd seen it in there or the bedroom. His eyes fell on the torn magazine and his mind diverted from the materials issue to the human one. The why of Sylar's anger was straightforward enough - Peter had dismissed him and disrespected him. Could he kill over that provocation? Certainly. Peter had provoked him precisely because he feared him and refused to back down.

Peter had put aside the gun and decided, very consciously, that vengeance wasn't his goal. If Sylar hadn't witnessed that, then that would have been the end of it. But Sylar had, and he'd given no affirming response to it. There were several opportunities there for a connection, but Sylar had not made one, for a host of possible reasons. Lacking that, Peter had felt an instinctive need to prove that simply because he wasn't going to carry a weapon didn't mean he was afraid of Sylar or happy with the situation. Cue rude dominance display. Cue angry Sylar.

He huffed. _Okay, Sylar's had long enough to cool off a little. Time to go let him chew on me a bit, then maybe we can get back to … normal, I guess__._ He went to the front door and opened it, walking out without any wary first glance, trusting his instincts that he wasn't stepping into an ambush. He had a slightly wary expression on his face, and held in his left hand a cheese stick and two cracker sandwich packs.

XXX

_Wear a hole in the carpet, do it, just don't…..fuck this up. More._ Wasn't 'leaving the room' the therapeutic, typical cut-and-dried psychiatric advice for an argument or the thing to do when angry? (Granted, 'communicate' was _before_ you slammed the door…). Sylar wished for one gut-twisting moment to have his Hunger back; having it as an excuse this _one_ time…. It would feel like heaven, as close as he would get anyway.

Heaven in blood, murder and destruction. _Guess it makes up for those seventy-two virgins no one is getting_, he mused, nearly to the point of hysteria himself. _/"All this talk about souls and spirits has my head spinning. I_ _am_ not _a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: Blood."/_

_That could bring me back….I am Sylar_. He felt his short nails digging into his palm. _This is nothing new. He'll be just more miserable if you don't kill him. If he thinks he's getting off easy for that…. Here for a reason, here for a reason_… Sylar sagged against the wall. There was no Hunger. Did Peter know that? He would have no excuse, not that he ever needed one, but he'd….grown used to it. Was it really an excuse if no one attributed his sins to his ability?

Of course Peter was right; right about everything. The glaring, the violence, the nail gun, the sneering attitude…_ You deserve this, remember? You get Hell because you screwed people__. _Sylar found himself sitting on the floor of the hall, only partly defeated, full-on insane. Wasn't that one of the last things Matt had said before…before all this Hell? _/"Wow, you really are insane. And what? Be normal? Nah, I'm sorry, that ship sailed, what, fifty murders ago?"/_

That didn't soothe his nerves or calm his desire to flay Peter alive, but it sent some…weird emotion wiggling down inside him. Of course, he ignored it. He was still angry. Peter exited the latest apartment and Sylar scrambled to his feet before the man could see him sitting in a heap. Once he stood, hands in pockets, he glanced quickly at the objects Peter held, his eyes catching on a foreign….'object' in Peter's pants. Was that a cord hanging from his pocket?

After the loving look Peter had given not moments before, it was beyond a doubt that whatever _was_ in Peter's pants, it wasn't something that would prompt 'Is that something in your pocket or are you happy to see me?' What really sent Sylar over the edge of annoyance, amusement, sanity and violence was the cheese stick. He raised doubtful eyes to Peter's as if asking if this was really happening.

_This is a joke; it has got to be a joke. There's no way I am stuck in Hell with_…. Lunchables and a cheese stick. His face was left blank until he could make up his mind. Making a low growl under his breath and turned towards the stairs, not even bothering to wait for some kind of answer. Sylar was behaving himself, Peter….god only knew. _Someone help me…. _


	7. Mister Bear Gets Some

Day 5

Sylar pulled to his feet as soon as Peter came out. Peter was relieved that the other man hadn't left entirely. He considered that emotion for a moment. Or maybe he was just happy Sylar wasn't trying to kill him. It had been a possibility, after all. He was distracted from those thoughts by Sylar looking him up and down, eyes focusing on his crotch just a little longer than he should have. Peter stood there and affected being relaxed and comfortable, not about to respond to Sylar doing the same thing to him that he'd done to the man. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Sylar looked flabbergasted though, which wasn't the expression Peter really expected in a situation of dueling, sexually aggressive stares. He looked unbelieving even, then the taller man turned and strode off energetically. Peter followed more sedately, glancing discreetly down at himself and noticing the suspicious bulge near his groin. _Oh. The razor__._ He grinned. _Yes, well, Sylar, I was just trying to show you who was bigger, since we seem to have gotten into a dick-measuring contest. I really need to get a bag._

The question of Sylar's sexual orientation drifted through his mind again, this time coming with memories of a number of moments of slightly unusual degrees of eye contact, motions and inadvertent touches on Sylar's part, mostly while the man thought he was his brother at Pinehearst. Peter had dismissed it for exactly that reason. He and Nathan touched a lot. It was enough to have engendered more than a few unsavory comments. Once, at function Nathan had drug Peter to when he was still pre-law, an older man asked outright if Peter was Nathan's 'partner' - Peter had pretended the man meant a partner in the law firm, denied it, then pointed out they were brothers. The old man had looked disappointed that the Petrelli reputation remained unstained by that particular misconduct.

But when you lived in the closet, you tended to get sensitive to certain things, keeping a lookout for certain behaviors and patterns. Sylar's pattern…did not strike Peter as solely heterosexual. He frowned to himself. He didn't know the other man well enough to be sure. He **was** sure that he didn't really want to know him that well; but if he was stuck here for years, relative or not, he suspected he was going to find out. Given the situation, the only person whose desires Peter thought might be a complication would be Sylar's.

Peter pushed open the door to the stairs, noting Sylar was finishing the stairs to the third floor, then went inside. _I wonder why the stairs? He left his apple and his book at the elevators._ Not that Peter was about to go get them to be helpful or anything. Maybe he'd mentioned it later when they left. _These are all imaginary possessions. They don't really matter_. He snorted and made a mental note to himself to try to wish something into existence. It seemed that they **did** matter, whether he wanted them to or not. He strongly suspected that that pistol he'd found would have made a distinct difference in a fight, far more than an 'imaginary' object should.

XXX

Pushing open the doors to the stairwell, he climbed the flight to get to the third floor, immediately going into the nearest apartment. It was larger, obviously a family had lived here and it made Sylar's stomach lurch. Family. _Goddamn you, Petrelli, and your_ family_!_ Lest he forget Peter was one of them. He cautiously entered the master bedroom, very careful not to touch any of the toys or objects in this room; he was worried about a different type of contamination this time.

That's what a family was; a contaminant. It sucked you down and infected you, gave you an infection until you were too delirious and caught up and…. He took a deep breath. He also didn't want to disturb something so precious. Kids had lived here, probably pretty happy and carefree. By stepping in _he_ was the one doing the contaminating while Peter, when he arrived, would simply slip right into it and fit in, clean as a whistle.

He felt out of place in this environment; it was not for him.

XXX

He glanced through the window of the stairwell door at the third floor, then walked in. Sylar was nowhere to be seen, but the door to one of the nearer apartments was standing open. He stood beside it for a moment, looking at the closed door on the other side of the hall. It was some other apartment. He didn't _have_ to be in the same apartment as Sylar, after all. It might be wiser to reduce the chance of friction by keeping a little space between them. He walked through the open door anyway.

It was one of the larger floor plans, he saw, and apparently a family that had young children, judging from the toy box tucked up next to the couch and the highchair he could see in the dining room. No children here, though. _No children, no adults, no elderly. The hospitals are empty. No one to help. No one to serve. No one__. _He shook off the moment of ennui without too much trouble and went into the kitchen, looking for a sack. He found a paper grocery sack tucked in next to the refrigerator. He opened it noisily and put the razor, can opener and food within.

He reached out to open the nearest drawer to find himself thwarted by a child safety lock. It was the first 'lock' he'd come across that was engaged. He bypassed it, fiddling with the little plastic latch and wondering if it meant anything. He thought not, but what did he know? He searched through the drawers steadily, finding nothing of great interest. He suspected his interest in the objects of this world would wane soon enough. Having free and easy access to **everything** meant that few things really mattered - items of comfort, maybe, or entertainment - those still mattered.

He wandered through the dining room towards the bedrooms, knowing from the occasional small sound that Sylar was in here somewhere. He glanced in the rooms to see which one he was in, intending to go to the other.

XXX

Sylar was at an emotional crossroads in the master bedroom, standing and staring around the room, not doing much of anything. Maybe that was supposed to make him feel better; the fact that Peter's 'family' was just as fucked up (in its own way) as his own had been, however much less of a 'family'.

Clenching his fists again, he stalked over to the bed stand, rifling through it with rough motions. It didn't matter; no one was here, he didn't need this family's things, neither did Peter. They didn't even need to be here looking for….whatever the fuck unless Peter had some kind of wish list that he wasn't talking about.

He heard the distant crackle of a paper bag and hoped Peter was 'taking care' of whatever it was he'd had in his pants before he met up with Sylar again. That had been…unexpected to say the least. It was other things, but nothing that bore continued thought. Besides, _Peter_ would want him to ignore such a happenstance.

More confusion filled his head and he snatched up a bed pillow and threw it at the window, just because. _Let Peter find that!_ He thought derisively, being spiteful. Why was he angry again? Oh, yes. Why was he playing along with this charade again? Oh, yeah.

Stupid Peter, stupid family, stupid whatever it was that made Peter give him that look and whatever that damn cord was. _Focus. Remember the game__. _Sylar cast a shady glance towards the door of the bedroom that Peter so obviously wasn't entering. Hmm. There was nothing incriminating or even interesting in the bedroom; _parents_, he sighed to himself in his head.

He inwardly cringed at having to enter the kid's rooms, but did it anyway. While he hadn't looked very much in the first, dirty gun-bachelor's apartment, he would have no such excuse as 'imagined germs' here. He could always play off kid-phobia…_No, he'd be onto that_. Sylar slowly padded into the little boy's blue bedroom. Cowboys was the theme, the whole Toy Story get up, not that he knew anything about it or recognized it.

A noise clicked in his head, similar to one of his prized clocks as his eyes fell on a particularly special item to the boy that used to live here. _Claire-bear_. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled grim and amused, _time to play__. _Moving forward and reaching for the teddy bear on the bed, he suddenly got a different wavelength full of static.

_/Watching Pete sit on Santa's lap. A tiny boy at two years old, those pleading hazel eyes locked on Saint Nick's jovial (fake) face, Nathan at fourteen, having refused the opportunity, but stood near to Pete just….because. _

_He was the older brother, a role he'd accepted without much thought and he took it seriously. One look at Pete's innocent, dreaming face could do that to you. His baby brother was handed a large chocolate plush teddy and Pete had locked it immediately in a death grip of a hug after staring into the bear's glassy eyes for a moment._

_Fast forward four years at the beach, a weekend vacation with Ma and Dad, complete with Izzie, the family spaniel, yapping down the surf, doubtlessly driving Dad's nerves up the wall as usual. Of course Mister Bear came along for the trip, the plushy material that made up the bear's fur long since worn. And of course the bear had to come in the water._

_Nathan was holding Pete's slightly reluctant, juice-sticky hand, leading him hip-deep (for the kid) into the ocean; the bear in the boy's other hand, clutched loosely in kid-fingers. Pete kept making funny faces, obviously unsure of how to handle the water and he glanced up a ways at Nathan. Before they'd gotten in the water, Pete had asked of Ma, "I can wash him, right?" Ma had nodded distractedly, busy with the picnic lunch she'd brought, giving him a "Yes, of course, dear", but he still seemed uncertain._

_Seriously, that damn bear got more attention than Peter himself did. Nathan lifted Pete by the hand to raise him above the swell of a particularly large wave of salt water, trying to spare the boy a face full of icy ocean. Peter had cleared it, but the bear was sucked out in the pull before either Petrelli noticed its absence. Mister Bear was gone to sea and Peter had cried the rest of the day and on the road trip back./_

Sylar snarled and dug his fingers quickly into the soft fabric of the bear, pulling it into his hand, shaking off the memory with a shift of his shoulders. _This is why I hate family; especially this one. Nothing but a bunch of mindfucks in a mansion__. _This bear was different that Peter's in that it had a red bandana around his neck and a straw cowboy hat stuck to its head, but Sylar ignored the details.

"Oh, Peter…." He sing-songed to get the other man's attention and, ideally, the man himself as an audience. Surely Peter knew about Claire's bear fetish (_or was it Bennet's? Ugh_). This was about to hit a dozen of Peter's 'things never to see or think about' list.

XXX

Peter looked in the master bedroom. It was the first one he came to. It was in a little bit of disarray - nightstand drawer open, pillow on the floor. _Nightstand - guns__._ His mind made an idle connection. Sylar had obviously been in here and wasn't here now. He was debating checking out the room instead of bothering to confirm where his companion was when the man's voice rang out in sing-song.

The tone alerted him instantly. Something was up. Sylar was up to something and very proud of whatever it was he was about to spring. _Nightstand - guns_ ran through Peter's mind again. A bullet through Peter's leg would be something Sylar might find highly amusing and though Sylar surely wasn't stupid enough to think that wouldn't be a potentially fatal injury; he might be pissed off enough not to care. Then again, Peter couldn't think of any of Sylar's kills that involved a gun, other than cases where others had pulled the trigger, himself included.

No, Sylar had always preferred his abilities, as far as Peter knew. Telekinesis had featured just about every time. It had pretty much been Sylar's introduction in that high school so long ago - years now, but it seemed like yesterday. Sylar, dark and shadowed at the end of the hall, Claire fleeing him, Peter being unsure, recognizing the figure from the paintings and the glimpses of the future he'd seen. And yeah, he'd been scared. Then a moment later the locker doors were flying at him. There was no reason to stay, so he'd fled. His job had not been to stop the killer, but instead to save the cheerleader.

What would Sylar do for violence if stripped of his powers? A knife? A gun? A baseball bat? Or would it be something more insidious like drugged food followed by restraints and torture? The sing-song tone said 'I'm about to fuck with you.' Peter knew that fully and yet he still went to the voice to see what Sylar was going to do. He did at least manage a modicum of caution, approaching the doorway in a very similar way to how Sylar had stood when Peter had handled the gun - leaning to the side slightly, leaving most of his body concealed.

Sylar did not have a gun in his hands. Or a knife. Or a baseball bat. He had a teddy bear. Peter stared at it dumbly, surprise making him less cautious than he was a moment before. A teddy bear_. __What the hell?_ Was Sylar going to hold the teddy bear hostage? Was he going to threaten to hurt Peter by tearing the stuffed animal's head off and vicariously harming it? It wasn't like he could intimidate him by killing a beloved pet, after all. He looked at the bear. It did have a fairly close resemblance to Mister Bear - same size and color, same well-worn fur. The accoutrements were out of place, but…but Sylar had Nathan's memories. He knew what the bear looked like.

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar's, seeing the maliciously gleeful, anticipatory look on the other man's face. Sylar was up to something, all right.

XXX

Sylar gave him a smirking grin once he peeked his head in, obviously wary. The man's glance went from the bear, held at Sylar's chest height, then up to his eyes, seeing something that set him on edge. Rightly so. If Peter thought he would get away scot-free with that look earlier, hell, with the (understandable) 'scare' with the gun, he was dead wrong.

Staring Peter down, Sylar hugged the bear to his chest, murmuring, "Look who I found." He could see the individual thoughts racing through Peter's head; confusion, disgust, annoyance and anger, but enough curiosity to keep him there. "Think I'll call her….Mrs. Bear….No, no, I've got it." The evil behavior he was subjecting the medic to was flexing so many muscles in his psyche; the flood of _almost_ Hunger filling him. It felt so good, a rush of endorphins and adrenaline like he hadn't had in literal years.

XXX

At first Peter didn't have much reaction aside from a narrowing of the eyes. He frowned deeply, unimpressed at the moniker of 'Mrs. Bear,' surprised the asshole didn't go for a direct copy of Peter's childhood toy. The reason, he supposed, became clear as Sylar rubbed the stuffed animal against himself and moaned. _Pervert. Weirdo. Is this supposed to impress me? I suppose it does - I didn't think you'd sink this low right off the bat. So much for him being gay - if he can't even label a fake bear as male for this sort of thing._

XXX

In response, he gave a hum, one that could have been interpreted as a moan if the other man chose, as he slowly dragged the teddy's muzzle down his abdomen, slithering it downwards. Watching all the while as Peter's gaze tracked the motion, blinking in confusion, the thought telegraphed over his hollow little head 'Where the hell is this going?' _/God….this is fun./_"Think I'll call her…Claire. Get it?" Sylar gave a wicked leer, holding the bear by its head and eventually placing it to face his groin. The placement was suspicious, but Peter was a little dense.

This was a test; Peter wouldn't take up the gun, but Peter was no gunman…except for that time in Haiti. _Hmm, singular event_. He couldn't even kill Arthur, something that still rattled in Nathan's memory for some odd reason. _/"You're not a killer, Peter. I am."/_The medic had made his intentions clear, but then backed it up with a snotty look at Sylar. _How low will you go?_

Still he wasn't finished. _He is not getting away with mocking me. I can call every shitty aspect of his life on stage in front of him and there's nothing he can do about it._His next noise was a low rumble in his throat, depicting pleasure that he wasn't receiving from the bear/Claire's "mouth" while he began to roll his hips against it anyway. _Whoa, hello__…. _His hormonal reaction was not what he'd anticipated. _Huh_._ That shouldn't feel good, maybe it looks good…something's still not quite normal about that._

He recalled taunting Matt with a stuffed (pink) rabbit. _/"Something doesn't fit in this picture." He recalled hiding his smugness from the oblivious cop, not that he needed to, clapping his hands together. "This house isn't used for drugs. It's used for something worse. A _lot _worse."__Why Matt believed him, oh, right, he was a__ '_hero_'. __Why Sylar would point something like that out….well. He enjoyed the sport and Matt was so easy to string along, it was almost anticlimactic./_

"Have you ever been in her room, Pete? I doubt those chaste hugs and lingering glances give you much of her scent, do they?" he rasped intimately towards the other man. Because, what…the fuck…had that look been about? He wanted to know. People didn't….it was just…odd, out of place. "Vanilla," Sylar whispered, grinding the bear around some personal areas for show.

XXX

Then the name changed to Claire and Sylar started pantomiming fellatio. That was…upsetting. Peter shifted position, coming more fully in the doorway but that wasn't really his intention. He felt uncomfortable, so he shifted. What he was really doing, and had he been thinking about it he'd have known, was getting more balanced, more poised. Sylar didn't have a gun and obviously wasn't preparing to rush him, so there was no reason to be peeking around the corner like a frightened child. Peter's eyes narrowed further as he weighed how much and if he needed to defend Claire's name from being sullied like this.

_He's not worth it. Let him show off what a juvenile sense of humor he has. Don't give him the satisfaction. He's **trying** to get a rise out of you with this. Speaking of which…is he…?_

His eyes pulled back up to Sylar's face with the man's next words and he felt his blood begin to boil despite his intentions. _'Pete' again. What is he trying to do - see how far he can push me? Does he think me putting down the gun gives him a free pass for anything? Does he think I'm toothless or something?_

As for Claire, Peter had had a crush on her for a little while once…longer than he should have, really, but what the hell were you supposed to do when you had no idea the girl could possibly be related to you? She was a random teenager in _Texas_, for crying out loud! She was jailbait, the situation sucked (he was, specifically, in jail for part of that, after all), so he was thankful he hadn't done anything, but it didn't mean he hadn't felt something. Even without that, she was his niece and this level of disrespect was intolerable. Not that he expected better from Sylar, but Peter couldn't stand here and do nothing.

XXX

Keeping his voice low still, he continued, "Ever wonder why Claire's a lesbian, Pete? One word; Stanton," with that, he chuckled, amused and proud of his accomplishment: Peter was enraged by now and it showed, blazing through those hazel irises. To top it off, literally, Sylar mimed carving into the bear's cranium under the hat, through it, whatever, as he bobbed it back and forth at his pelvis.

XXX

He knew Sylar had taken her ability. He'd always wondered if more than that had happened. It had never seemed appropriate to ask though, so he was gentle with Claire and left it at that. Sylar's next words…_Claire's a lesbian? What?_ Peter had seriously, seriously been out of touch with his family for the last many months. He hadn't even noticed that his _brother_, his beloved _brother_, had been replaced by an imposter. So the idea that Claire had perhaps come out of the closet and he hadn't been in the loop - well, it was certainly possible. _Maybe he's lying? Why does he think I'd care? 'Pete' again. __**You**__ do __**not**__ get to call me that!_ And then that last word brought everything together.

Peter had never given so much as a single thought to what might have happened to Claire behind those doors at the Stanton. It wasn't callousness, so much as having so many other things going on. She'd been clothed when thrown into the hall before Nathan and him; her voice had been steady and strong; things had started happening fast after that. But maybe they'd been happening fast before that, too. Suddenly his mind was trying to calculate times, consider Sylar's personality, the gloating leer on his face right now, Claire's personality…_she'd become a lesbian? He'd raped her? He's admitting this?_

He couldn't think anymore, but that was fine because he had no more need for it. He launched himself across the few steps between them. Sylar's hands were occupied, his body obviously busy responding to a situation that did not prepare him well for Peter's fist crashing down on his face. And Peter was doing his best to achieve just that.

XXX

He'd been more or less expecting this; violence. Usually Peter liked to avoid the fight and talk people down (sometimes literally), but this time he didn't spare a word before he rushed Sylar. He took the initial blow across his cheekbone, the explosion of sensation snapping his head around to his right side, a coarse bark of pain escaping him. Dropping the bear from his right hand, still holding it in his left, he swung his freed fist for Peter's oncoming face, snarling as he did.

_You are not going to treat me like that, I won't let you. You may be the last man on earth, but I'm still me. I'm not a piece of your Petrelli shitbag scam, I'm not a fucking toy! I won't let you, I won't let you, I won't__…_ The contact jarred up his arm and he hissed from the receiving pain. _Fuck, forgot how much I hate this_._ Stupid bastard, asked for this. _

_/"NOW GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!" "Nathan's pretty dead, Pete, I should know….What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?"/_

Then he remembered the reason for getting abilities: he didn't do hand-to-hand well, technically 'dying' the last two times. Just because, Sylar swung the teddy bear at Peter; it was in his hand and he was angry and it was a sort of statement. Not like the real deal would break and it was a goddamn bear! The stuffy hit Peter at the neck before continuing past him to bounce on the ground, but neither man paid it any mind.

XXX

Peter was actually faintly surprised to have struck the man, not surprised at all that it hurt. Peter was a lot more familiar with hitting people than he wanted to be - more familiar with hitting _Sylar_ than he wanted to be. Kirby Plaza, Pinehearst, Mercy Heights - all fistfights with this man and he'd won each time, more or less. Kirby Plaza was arguable - complicated by others, but Peter counted it as a win. All of those flashed behind his eyes with a weird sort of double exposure, like he was remembering the incidents from not just his own point of view, but Sylar's. Peter's own fists crashing down on him painfully; confusion; the simple stunned awareness with which he'd looked up at Peter at Pinehearst and did nothing to resist him while the Italian, the so-called empath, had hit him again and again, stopping to gloat between each blow.

"Uf." Peter was hit solidly on the cheek as a reward for getting distracted. He shook off the bizarre memories, falling back and trying to dodge, more than a little disoriented from the blow. He didn't have time to think things through, though if he had, he would have thought Sylar had done that to him intentionally somehow - some mental effect of being here. He'd lost the advantage of surprise. The stuffed animal hit him and bounced away - he felt an equally bizarre, but more understandable pang of concern for it.

XXX

_Hit me once, shame on me..._. In the back of his mind, he knew he was purposefully provoking the conflict, but he just couldn't seem to stop himself. A lifetime's worth of frustration, repression, anger, loss, heartbreak, neglect and failure on both sides. And the additional (probably testosterone-fueled, adrenaline-filled) energy had to go somewhere; it had to be let out somehow. Sylar shoved Peter back by handfuls of his shirt, making use of his height and longer reach, stalking after the man. When he reached him again, he swung down at Peter, just lashing out to cause damage to something so frustrating and full of anger; really unaware that he was striking the only living thing in his world.

XXX

He grabbed at Sylar's hand when it clutched his shirt. He was shoved back to where his own fists couldn't make a solid contact with any critical part of the man's body. He twisted to the side, heedless if the clothes ripped, but the cloth held. He hammered sideways with the knife edge of his hand at Sylar's wrist, impacting hard and jarring his grip, getting loose quickly and staggering back a step. Quickly or not, it wasn't quick enough - he regained his balance just in time to get hit in the face and staggered again, pain blooming between his eyes, making them water as his nose stung and felt wet. "Agh!"

_Great. Fucking bloody nose__._ He bared his teeth and snarled.

He took another step back as Sylar took a couple more swings, not connecting solidly enough to matter.

XXX

A sudden blow to his wrist made him cry out, the tendons and fragile bones shooting pain into his hand, his hand faltering instantly as he pulled it back anyway. The urge to cradle his arm was strong, but Peter wasn't calming down. _Good_, he thought at first, immediately followed by, _bad_. _It's a kid's room, no box-cutters or guns in here, no powers here, no weapons,_ was his next rundown of the situation. Perhaps starting Peter up hadn't been such a great idea; the medic was easy to start up, but not so easy to turn off when it came to this sort of thing; he was nothing but vengeful with a reason to be. Sylar always provided that reason.

In reaction to pain, something he hadn't been handling as well of late, not handling it as efficiently as he had in the past; Sylar swung in what he thought was okay form. His fists would catch on Peter's deltoids and graze his chest, missing his face completely after drawing blood from his nose that second time. Go figure stupid Peter would make him look like a fool, swinging blindly like an idiot. _How is he….?_ He was firing away directly at Peter, but the EMT was moving, still catching his balance and moving to avoid Sylar's fists.

The lack of physical connection only made him angrier, but he wasn't stupid enough to allow the anger to overrun his instinct to put more force behind his rather unskilled jabs. That would only tire him and give Peter plenty of opportunity to beat his brains out. When Peter moved to Sylar's left to avoid the right incoming fist; he pivoted and raised a leg to kick into Peter's hip, the toe of his shoe connecting just shy of the joint, bruising deeply into his thigh. The contact sent the man stuttering away, pushing off the wall and homing in on Sylar's position.

He himself took a step back, holding his fists up in a lightly-refined technique in preparation of defense, unaware he was probably giving off 'schoolyard' to the other man. Even if his fists were in an MMA style he'd read about; of course having no experience or sparring partner to learn more than that. It seemed like a good idea.

XXX

_Get him down, beat the crap out of him, teach him that he can't treat me like this, this is what he gets if he wants to spend his time taunting me, he deserves this…_

Peter maneuvered back, trying to get some distance and get his balance. It was a good idea in theory, but as soon as he was out of range of fists, Sylar turned to feet and kicked him. Peter would have liked to credit footwork or dodging with why he managed to take the blow on his thigh instead of hip, but the reality was Sylar simply missed where he was aiming at. Still, it hurt badly and caused him to shift his weight awkwardly. He fell back against the wall and realized he was in a danger zone, too easily trapped and confined, his exit strategy foiled.

Sylar didn't push his advantage, for whatever reason. Given how he'd fought in the past, Peter gauged that Sylar just didn't know what he was doing in a fistfight. Had he put his hands down and relaxed his stance, Peter would have still carried the fight to him, but he'd have thought the other man had backed off to try to de-escalate things. Instead he backed up and raised his hands again in a fighting stance. Peter recognized it vaguely, but as the kick had hammered home to him, he had to get inside Sylar's reach to win this. There was no way he was going to accept losing and being at this man's mercy. Not ever.

Peter put his head down and bulled forward in a shoulder check, trying to get inside Sylar's reach. He took a blow coming in, but Sylar had been set up to defend against strikes, not against a rush, which was part of why Peter did it. Sylar backed up a step, coming up against the footboard of the bed and for a moment they teetered there: Peter slugging at Sylar's ribs without any power behind it (yet, because at the moment it was more an extension of the rush) and Sylar struggling to keep himself upright.

_Get him over, knock him down, get on top of him, then pound him into the ground…_

XXX

_Ha. That's what you get__._ In hindsight, he was overly cocky with this; but it was kind of a big deal to be able to lay blows on the infamous Peter Petrelli; some elation was involved by default. Had he been in the mood, he might have chuckled and snarked something at the man, but he had to stay focused for whatever the next-

_Shit_. Peter approached, but much too fast to be punching or kicking. Sylar recognized the move too late, which was the idea. He was set up for punches and kicks, set up pretty well, too; he hadn't expected to be rushed and as such he'd cornered himself perfectly for Peter to do just that.

In a second, he was crammed against the bed stand; the rounded end of the stand jabbing into his spine as Peter rushed his upper half, practically bending him over it, leaving him to grunt. The blows to his ribs still hurt and left him a little breathless at the pin. He wasn't a complete social outcast in that he didn't watch movies, so he dropped his bent elbow down into Peter's back as it presented itself, grabbing his hair next and shoving his head to the side. Of course the move worked, but not as planned; Sylar went the opposite direction and fell onto the bed with his legs tripped up and unable to move.

XXX

"Ow!" The elbow jab _hurt_ and yanking on his hair didn't help, but neither stopped Peter from managing to tip the other man onto the bed. So far, all his injuries were relatively superficial. He hadn't even managed to lose any hair. The blood from his nose was running down his face and he could taste it, but he was breathing through his mouth fine.

Peter followed Sylar onto the bed, scrambling to get on top of him, straddle him, and get control of the situation. If he could get the man under him and sit up, then he could rain down blows and limit Sylar's ability to retaliate. That was his plan at least, to the extent that he had formulated it. Sylar was obviously aware of his poor position and as soon as Peter started to lean away from him, Sylar hit him solidly on the right shoulder, following it up with hitting him in the face with his other hand.

_God-damn reach!_ Peter couldn't get back fast enough, a little stunned and mostly trying to get his face away from those fists. _Okay, so maybe getting on top of Sylar wasn't a good idea__. _Sylar had his shoulders and was trying to shove him off. For a moment they wrestled. Peter knew he was stronger - a lot stronger than Sylar - if he could just get his dominant arm to work right. He knocked Sylar's hands off a few times; trying to get them out of the way so he could punch with his left. He swung, but he was blocked, probably giving Sylar a few bruises on his forearms, but they weren't disabling blows in the least. The other man gave up on trying to shove him off like that - if that was what he was trying to do - and started twisting his whole body.

XXX

Peter followed him right down and he recognized the positioning for the second time. _How did I get into this? No, how do I get OUT of this?_ He sent a fist into the nerves where Peter's neck met his shoulder, numbing the arm somewhat before snapping at his face to stun him. Then he started twisting like a madman, fittingly enough, pushing on Peter's shoulders; a molecular speck of fear from being pinned like this with this man. _Mercy…Heights…(What a goddamn name for a fucking hospital. 'Mercy'. Especially one where Pious Saint Peter works)__._ He would have reached up to strangle him, except….that would take things to an undesired (sort of) level.

_/All he could remember suddenly was a hand under his neck supporting his head in a strange display of care, a heat near his lap and the pressure of a sweaty hand on his forehead, hearing a growling voice above him, demanding something. Everything had slowly sapped from him at the time, like suddenly remembering less and less of yourself; having memories yanked out, no, memories just being gone, empty, but totally aware, for the moment, that someone was taking them away. He did remember looking up into vaguely familiar hazel eyes in a kind face that was set in a mask of a snarl, managing to grate out through a throat that could barely get air from shock. "Do it. KILL ME!"/_

Peter kept getting his elbows into Sylar's arms as he kept the man away, but not off him; the medic settling over his lap on the bed. The man would bend or break Sylar's stiff-arm and try to strike him, but Sylar would raise his arm to fend it off, catching the blow with his arm, grunting at the blows. All the while he was squirming like a long eel from underneath Peter, grabbing at the bed to move himself away.

XXX

Teeth clenched, Peter hit Sylar in the shoulder, but he was being unseated from his superior position by the energy and force of the other man's effort. He had a choice between trying to reestablish his pin or taking a few licks while he had the chance. He went for the latter, not passing up the chance. He hit the man again in the shoulder - nearly the same place, but it was unlikely do much other than hurt and bruise, maybe limit the strength of the arm much as Sylar's blow had done to Peter. He aimed higher with his right, going for the side of Sylar's head.

It was a moving target. Although Peter knew his right hand still didn't have the strength it should have, numbed from the shoulder strike, he hadn't thought about the implications of hitting a hard surface with a fist that wasn't tight and firm. So when his balled hand came down on the rear side of Sylar's skull, it hurt Peter a lot more than Sylar. Something snapped in his hand and his wrist wrenched. "Ah!"

XXX

He took a hard sock into his shoulder again as he managed roll onto his side, feeling his right arm tense and jerk in reaction, sound escaping him. Growling next to be intimidating and perhaps because it would help him wriggle free of Peter's encasing legs (god, how awkward). His vision shuddered and his head snapped painfully into the bed, something in his neck popping from a swift blow from something hard to his skull.

"Uh…" was his groaned exhale of pain, an instant headache splitting up his cranium, throbbing around the impact site. He dimly heard the other man make a louder noise in agony, but he just kept moving, not at all pausing to survey the empath's injuries because right now he didn't care. Wonder of all wonders, this was so similar to another fight this pair had been in. Maybe everything had already been done before.

_/"You're too weak to stop me! I know what it feels like now. All this power...I'm the one who's _special_."/_

XXX

_Shit!_ He jerked his hand back reflexively. He could still fight, but that injury by itself knocked his effectiveness down by more than a quarter, maybe half if something was actually broken, ceding the advantage entirely to Sylar. For the moment though, maybe Sylar didn't realize that.

XXX

Peter stopped moving, stopped advancing so Sylar _didn't_ kick him as his legs cleared the other man's straddle. He then took the opportunity to roll off the bed and onto the floor, sliding down in a muddled mess. Moving to his knees, he saw first that Peter still knelt on the bed, cradling his arm, possibly the one he'd hit Sylar's head with.

Fuzzily he had a flash that his head had always been a little thick. The medic flexed his hand briefly, holding back his grimace of pain, but Sylar caught it; he must have done something to make the man look at him because Peter's eyes rose from his arm to Sylar's eyes and he began to move off the bed.

He took that as a move back into the field, injured or not. Looking around the room much faster, his eyes alighted on a baseball bat; crude and messy, but he didn't intend to use it and that fact was none of Peter's business. Grabbing hold of it, he wobbled to stand, something from the headshot disrupting his balance. "Enough," he rasped out, holding the bat in front of him for show.

Peter hadn't attempted to strangle him or otherwise bash his brains in; he hadn't even run for the gun. Sylar concluded that Peter in fact wouldn't go back for the gun or the nearest sharp object, Petrelli-style, for the final Medal of Honor. The bat wavered slightly in his hand and he blinked a few times at the injured man.

XXX

Peter looked over the bat carefully, noting how it wavered. It wasn't held firm. He didn't think Sylar truly intended to use it. That was good - Peter was done with the fight too. He took a half step back and to the side anyway, out of caution, keeping the corner of the bed between them so there was no way he could easily be rushed. People could be killed bare-handed, but a fight with weapons became all kinds of lethal that a fistfight was not. Sylar's single word eased him a lot, turning the hefting of the bat from an escalation Peter wouldn't win to a graceful way to back down. He'd made his point and even though he doubted Sylar understood why Peter had attacked him, Peter did and that was good enough. Absently he noted the stuffed bear was directly behind him. He nudged it back with his heel, unconsciously keeping himself between it and Sylar.

He waited a few more seconds just to be sure of the situation, then let his thoughts go back to what had started this – Sylar's insinuations, or perhaps confessions. "Is there any low you won't sink to? _Rape?_" It had provoked him because it was new, as a piece of information; because Sylar had been taunting him; because it seemed Sylar wanted to start a fight and would keep at it until he did. It was worse than his other sins – there was no excuse of the hunger or even self defense in taking advantage of Claire. A new low, yes. But it wasn't like he'd had all that far to fall at that point.

Peter shook his head, lip curling in disgust. "Don't talk to me about how you've _hurt_ people. If you really think we're stuck here forever together, _don't talk to me about that!_" Peter's voice rose in distress. "There's nothing I can do about it!" _Except beat the crap out of you. It's already done. Maybe I could have been there faster. If I'd only known…_ "Just because you have powers doesn't mean you have to use them that way!"

He licked at the blood on his lips and raised his left hand to wipe it off his chin. He eyed Sylar further, but the other man was holding his ground. Peter felt of his nose briefly. He didn't think it was broken. His teeth were still solid. He took a quick catalog of his other injuries. Nothing seemed critical except for his hand. He flexed it, giving Sylar a sullen look, unwilling to explore it further right away. The other man looked fine – a little unsteady, with red marks blooming slowly as the first stage of bruising – but basically fine.

Peter remembered an exchange during his precepting as a paramedic, where his instructor was trying to treat a patient who had been in a bar room brawl. Either punch drunk or inebriated, the man kept demanding the paramedic 'fix' his injuries, which consisted of several blows to the face similar to Sylar's, or Peter's. No bones were broken, nothing was bleeding. The veteran medic had told him, 'Buddy, you've been punched. I can't un-punch you. Take some aspirin, use some cold packs, and don't get in bar-fights.'

Peter dropped his eyes, backing up another short step, signaling more firmly he was done here and he was backing off.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the man a moment, taken aback by the one slur that was sent his way and attached to his name. Another and far greater sin to be associated with him. _I. Hate. People_. Sylar leaned forward and extended the bat at Peter's chest, "I'm no rapist," he snarled, body tensed. Of course Peter would think that; it was probably the only thing he heard from Sylar's entire….speech. "The only thing I ever touched was her pretty blonde gray matter for her stupid ability."

Peter's voice rose and Sylar was left to wait out the tirade he presented, after he finished, Sylar snapped back, barely restraining his own bitter anger, "Don't you dare lecture me about abilities, Petrelli, don't you dare." He knew he didn't need the bat, but it made him feel better regardless of Peter's potential as a threat.

Who rescued who from killing their then-shared mother? Who had taken hits and been strapped down and drugged _again_ just to be a _good __brother__? __Mommy's good boy?_ Peter had gone crazier faster with the Hunger than Sylar had himself. But, no, Sylar was ever the monster because Peter, precious, perfect, loving and loved Peter could be forgiven. His body count was zero of course.

The other man's eyes dropped and he backed down. "You've never seen me 'low', Peter, so don't be so quick to judge. I can't remember the last time I was laid and that was prior to three years ago." Okay, a bit of an exaggeration; he did remember, but it was just to illustrate that he wasn't the most social of men. His voice had relaxed but he still held himself stiffly, prepared for another foolish rush against the bat; typical Peter.

XXX

The bat made an annoying degree of difference in how he responded to what Sylar said. Peter had a feeling that were it not there as a glaring reminder of the next step in their conflict, that they'd still be fighting one way or another, steadily moving the relationship between them to more and more hostile. He leaned away and tensed in turn when Sylar gestured at him with it, but he didn't give ground.

He believed Sylar instantly, which annoyed him even more. He _should_ argue. He _should_ demand proof (though what proof could the other man give?) He _should_ demand an apology for Sylar even insinuating that he'd done that to Claire. But instead, the back of his head which judged people and made emotional decisions said, '_oh yeah, that makes perfect sense_' and the more intellectual part was left gaping and struggling to disagree. He frowned deeply at Sylar and hoped he'd hurt the bastard worse than it looked, because if he'd said those sorts of things knowing they were false, then he'd done it just to start things, intentionally goading him.

Sylar's eyes dropped and his tone eased back towards normal. Peter was left wondering what the hell 'low' was for Sylar if it wasn't killing people and being a menace to everyone who got close to him. Really, molesting Claire at the Stanton seemed possible. Sylar's outrage that Peter would jump to the obvious conclusion was irritating. _Asshole. You have no grounds to say someone is being 'quick to judge' if they believe what __**you**__ tell them__._ He supposed he didn't really know much about the other man, but what was there worse than the murders? Sure, Peter's imagination could fill in a lot of scenarios (cannibalism, child molestation, prolonged torture, and a sort of psychological torment of the sort Peter wondered if he was getting into with this current bullshit) – but it left a curiosity about what Sylar thought was out of bounds.

XXX

Actually, he should probably be more worried about being stabbed in the back as opposed to a frontal charge, but this was Peter of the manipulative clan Petrelli. "You are barking up the wrong tree if you think I'd willingly get it on with anyone in your family," he said sneeringly serious.

XXX

So the Petrellis were safe from Sylar making passes at them. Fine. Sylar meant it as an insult - that was the only reason Peter found it objectionable. _Just stop talking__,_ he begged mentally. _Stop insulting. Stop__…_ Peter sighed. _Like that's going to happen. Maybe I've got to stop taking offense. He's not going to change. I can't __**make**__ him change__. _Some part of himself ached and hurt and objected to the idea that he had to weather Sylar's abuse and disrespect. There was a distant echo here of his father being overbearing and authoritarian in Sylar's comportment, claiming absolute superiority with such infuriating constancy. He couldn't slug his father; but by God that didn't mean he hadn't wanted to. His jaw worked. He said nothing.

XXX

"Your niece is about as loving as a porcupine, Peter. I never touched her like that. I prefer my partners willing." Something that was hard to come by for a serial killer and psychopath. And even then the woman was manipulating him. Hell, once it wasn't even his body. "When we find her waltzing around here after a dozen years or so, you can ask her your damn self."

Sylar swung the bat into the wall, denting it easily and letting the would-be weapon drop to the floor amidst crumbs, dust, and rocks of dry wall. His expression dropped from dark and angry to hollow and lost as he looked at Peter as if asking 'how could you?' before he left the room. Far be it for him to walk away more hurt if he started the fight.

XXX

Sylar swung the bat into the wall and Peter jumped a little. Then he dropped it. _Good_. Peter swayed a little to the side, away from Sylar as he walked by, close enough to reach out and grab because Peter was not very far from the door. But Peter's feet didn't move and neither did his hands. His head hardly turned either, holding himself still. If Sylar had wanted to press the fight, he'd have done it when he had a weapon in hand, not now. As angry as Peter was – and partly because he was so angry – he wanted the fight over. He probably wouldn't win it anyway with his hand messed up (not without resorting to something like the baseball bat, now lying unattended and available). Sylar passed by without incident to stalk off to wherever else he intended to go.

XXX

Sylar managed to walk in a straight line out the door, only half-heartedly expecting to get capped with the bat. _Rape, now. Wonderful. _He hadn't felt like dying today (not really), so he didn't push the big black button of Nathan; Claire was the other easiest target. Go figure it would come across as rape to the devoted and slightly infatuated do-good uncle.

_May as well have for all he thinks, god….No more tests for him. They just hurt._ All the more he was forced to remember that Peter was on the ignorant side of this…'partnership'. Sylar knew Peter, both as an enemy and a brother and something in between.

_Rape. Won't mom be proud_. He rumbled in his throat and banished the haunting idea. _/"You? You could never hurt anyone."/_

XXX

Peter took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders a little, working his right. He turned and picked up the bear with his left hand, looking it over briefly. He didn't want to leave it here. He looked over at the bat. _That_ he wanted to leave. He walked over and kicked it under the bed, then regretted it instantly. If Sylar looked back in here and it was gone…what would he think? _Dammit_. If he got down and crawled around to pull the damn thing out that would look even more suspicious. _Whatever. Just get out of here_. Carrying the bear, he walked out.

He felt a little ashamed to be carrying a stuffed bear. He thought it looked juvenile, or overprotective, or like he was seized of some irrational, displaced urge to protect and comfort one of Sylar's victims. Well, the latter at least was probably exactly what it was. He tried to tell himself he didn't give a shit about what Sylar thought.

XXX

_Good news is he won't kill you even he does believe a lie. That's just what you get for opening your mouth. Why tell him anything?_ Unfortunately he was painfully aware that he wasn't adept at keeping his mouth shut, censoring himself (hell, even wanting to) and that over the next hundred years he'd be coughing up more facts about himself than he had ever before.

If he'd had a therapist previous to this, he or she would probably drop dead from shock. He really had nothing to look forward to in that regard; hemorrhaging information about himself, secrets, regrets and fears; all the goddamn _damage_ he carried around that someone who hadn't read his file wouldn't know. _Fuck that_. _Just don't tell him anything_.

As a game plan he knew it sucked. Sylar weaved a line for the couch, collapsing on the cushions with an exhausted sigh. It was only then he allowed himself to catalogue his injuries. Pain itself was an afterthought but he just blinked down at his wrist already blooming with bruises, stiffening up. _Hyperextension_, he labeled dully. Nothing serious.

XXX

As he walked to the kitchen, he glanced at Sylar. Peter put the stuffed animal in his paper sack. He started cleaning himself up at the sink, wiping his face. His nose had pretty much stopped bleeding, but he couldn't breathe out of it and it had dripped down his shirt. His hand hurt. He felt it up a little bit. He was pretty sure there was something broken there, but it was starting to swell.

He sorted through the cabinets for painkillers, found some and…couldn't get the freaking child-proof lid off with one hand. It was one of those ultra-protective versions that required two hands, with a fair grip strength in both, to open it. Shit. He sorted around through the various other bottles of vitamins and children's fever reducers (also equipped with ridiculously aggressive caps), but this was it. He could hold it with his right, but not with enough pressure to keep it in place while he triggered those tabs with his left. Peter thought they'd pulled this style of cap off the market ten years before, but this wasn't the real world. If it hadn't been in keeping with the latches on the drawers he'd found earlier, he'd have thought the cap was some subconscious attempt of Sylar's mind to thwart him.

_Well, I'm not going to be thwarted__. _He frowned deeply at the bottle. The idea of getting that baseball bat and smashing it was very appealing. Or he could put it on the linoleum floor, put his foot on it and get it with his left. Or…taking up the bottle in his left hand, he looked around to see where Sylar was at the moment.

XXX

He moved on, rolling his shoulder, feeling only a sharp bruise that ached to move his arm up. _Bruising__._ He thought he'd tasted blood earlier, so he prodded his tongue around in his mouth for the cut, locating it, but his lips felt fine. Whether or not he had blood or cuts wasn't a priority, but he did feel around over his face to locate the deep-stinging bruises to the bones there. Then there was that balance problem…_ Mild concussion. What was he thinking with that? _That explained Peter's pained hand.

His back was tender and stiffening up as was his neck, doubtless he'd wrenched both with the bed. His ribs weren't hurt, but they did hurt. All he had was aches and pains and a serious headache. Once he'd finished with his assessment, he rested his elbows on his knees. _Why am I still sitting here waiting for the tour to continue?_ That pulled a frown from his tired face and if he could have rubbed it without pain, he would have. _Why do I feel like I lost the fight? _He settled for digging his fingers into his tangled hair as the word '_low_' echoed around in his ears.

He heard Peter moving around and glanced to see him carrying the bear into the kitchen. Sylar just closed his eyes and faced straight again, really trying not to consider that. For some reason that small gesture felt like a slap in the face, and it was probably intended as such.

Claire might be prone to keeping things from people, but she wasn't shy about laying sins at Sylar's door, surely everyone knew that? He'd been Nathan for god-knows how fucking long! She was still underage or looked it enough to be- _I'm not even considering this. That's just disgusting. It's like saying I touched Molly Walker when she was eight or however old._ He shook his head, sending pain shooting down his neck so he halted the action.

_Is this Hell for immortals?_

Sylar heard Peter clattering and huffing in the kitchen over a bottle of….pills, painkillers probably. 'Suicide isn't the answer, man!' his overactive brain insisted he utter, but he had no real desire to and didn't. Peter was taking this all surprisingly well; the whole 'new life without PEOPLE' thing. Aside from the fact that he was still _looking_ for his cubbyhole out of here. That was the point of this whole exploration.

Peter emerged moments later and approached him with, whaddya know, a bottle of pain killers. What made him look twice was the child lock, still closed in the man's swelling hand. Sylar's eyes rose slowly from the bottle up to the man's face, hesitant disbelief coming into his eyes. _Help? Me?_ _/"I'm not the savior kind."/_

Normally his first reaction would have been a quick mocking noise, possible laughter for someone failing to master something so simple, regardless of physical ability or pain. (He could just imagine it, too; Peter Petrell: boy wonder throughout the world for saving it above and beyond the call, foiled, not by Sylar, the monster, but by a child-locked bottle). The lack of sound coming from the man's dead watch grated on his sense with the concussion. He let out the breath he'd been unaware of holding; Peter's gesture, obviously genuine in its need, defusing Sylar's tension.

When Peter approached and handed him the bottle, gesturing to his hand by way of explanation they both knew Sylar didn't need. With bruised knuckles, he thumbed open the tab of the cap and handed Peter back the opened bottle. Thankful he'd left the bear in the kitchen. Again, the funny feeling ran down his spine to his stomach.

Sylar had initiated, insulted and insinuated, forcing Peter to act; he'd then been injured in doing so trying to hurt Sylar. Peter, the fearless mouse, then asking in such a diplomatic way, for assistance for such an obvious reason….He didn't like that spiral feeling in his gut. Never had. So he ignored it.

He looked up at the medic, eyes reading ashamed as he dropped them quickly; the urge to apologize hanging on his lips.

This was really going to take some getting used to. Being safe with a man he'd so badly wronged; the same man who wouldn't kill him even with just cause and weapons under provocation. _Safe_. He nearly laughed at himself.


	8. Aftercare and Naptime

Day 5

Peter took the bottle and rattled the pills in it. He considered just walking back to the kitchen, but it occurred to him that Sylar was not in the best of shape either. The look the other man gave him - something other than sneering arrogance, cemented it. "Do you want some?"

He watched as Sylar took a single pill and Peter held his tongue about the quantity. One pill for an adult male of his size would have a negligible effect. It was hardly worth taking at all. Was Sylar trying to appear stoic and unmoved by pain? If so, then why take even one? Was he only taking one to be polite, because Peter offered? That seemed odd, but it was an odd moment. Peter didn't question it - it was Sylar's business, not his. Instead he said grudgingly, "I'll get you some water in a little bit." He turned and went back to the kitchen, favoring one leg.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the offer, a little stunned on top of his head injury. He was having instant and real difficulty deciphering the meaning behind it. _Is he saying I'm weak? That he beat me? That he wants to be friends or put this behind us? Certainly he's not forgiving me for anything. Maybe it's a Hunger reference._

_/'I guess I'm like an addict. It's like a drug you can't enough of.'/_

"Oh…uh, thanks," he said quietly after a pause. He managed to grab out a pill from the tiny bottle. Almost as soon as he'd done so, his companion had turned away, saying something about water for him. Sylar was left to blink at the man's back, his mouth open to protest that he didn't need it. Oh, well. Maybe he could drink it for hydration purposes; he had just gotten a thorough, uh, workout as it were. That's what it was.

XXX

Peter had a lot of puttering around to do and various muscles and sore spots were protesting now that he didn't have as much adrenalin coursing through his system. He got himself a glass of water and washed down triple the standard dose. The only thing he had to be concerned about was nausea or stomachache if taken on an empty stomach. He washed his face again, blew his nose, waited while the residual, secondary bleeding stopped, and washed again. His wrist was really swollen by now, which was part of why he'd handled the other self-care first. He located the sealing storage bags he'd seen in the drawers earlier and fumbled one under the ice dispenser in the door of the fridge. A few moments later, he had a bag of ice and a couple stray cubes on the floor. He kicked them out of the way.

XXX

Peter was opening and closing the freezer, scrabbling around in plastic bags with what sounded like ice. _Ugh, ice_…That sounded good right now. However, he didn't move into the kitchen or risk upsetting Peter's space; the guy probably had his own routine for cleanup and he didn't feel like disturbing it. The only move Sylar made was to toss back and swallow the pill, wincing as he did and not from the lack of water or taste of the powder on the pill.

_/'Drugs and pills are the devil's work, Gabriel. Don't ever fall into them; only misery and death and destruction come from that kind of…living,' he remembered his mother, foster mother, Virginia, saying to him at the tender young age of eight. Someone a few floors up in their apartment complex had just O.D'd. He only knew that because his mother had asked the EMTs who came for Mrs. Ellens._

_And he only knew what an overdose was from biology class and reading. He caught himself wondering what it felt like. He was beginning to suspect Virginia needed some pills herself. He remembered hearing the speech multiple times; any time he had a headache, his mother would start up again on the sin that was pills, whether he wanted them or not. Mostly he knew they couldn't afford them. "They will lead you into Hell and God will not see you."/ Funny, I'm already in Hell._

_Oh, those were the days_, he mused next and he stared and picked at his knuckles.

XXX

Peter looked at the bag blankly, then at the box of bags. Sylar was hurt too and as much as a part of his brain said, _Good - the bastard deserves it,_ another part was much less bloodthirsty. He _wanted_ to help people and it wasn't like his patients had to pass much in the way of an entrance exam to qualify. Human? Check. Alive or recently so? Check. Good to go.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd treated a patient who'd slugged him, wrestled with him or even tried to kill him. The worst he'd had to deal with was a mechanic with carbon monoxide poisoning and a crowbar - clearly impaired and dangerous, clearly needing to be subdued and treated. He'd had a hard time talking the cops out of shooting the man. Once he and Hesam had managed to get the crowbar away from him through a combination of coaxing and sleight of hand; though the police had moved in, the man had gone berserk at the betrayal and all hell had broken loose.

There was hardly any more effort involved in making two ice packs as there was in one. He snagged another bag and filled it halfway, as he'd done with the first, then sealed it shut. He grabbed a couple kitchen towels to wrap them in and started back, then remembered the water. He got a new glass down, filled it and set it aside. He dug out the cracker sandwich set and put it in a pocket, then gathered up the ice packs and towels between his right forearm and body, carrying the water in his left.

He looked at Sylar very briefly, then away, and offered him the glass. "Here." He was trying to be sensitive to the fact that Sylar probably didn't want his help, but he'd also noticed the man hadn't actually _left_. Surely that meant something, didn't it?

XXX

Peter returned moments later balancing ice and towels and extending a glass of water towards him. _Kindness_, his mind supported randomly; _he's being __kind_. "Thank you, Peter," he forced himself to say, taking the glass in hand; almost embarrassed now that the man would do something like that when it was difficult for the more injured medico.

His mind still tripped over the idea of kindness after that kind of intentional incident. _God, it was just a glass of water, why was it such an unheard of thing? Because you're not used to people_, he answered himself, _and people aren't used to you_. Maybe Peter did believe him about the rock in their collective shoe, was that even possible? Surely a man who felt his niece's rapist sat in the next room wouldn't bring said supposed offender a glass of water.

Somewhere in his long buried conscience, the words bubbled up, "I'm sorry," was his low murmur. Unsure of the reaction that would garner, he kept quiet and took a sip of the cool water and fiddled with the glass; tracing the decorative ridges with careful fingers, he eyed the condensation.

XXX

Sylar said something indistinct as Peter took one of the towel-wrapped ice packs and set it on the end table next to the other man. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but it certainly wasn't an insult. It sounded a lot like an apology. Peter was angry, and accepting, both at the same time. Regardless of the anger he was deeply relieved to hear what was probably an acknowledgment that deliberately pissing one another off was a bad idea. He didn't respond directly, letting the probably-an-apology stand without drawing attention to it. He gave a single nod and limped over to the easy chair.

He started to settle himself into it, heard a crinkling and paused to remove the crackers from his pocket. He set them on the arm of the chair and sank into it. He breathed out a long sigh, letting, forcing, himself to relax. He shifted the remaining ice pack down to his wrist, arranging it carefully.

XXX

The instant before he apologized, the medic had set one of the two ice packs on the side table next to Sylar. That drew his attention more than any words Peter could have spoken. 'Fuck you', 'you're insane', 'enjoy hell, rapist' or even 'die alone'. All things he wouldn't have batted an eye over (not really).

Peter Petrelli had made him an ice pack. Sylar didn't move a single sore muscle towards it other than to stare first at it, then at Peter's moving back, then back to the ice. Peter heaved himself into a chair, melting into it as if he were trying to cover it with his limbs like a blanket after removing the cracker pack; the man releasing a sigh similar to a less-noisy helium balloon for volume.

_I don't know about the average familial kitchen, but I don't think he had time to make a bomb or put liquid nitrogen in it…_ He glanced back at the towel that rested over the seemingly innocent ice packet. That kind of speculation was a moot point; Sylar knew it was safe; it was a fucking ice pack for goodness sake; but it was kind of ingrained in him. Sylar glanced and nodded at Peter's hand as he began to place the ice packet (through a towel of course) onto the delicate phalanges, "You're gonna need help taping that," he subtly offered in return.

XXX

He glanced up at Sylar's words, clearer this time. _He's offering to help me. I shouldn't turn him down. I should let him help_. The idea of letting Sylar do something more involved than stand still while Peter touched his shoulder was a little…scary? Well, maybe that wasn't the right word, because his feelings were born of the same reluctance as his lack of desire to let Sylar fix him lunch. Resentment - maybe that was a better description.

"Yeah," he said vaguely, committing to nothing yet. "We shouldn't do anything until the swelling goes down a little though." _'__We'_ - so was he going to let him help? Was he going to let Sylar handle an injury of his? He made a rough grumbling noise in his throat and leaned back in the chair, shutting his eyes. _Let's see if we can get through a half hour or so without trying to kill each other - metaphorically, that is._

Eyes still shut, Peter gently manipulated his right hand with his left, figuring out what was wrong_. __Fourth metacarpal - boxer's fracture, bar room fracture. Well, at least I don't need a cast, or…probably don't need pinning. I wonder if I could get an x-ray machine to work?_ He worried about how clean the break was. Even if it was relatively clean, responded well to taping and he managed not to re-injure it, this was going to take weeks to heal. He stopped messing with the injury and gave some thought to his other hurts.

XXX

Peter addressed his offer, giving a tentative 'yes' or so Sylar took it to be, but then followed it up with a more negative noise, settling in. He watched, interested, as he saw his enemy and only companion close his eyes in his presence, something he would have deemed impossible and unheard of. And it was unheard of. No one ever so much as blinked when he was around, especially the big hazel eyes that were now shut, blissful physically, but hiding troubled thoughts.

Sylar nursed the glass of water slowly as he forced his eyes away from just drinking in the sight of _someone_. A someone he'd hit and bruised up inside by beating him down, wearing him down over the years and finally shredded the man's heart up by killing his brother. _Self-defense_. He'd just finished toying with the man and he was met with a kind act, not once but twice.

XXX

Peter's face was banged up pretty hard, having been hit at least three times and pretty solidly every time. He didn't feel disoriented, but his neck felt strained. Then of course he was limping a little from being kicked in the upper thigh, his scalp hurt where his hair had been yanked and his neck also hurt at the joint of his right shoulder - a pressure point Sylar had punched. He frowned and rotated the joint a little, as he could without moving his right hand. His face was feeling…full, he guessed the right term was.

_I've been here, what? Five days? At this rate I won't need to worry about the hand. I'll manage to kill myself long before._ He sighed again, realizing suddenly that he was sitting in a room with Sylar with his freaking eyes shut. They snapped open and he looked over at the man, then shut them with a tiny grunt. _Calm down, idiot. Just calm down._

"How are you doing, man?" he asked, opening his eyes just a little to regard his companion.

XXX

Only glancing as Peter moved his shoulder around, Sylar was leaning over and reaching out for the proffered ice pack when Peter's eyes shot open and he started, jarring his entire body painfully. His hand jerked and he swiftly pulled it back, rubbing it over his jean-clad knee, desperate to act as if he hadn't done something wrong. How much of his reaction Peter witnessed, he wasn't sure, but a few drops of water had made it onto his other leg from the glass.

_Yeah, there it was. What would my nerves do without this jumpy tension, I do wonder_; he thought without amusement, barring his ever-present gallows humor. _Certainly be less clumsy_. Peter spoke up, but it was not anything he expected to hear from him or anyone. 'How are you doing, man?' Such a simple question and it had a visible impact on him, his eyes widening as he straightened a little. _Completely unworthy of such a question, that's why you've barely ever heard it_, he concluded without self-pity.

"Did….did you hit your head, Peter? Or…I mean…." His voice trailed off as he frowned a little at the lounging man, unsure of the angle he half-suspected was being played. That immediately had him on alert, but he knew if he acted on it he would set Peter off and they'd just gotten comfortable; neither one in any condition to go another round, even verbally.

Shaking his head at Peter, he thought he heard his muscles creaking as he pivoted, _slowly_ on his butt to toss his legs up onto the cushions, lying back, wincing as his tender scalp hit the couch's decorative pillow. Shifting to adjust around the injury, he placed one hand under his neck for support, balancing the partly-full glass on his stomach, staring at it. _Because if he can get comfortable, so can I_.

What he wanted to figure out was why the question still bothered him so much.

XXX

Peter snorted slightly and smiled just a little. His face hurt at the expression. He spoke slowly, saying, "No. I hit _yours_. It's kind of hard. Guess I shouldn't have done that." He kept smiling at the humor. _I was aiming for your ear, after all. Still a stupid place to try to hit someone with my arm messed up, but it wasn't like I had much of a chance to think it through. I wonder if he has a concussion?_

"So we heal normal speed here, huh?" He knew the answer to this, as the blisters on his feet and the soreness in his back and legs - that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with his insane, marathon wandering of the past few days - attested to. "That's gonna suck." _More for me than you, unless I miss my guess_.

XXX

Sylar remained quiet as Peter spoke of punching his head; the smile after his words left him wondering exactly what it was for. _Probably something quite painful_. He felt nausea roiling in his stomach and he turned his head to the side in case he did have to throw up; his face paling like Virginia always said it did when he was sick.

"Yeah, normal speed," Sylar eventually addressed the question about healing; the one Peter had no need to ask, surely. Like that time he'd sliced into his thumb cutting up dinner. It had bled nastily even through the band-aid, stinging in hot water making showers a little tricky. It had followed the rules he knew in regards to cellular growth, the normal kind that is. "Hmm."

Sore throats, headaches, aches and pains, stubbed toes- they all followed the rules and Peter's hand would be no exception, nor would Sylar's concussion. Peter was awfully chatty, but he recognized the need; he recognized what made him do it, too; the man was looking to cope and what better way for an empath to do that then reach out…sort of.

XXX

Peter saw Sylar pale and become slightly diaphoretic. _Yep, concussion. Probably best for him to just stay still for a while and get his bearings._ He glanced around surreptitiously for a trash can. He spotted one just behind the end table that was now behind Sylar's head. Peter rose carefully, walked over to it and moved it next to the couch. He glanced at the ice pack and wondered at that. He was a little annoyed by it and a little hurt. Annoyed because Peter could use it; he'd gotten it for Sylar and the other man hadn't even touched it. Hurt because he really did want to help – not so much hurt because he was unappreciated, but hurt because he knew Sylar was in more pain than he would be otherwise for not using it.

He thought back about the fight. Sylar had been trying to start something. What the hell did he expect Peter to do? Stand there and snark off at him? It wasn't one of Peter's skills. But no, leaving the ice pack was probably because Sylar was as reluctant to accept help of him as Peter was of the killer. Oddly, Peter felt a little guilty that he wasn't the companion Sylar wanted – whatever or whoever that might be. He had no idea what Sylar wanted in people, or friends, as traits. If they didn't have abilities, then did he even have any use for them? He sure seemed desperate to be around Peter. And they certainly rubbed each other the wrong way. Peter went back to his seat and settled in again.

XXX

Lazily Sylar watched the man way less carefully than he probably should have as he stood and grabbed up something near the head of the couch to set it closer to him on the floor. At the angle he lay at, he couldn't tell what it was. But, gosh, Peter moving around was not helping his stomach; he just breathed and swallowed the bile that kept trying to rise in his mouth.

Peter seemed to be more mobile if in more pain so he tracked his motions with glassy eyes, trying to readjust his head to be comfortable around his bruising scalp. Since he was left to stare at the ice pack, he actually began to consider why he hadn't utilized it, the real reason, if he had any. Um…spite looked to be the most probable cause. Would it be awkward to move for it again now?

XXX

Peter shifted the ice pack further down so it covered both wrist and hand. The wrist wasn't swelling as much as he'd expected. His mind played back through the times he'd seen others with similar injuries. Physical responses covered such a range that it really wasn't useful. He thought about the last time he'd been hurt badly. _Hey, he probably doesn't know this:_"I got shot in the chest a few weeks ago. Claire wouldn't let me take her healing at first. It kind of gave me a scare." He was trying to make conversation. He reviewed the incident a few times in his mind, trying to think of how and if Sylar could use the information against him. That he couldn't think of anything wasn't all that comforting, but he didn't have many conversational topics that Sylar wouldn't already be informed about from Nathan's memories.

"It made me think about how much I take for granted. I knew she was there. I would have never," his body shook with a couple brief chuckles and no more because laughing hurt - there was a knot in his back where Sylar had jabbed him with an elbow, "I would have never jumped in front of that bullet if I thought she wouldn't help me." _Not that I wouldn't have still tried to stop the shooter. I just would have tried something different__._ "I was having a really bad day," he said dryly. That had been the day of Nathan's funeral.

XXX

Sylar nodded slowly, just absorbing for the moment, formulating his response if any was desired or needed. _Why'd he get shot in the chest? He's not SWAT team, but maybe he missed his calling_. Peter's chuckling was pleasant to hear and he wondered if this was what normal men did; rather, men with friends. Buddies. _Just…sit around and talk about what they've done? Probably not what they'd do differently, but still._

Dark eyes watched Peter carefully and casually, without any hidden agenda or malice, just looked at him. _Of course, he's not really opening up. He's…trying to create a stepping stone between us, I think_.

_Claire wouldn't let YOU take her power?_ That got his attention, but he wanted to point out how hard he'd had to work to get the same ability Peter had on tap - Claire's. Three years he'd hunted her down and in the end, he'd been rather gentle about taking her ability from her. That would only spark the 'you're a monster and she's my niece, duh,' age-old argument. But he did feel the need to….add something to the….'exchange' that Peter presented.

Somehow the man's words just made him angry. 'I was having a bad day. How much I take for granted'. Oh, he was having a bad day? How about how much the man had to take for granted in the first place? His ability didn't eat him alive and force him to drench his soul in blood. He hadn't been tortured in a Company cell for a woman who would never tell him he was 'okay' because of an ability he'd longed for but had gone so wrong; the ability he couldn't control.

His mother never pushed him to become something he wasn't (Arthur may have, but Gabriel hadn't had a father so it probably evened out). He hadn't been sold like a car or a dog by his father when he was a kid, living his life trapped down to a mentally unstable woman who he couldn't leave. He had a loving big brother to take care of him and to talk with, to grow up with and learn things, do things with. He had money, a big house, any education he could point his finger at, pets at his whim, he had social skills, friends, coworkers….

_I've only had to bleed and murder to get….well, none of that_. And that was the point, wasn't it? He, Sylar, fell short again.

"Rough time," he grated out, anger making his throat tight, but importantly he kept his mouth shut even if the effort made him want to shove the ice pack down Peter's throat for spite. Closing his eyes, Sylar just rubbed at his eye sockets, hissing as he hit a solid bruise there. _Oh, the people skills_, he sighed. Peter put his damn self in the way of any bullet headed for an innocent, so Sylar was completely devoid of pity.

XXX

Peter felt a deep, rending ache for Nathan. He almost wished his brother was still alive inside of Sylar somehow, that he'd come into this mental prison to find some reminder of Nathan, some shred of possibility that he was really still in there, that his soul hadn't passed on and that had just been Sylar lying to him. But he'd seen no sign whatsoever of his presence, except for Sylar occasionally calling him 'Pete' and letting slip that he knew more than he had any right to know. That whole stuffed bear thing was layered with things other than just the rhyme between 'Claire' and 'bear.'

If Nathan was still in there, then surely there would have been some indication. Peter's face fell into sadness. He shut his eyes and waited for the emotion to pass. There was nothing else to do about it, because beating the crap out of Sylar - in addition to being easier said than done - wasn't helpful. (He wouldn't deny it wasn't satisfying, though.)

XXX

Sylar did catch the wave of grief that suddenly seeped into Peter's face, so he looked away to give him his moment, not calling attention to it or speaking just yet. Mostly he longed to avoid and bury that little incident.

He decided to inject; "I got stabbed in the eye with a pencil a few years ago. For a woman she's not a great sounding board." Subtly mentioning _years_, not weeks, making current tenses of Claire but leaving out the part about his mini-quest that became…something more serious that somehow landed him here. _Help_. Hell, he'd gone just about anywhere he could go and ended up, coincidentally and karmatically in Hell.

_I had my throat cut for a woman I thought I could be with after she twisted me around her finger and led me to murder a second time. I really did die_. _I was killed slowly and in ways totally against the Geneva Convention over a period of weeks just to be able to tell my mom 'I'm special'_. _I died then._ _I've been brain-raped into being someone I hate and disrespect, someone who hunted me down so I could be your big brother_. _I pulled myself out of his grav_e. The more he thought of it, the less he liked the topic.

He'd sold his soul for a pair of women, out of the hopes of gaining some understanding, acceptance and possibly love, or at least the acknowledgment of it, a sign of capacity for it. Maybe just some flat out hope. He'd died so many times he'd lost count; painful, quick, bloody, slow, close-up with guns, powers, hands, drugs and other medical implements, coming close with a noose once. _Gee, Peter, did you know that one?_

XXX

"She stabbed you in the eye with a pencil?" He snorted, then winced and touched his nose. He glanced around._ I really should have gotten some tissues, too._ Luckily, it didn't start bleeding again. '_Years ago.' Could have been when he got her ability to start with. Could have been at the Stanton. Could have been some other time._

He didn't have much to say beyond that, thinking it over, thinking about Claire and how she was coping, having lost a father she'd hardly spent any time with. And apparently, things between her and Noah had become quite strained because of the whole situation. Peter couldn't say he didn't understand. Noah deserved a good fist to the face, too. He suspected that was something Sylar could get behind. He mulled the possible conversational topic around in his head, trying to figure out something they could talk about, something emotionally invested, that wouldn't set either of them off. Common ground, so to speak.

XXX

Sylar snorted a chuckle himself at Peter's snort before having to check his nose, the jolt ran through him and it turned his stomach. "Yup," he intoned after swallowing, recovering; simultaneously wondering if Peter was asking for details or not; heck, maybe the social etiquette for dealing with someone who was formerly your enemy in a civilized conversation. "I pointed out that we're similar and she didn't fancy the idea. Small wonder," he was making light of the situation and nixing the part about holding her down to make his damn point…. Was he supposed to frisk the bitch down for fucking trophies, butcher knives, pieces of glass and now pencils?

He reviewed the previous depressing topic—Claire, dying or being shot/stabbed, the out-and-out filthy struggle for survival in life, the desperation to please and the failures therein. In the back of his mind he knew he was extremely jaded by the past six years, but they had more lingering effects than the other thirty. That prompted a question from him. "Death bothers you, doesn't it? Your own and in general," he clarified so it didn't sound like he was talking about Petrellis Past, Nathan and Arthur.

Union Wells, Mohinder's apartment, and Kirby were the times Sylar recalled seeing Peter 'die'. Never stopped the fool-hardy medic; it barely gave him pause. The man was about as resilient as he was; the creepy cockroach power matched by the seemingly nuclear one (no pun intended) of the do-right empath. And that's why he was the ideal nemesis, if he dared use the cliché Hiro-geek word. _How many times has Peter actually died_? He wondered at that.

XXX

Peter's eyes flew fully open at Sylar's question about death and he looked at the man very intently, alert for a moment. His lips moved, but he quelled it without speaking. That was quite a question and oddly deep for the small talk Peter had been aiming at. He didn't want to just lip off the first thing that came to mind, which was '_Of course it does_.' He settled back and stared off into the middle distance, his brows pulling together a bit. Obviously, he was thinking it over.

XXX

Sylar glanced at Peter as they made eye contact, his expression about as bland as he could keep it, the alternative being a sick, nauseous look; he was careful not to tense a single muscle (anymore than they were already). It was almost a Nathan question. _/__/"Takin' care of dead people?" "They're not dead; they're dying; and I think its noble." His then-wife had piped up in Pete's defense, earning a pointed thanks towards her from his baby brother. "What's it pay?" He'd asked so long ago./ _Peter was obviously thinking about it and that meant he would be getting a genuine answer, not something quick and cheap.

XXX

Finally Peter said, "Death doesn't bother me. If it did, I wouldn't do the things I do or take the risks I take. What bothers me is pointlessness and misery, when people take the gifts they've been given – time, money, influence, power, or powers – and do bad things with them." He didn't want that to sound like an accusation of Sylar because it wasn't. Honestly, he laid more blame at Nathan's feet than anyone else's for misusing what he'd had in his life. The man had had everything and he'd thrown it away. If he hadn't had another hare-brained idea to confront Sylar directly and physically, then he'd probably still be alive. Peter sighed. Of course he was to blame too for going along with it.

And what he'd said sounded like an accusation anyway, he knew, so he softened his voice a little and decided to try begging. "Please don't argue with me. You asked a question; I answered. I wasn't meaning it about _you_, particularly. As a philosophy, it's probably more full of holes than a colander but there isn't much I can do about that." He wasn't a great debater or arguer. He had too many memories of being argued down by his father – eventually Peter had learned to listen to him sullenly and say nothing, a characteristic look of long-suffering disgust on his face. His father would wind down, order Peter to do things his way, and stalk off. After a beat he added, "Claire told me once about dying: it's no big deal." He smiled, even though it hurt.

He reached over and picked up the cracker pack, opening it slowly, which made the crinkling of the cellophane seem louder than it was.

XXX

Peter spoke his piece and Sylar hummed at first before a muscle in his eye twitched and his stomach heaved a little inside as he beat down the desire to lunge at Peter just for saying that, not particularly out of anger either. The same could so easily be applied to precious fucking_ Nathan_, too! The former senator-navy-boy had squandered everything in his life, probably for the right, completely misguided reasons.

He just nodded as Peter clarified his belief, rather his view on death of all lovely topics. So long as it hadn't been aimed at him, he had no trouble letting the man do or believe his thing as he pleased. It wasn't something that they would be back at each other's throats for or anything. Sylar was immortal and he'd moved his kill spot so he had no worries about it, which probably removed him emotionally from it anyway. Not that he was close to people enough to notice their lives in misery.

He knew he'd once been miserable and hadn't had much of a life and that's what prompted his next words. "I actually agree with you," he stated simply. It was actually probably the reason his Hunger made him collect abilities from those who wasted them. Unfortunately it didn't evolve into the helpful role he might wish it to be.

Heroes were special right? He hadn't been born with a handy ability like empathy, not like Virginia would have bought that at all; '_Empathy? Oh, you don't need anything like that. Stop being silly and focus on these job openings at the bank…_' He could hear her pitchy voice now. Empathy wasn't flashy, but it did help people. It would get him friends, right_? __Yeah_, so _not what Mom wanted_. Important. Prestigious. Powerful (well, he had that). All that, provided he chained his ankle to Mom.

Even if he got empathy, it wouldn't do any good. He'd managed it a time or two (women he could get close enough to kiss seemed to be easiest, the only ones thus far) and it hadn't sated his Hunger because he didn't know how they worked. Peter had had it and he'd still tried to kill his mother. _Such a romantic, predictable cycle_. Really, if he killed a few dozen people for the greater good of a million or so, would he be forgiven or praised? That was such a slim chance; he supposed it was a good thing he didn't have to chance it.

"I suppose it depends what Claire believes, religiously. Cheerleader, probably hasn't been alive long enough to do anything amazingly sinful or wrong, so she might very well not have a-" Peter began to open the…fucking packet of crackers. The noise assaulted him first, scraping over his ears, tender from nausea, but what did him in was the smell.

He could smell the crackers and for some reason it turned his guts for the last time. Sylar yanked himself quickly to roll and lean over the couch cushion he lay on to heave breakfast into a trash can he saw (one that Peter must have placed there earlier), before his eyes shut and he vomited, thinking, _Oh, god; I hate this_.

XXX

Peter examined the cracker sandwich – a couple of toasted, round crackers with what was supposed to be peanut butter between them. It resembled peanut butter, at least. It was probably a close cousin. He popped one in his mouth and looked back over to see if Sylar was going to finish his sentence. _Claire __might not have a what?_ About then the other man rolled over and lost it into the trash can, causing Peter's own stomach to clench sympathetically. He took an immediate deep breath and shifted his ice pack off to the side, leaning forward and putting it on the arm of the recliner. He forced himself to swallow the cracker and waited a beat until Sylar began his second heave. Peter got to his feet.

He hobbled to the kitchen and dug out another towel, sticking it under the water dispenser in the fridge door because that was quick and didn't require two hands. A little water on the floor was not a problem (although a distant part of his brain began to calculate the slipping hazard he was creating here). He switched the now-wet towel to his right and grabbed the roll of paper towels hanging from under the upper cabinets. He yanked it down, not caring too much if he damaged the holder. No one lived here. The only person who mattered around here needed the towels right now. He walked back out.

He knelt slowly next to the trash can, a little awkwardly because the muscle in his thigh spasmed and complained about the flexion. He ignored it and waited to be noticed and acknowledged, not wanting to rush the other man. He'd noticed Sylar was messed up more than just a knot on his head and a collection of bruises, but Peter wasn't in much better shape. He'd thought – and still did – that the best treatment was rest and calming down. There wasn't much to be done, otherwise, and like the nausea all there was to do was let it pass, provide comfort and treat symptomatically. He held the hand towel in his left and waited for eye contact.

XXX

Once Sylar had finished upchucking, hating the feeling intensely as always, he spat into the trash can, noting Peter's sudden proximity. _Whoa_. In his hand, he held a wet towel and a roll of paper towels. He did his best to come up with some sort of threat the items could hold, but he failed to divine one. Instantly, he looked up into Peter's face as he spoke, blinking and clearing his head by turning it back and forth slightly as if he were trying to remain awake. He wasn't about to pass out, but he might fall asleep just from tiredness. The atmospheric shift involved with vomiting sending his headache into the hideous monster category.

XXX

Peter tried to ignore the smell of bile and the discontent roiling of his own stomach. Despite the odor, he took in quick breaths to hold his reaction at bay and distracted himself by running down a quick checklist of symptoms for minor traumatic brain injury. Sylar didn't seem confused or emotional. He wasn't perseverating and his conversation had been clear, not disoriented. Peter didn't think there anything all that severe or treatable going on here, but he wanted to get a good look at Sylar's eyes just in case. _What I wouldn't give for a pen light. I need to get together a medical bag. Yeah__,_ he said to himself in his head, _while that's not a bad idea, what I __**need**__ to do is quit beating the crap out of him. Of course it would help if he wasn't picking fights. If he wasn't who he was. _Sarcastically his mind enjoined, _Me and Sylar. Been here less than a week and we're already both beat bloody and messed up._

When the other man finally looked up at him, Peter offered the towel and said quietly, "Sylar, will you let me take a look at you? I want to check your eyes for uneven pupil dilation and check your scalp where I hit you." He spoke slowly, very aware that less than a half hour before he'd been the one hitting this man, inflicting the very injuries he was now asking to examine. He was sensitive to that, and aware that concussion victims were often irritable. These things combined (and of course that this was Sylar he was talking to), Peter wouldn't have been surprised if the man tried to hit him again. He was aware he was in range. He leaned back a little, raising the towel again. It put his left hand up where he could try to block with it if that happened. This time, he had no intention of striking back.

XXX

Sylar managed a light frown in the face of 'will you let me take a look at you?' Then it hit him why Peter would ask to examine him; the words otherwise failing a connection to his logic. "Oh…Amanda, huh? That's why." That was the only reason Peter would want to help, wasn't it? The man still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Sylar was the only other thing alive here. But he really didn't think that fact would stop the medic from drastic and potentially homicidal actions.

Then again….Peter had stopped earlier when he'd had Sylar dead to rights with the gun. Peter….Peter wouldn't be subtle if he did try anything, he knew; no poisons or cutting Sylar's wrists in his sleep. The non-murderer would probably prefer something at a distance; something cold and detached, not close-in and hands-on. Touching the person and watching the lights go out of the eyes and feeling the heartbeat falter, then slow and stop wasn't Petrelli's style. He couldn't handle something like that. Sylar gently and slowly took the towel and swiped it over his face, setting it aside again, nodding his thanks.

XXX

Peter watched the other man closely as he rose from the trash can. Sylar's answer to Peter's question made no sense at all. Internally, Peter revised, _Okay, not coherent __**now**__._ That made him cautious, because a rational person was much more likely to signal an attack. One who was impaired was less predictable.

XXX

Sylar couldn't get his mind completely around the fact that Peter would set aside his justified revenge to save someone (and/or hundreds or thousands of innocents) using Sylar as his plot of choice. Empathy must play a part in resisting temptation like that. _Go figure. He's a fucking white knight in shining armor. Peter, your brain is definitely broken; you make no sense._

He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, his stomach still squirming around, but he had nothing left in it to cause problems. "If touching me is all you wanted, you didn't have to hit me," Sylar teased him, his expression showing gentle amusement in his sarcasm, looking away to show he wasn't serious. _Probably why he became a nurse in the first place_, he mused absentmindedly.

He then faced Peter directly, keeping his eyes open sufficiently, "You won't find anything serious in there. It's only a mild one." The smell of Peter (and crackers) close up wasn't a pleasant thing, but it was another person in this Hell, so he was grateful to a degree. If only said smell didn't make him want to hurl again, he'd be that much happier. Then again, he knew he probably smelled now, too, and smelled worse. He sighed as Peter moved in to gently peel his eyelid back and lean in close, professional and removed as ever, to peer into his pupil, repeating the process with the other.

It wasn't as uncomfortable as it could have (perhaps should have) been. The last time someone had checked his eyes like that had been….in a Company cell and he'd been dead/dying.

XXX

Peter started to get his back up about the 'touching' comment. _That had __**nothing**__ to do with it! Wait, incoherent again_. He calmed and put on his best paramedic smile, put aside his bristling and exchanged it smoothly for amused agreement. "Well, then, just let me take a look." He shifted the trash can out from between them and examined Sylar's eyes - brown, clear, and healthy. _Nice eyes._ _If I had a light I might be able to tell if he had much brain swelling. There's got to be a flashlight around here somewhere._

XXX

Sylar managed to roll his eyes at Peter buying his punch line. ""M joking, man," he murmured, "I'm not a child," he couldn't resist a slight chuckle at the empath's gullibility. Once Peter removed his hands, he made to lie back down, but his companion reached for the back of his head and it took everything in him not to react badly to that one.

_/'C'mon, Nathan, I know you're in there…'/_

Sylar settled for looking along down his body, staring at his toes, leaving his head turned so Peter could see and touch his scalp. For some reason hair was horribly intimate and having the EMT touching it finally made him uncomfortable. Doctors, Matt, Peter, Mohinder, Angela, Chandra, even his mother had all left something to be desired when it came to that having his head touched; but he kept very quiet while Peter poked and prodded painfully at his skull and scalp. He noted the irony of the gesture. The head was a very special place because it housed the all-important brain. The whole sum of a person was in there. Someone once said _'__We are only what we remember.'_ And sometimes near- eidetic memory (and clairvoyant memory) just sucked.

He remembered having his life sucked away by the hands currently on his scalp and it had been a headache unrivaled by the current one.

XXX

Peter slid his hand into the man's hair, tightening his lips. His body tensed and he noticed that Sylar's did, too. Peter had done this to hundreds of patients. But doing it to _Sylar_ came with emotional baggage. It reminded him of crouching beside and over the man - also in the aftermath of a fight. One hand had cradled the back of his head, the other on his forehead, forcing what he was out of him no differently than his mother had had Matt Parkman do. He'd killed him more intimately than if he'd strangled him, what with the glimpses of Sylar's past and the fleeting impression of memories as Peter had drained them out of the other man. It was as premeditated as it could be. He'd called on Rene for both facets of his ability, always expecting that he'd have to use it that way, glad actually that Sylar hadn't taken his spurious 'offer.' Peter hadn't intended him to.

He remembered seeing Mohinder grab the sides of Sylar's head and bash it on the concrete floor at Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for his 'brother' then - an unexpected moment of loyalty when Peter's own father had turned against him. If Sylar had truly been on Arthur's side, he never would have come back for Peter. It was odd - where Sylar had placed himself in that struggle. He'd been told he was family and believed it. He seemed taken by Angela, but it was Peter he'd reached out to several times in different ways. He'd never so much as spoken to Nathan and he'd turned on his 'father', Arthur, more than once. _What to make of that? The only person he treated like family was me. And I didn't even believe he was._

XXX

Hissing sharply through gritted teeth, he kept his eyes closed and his noises to a minimum as Peter massaged the large, delicate bruise on his skull, feeling the rise of flesh from the bones. _Fuck, that hurt, forgot how much that hurts_. _Hands in the hair feels nice…any contact kind of does, actually. It's like remembering I'm 'human' for the billionth time now. Have to ignore it._ That kind of thinking brought danger in its wake. (He refused to allow the heady feeling from the unadulterated contact that had nothing to do with the injury. His heart beat faster because of it all).

Once the medic was apparently satisfied enough, he pulled his hands away. He'd noticed Peter's defensive arm in place earlier, but he hadn't acknowledged it. "We should just limp home, man. Get some rest for a bit," he suggested. It was an easy way for both of them to tend their hurts and feel safe in their own apartments. And if he didn't get moving he would most likely fall dead asleep there on the couch.

XXX

Peter felt of the knot that had already formed under Sylar's scalp. Peter ran his fingers through the hair around it and confirmed there was no bleeding. The subdermal hematoma wasn't bad. Peter pulled his hands away and Sylar settled back, arranging himself for rest even as he insisted they should go back to their respective apartments. Peter picked up the ice pack and continued to speak in his paramedic voice - even, calm and friendly with a steady smile. "Yeah? How about we just stay here for now. It's morning. There's no hurry. Here's just as good as any other place. Now raise up a little and let's put this ice pack on the side of your head there. It'll hold the swelling down."

Surely Sylar knew that, but why he'd spurned it earlier was uncertain. If he was having cognitive problems though, then it didn't have to make sense.

XXX

Opening his eyes at the sound of the ice pack being handled, not looking at it but at Peter as he raised his head to allow the medic to place it against his concussed cranium. "Hmm…'K." _Oh, that's it, force the ice pack on me, why don't you? _He had to hold back another fit of chuckling as his over-active imagination went wild with images on the subject. Peter told him to keep still, so he answered with "No problem," and finally diverted his gaze away.

Honestly, the doctor smile had always creeped him out because it always spelled bad news. You're dying, you have cancer, your left foot has to be amputated, this will only sting for- And on Peter (not a doctor), the medicinal man who'd just tossed back way too-many-to-be-healthy pills for his own broken bones; oh, yes, Sylar had heard that; it had almost double that effect. The patronizing (doctor?) voice was not getting the man any points as he'd noted earlier.

In a way it was amusing for him (and Nathan's fucking memories) to see just what Peter did at the job he never left. The guy had to be in serious pain; Sylar had had his shoulder torn out without having his heal-anything powers and he remembered how agonizing it was. The fact that Peter could do what he did with a broken hand was that much more impressive to him. _High pain tolerance, the little bastard_, he thought with something akin to affection before he snapped himself to rights; _Knock that off_.

XXX

Peter's voice slipped back to normal as he got to his feet. "Standard treatment for concussions, assuming you're not showing any danger signs," _which you are, but there's nothing I can do about it and they're not bad ones…we'll see if you keep vomiting or that was a one-time thing__,_ "is to lie down for thirty minutes in a darkened room and do nothing at all. If you feel like you want to sleep, then sleep. They've proven that stuff about keeping people awake has no basis in medical fact. I'm going to turn out the main light in here."

XXX

Sylar had no answer to the comments about staying put, so he didn't bother to make any, settling in to the icy packet on his head, controlling the groan he wished to make. Just as he was wanting to close his eyes but forcing them to stay open by setting the glass on the coffee table after drinking the rest, Peter addressed the science of the fact and he made a noise to show his attention to that fact, "Huh. That's interesting," he said, his tone read of genuine intrigue. The ability node in his brain perked up at learning something; _What was that about not doing anything, Peter? Then you shouldn't teach me things, I'll only hound you into the ground for more._

XXX

Peter went to turn on the hall light. The kitchen was already lit. By turning off the light in the living room, the area remained lit enough to see, but much dimmer. "That should help with the nausea, too." In case Sylar wanted someone to take the blame for the enforced rest period, Peter added quite truthfully, "My feet hurt. My back hurts. My leg hurts. I don't see any reason why we should go anywhere. But if you want me to leave and that's the only way you'll rest, then tell me and I'll get out of here." _In which case, I'm sure you're not going to rest, but there's no way for me to __**make**__ you do it anyway._

_There's not a whole lot I can do if he has swelling or bleeding in the brain. I can't do surgery. Wait…none of this is real. He can't be hurt too bad. It's imaginary._ He arranged the ice pack a little better over his hand and wrist. _That sure feels real. I didn't wake up this morning without blisters. So…if he thinks he has a concussion, then I guess he has a concussion. Here's to hoping he doesn't think he has intracranial hemorrhaging._

XXX

Peter got up, but Sylar continued to look around even after the lights cut out. _It's __a regular game of Heads-Up-Seven-Up or Who's In My- Uh, no. Not going there. In the "dark" with….Peter Petrelli; he's injured, he's slow and I know, at least, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to start anything. He's had his chances so….relax. Why would Peter think I want him gone? Just don't know how far I can trust you, man__. _Somehow he wanted to voice that last thought, but knew it was already in contention. "No, no. You're fine," he spoke up, probably a little too quickly, waving towards Peter's designated chair.

_So….it's just…nap time, then_. _This is so weird…. _

"Um….Peter?" he asked hesitantly once the man sat himself down with his crackers once more. On thinking about his question, he dismissed it. He didn't think he wanted to know the answer or Peter would lie or something. "Never mind." After a pause he spoke again, eyeing the popcorned ceiling lazily, surprisingly comfortable for being in pain, "Just let me know when your hand needs to be taped up," Sylar reiterated his offer as the human male's version of a thank you.

He barely noticed his eyes slipping shut.


	9. Peter's Ponderings, Part 1

Peter settled into the chair, listening as Sylar's breathing deepened and he drifted off to sleep. That was surprising. He half hadn't expected the other man to rest at all with him near. He certainly hadn't expected him to sleep. _Of course, it might just be the concussion making him woozy and fouling his judgment. Wasn't like he was making a lot of sense a few times there._

_Amanda._ His brows pulled together. He remembered an Amanda. She'd been able to conjure fire. She'd burned down her own house, overwhelmed by her ability. Then later she accidentally set fires in the hospital. They were minor, but a symptom of her lack of control. He'd pushed her to seek out her family and find a support system. _Did Sylar's comment mean he's met her too? I wonder if she's still alive? Surely he doesn't … didn't kill everyone he ran into._

Sylar breathed more heavily. _A support system_. He remembered watching this man sleep before. _He came to me for help. Twice. He showed me his ability - telekinesis - and it never even occurred to me that he wasn't Nathan_. He gave a bitter, haunted smile, full of regrets. He'd felt jealous. He'd been sure 'Nathan' was lying about not knowing how he got the power and even if he wasn't, Peter didn't care. Nathan had proven he wouldn't use his gifts for anyone's good but himself. He was twisted inside. The more Peter thought about it, the more he understood how a future version of himself could come back and shoot his brother. _I already tried to shoot Dad in __**this**__ timeline. My whole family is fucked up. Me among them._

He chewed on another cracker, thinking about how uneasily this man had slept in Peter's apartment, on his bed, curled around a mostly empty bottle of the hardest liquor he could find. Peter had stayed up all night, thinking, watching him, struggling to come to terms with what might have happened. He hadn't been positive Nathan was dead. Yes, he'd seen his body, but he'd also seen Sylar's. And Peter had had his own experience with being 'stashed' in a body that wasn't his own. With abilities, there were too many possibilities.

All he could go on was what was in front of him and that had been a man who had looked like Nathan, but said he wasn't. He didn't act quite like Nathan either. _If I hadn't been so buried in my own life maybe I would have seen it earlier. What would it have been like if Sylar had been a brother for real? If he'd had a support system to go to like I did, like I told Amanda to go to? Surely he had __**someone?**_

_He came to __**me**__ for help. Was that because he was Nathan and I was his brother and that was what Nathan would have done? Or was it because he was Sylar and Sylar thought I … he thought I would help him? Or that maybe he could trust me?_ Peter's mind went back to Pinehearst and his earlier thoughts about how he was the only member of his family that Sylar seemed to have an interest in (that is, a non-homicidal interest), which struck Peter as odd given how homicidal their many interactions had been. _He came to __**me**__ for help._

It was definitely something to think about.


	10. Truce

Day 5

Sylar woke from his rather comfortable position on some strange couch, _sure as hell's not my bed_, to a _noise_. He just caught himself from flopping like a fish from shock. _Who's here? What's__…._As soon as he'd been about to mentally voice the question, his muscles began to strain and shriek at him and he groaned, rolling slowly to his side. _Ugh…fuck. Fighting with_ Peter. For a brief second he wondered why exactly he'd started so from his loosely-termed 'nap' and concluded that he hadn't heard noise while asleep for three years and a week, give or take.

Sitting up slowly, he looked around the dim room, almost expecting to see Peter in a SWAT uniform. The gun was no longer a concern and that surprised him greatly; both in Peter's nobility and his own lack of unease regarding it. The door to the hall was shut. It was possible that's where Peter had gone, but that action's logic left him confused, not for the first time.

_Help me, let me sleep and…_ Sylar touched his aching face, wary of Sharpie marker there, _didn't do anything to me as near as I can tell, then leaves without a word?_ He frowned, pushing himself up to stand, taking his time due to his head injury, waiting for the wobble in his balance that didn't come. His scalp was still pleasantly chilled from the ice and for now, before his blood began to pump through his body at a different atmosphere, it would stay so.

_Strange, strange man, Peter Petrelli_, he shook his head lightly and began to wander to the kitchen. _I mean, where the hell would he be going? His timing is…Doesn't matter where he goes, I know this place and he doesn't. I can find him again__._

His thoughts were halted in place by the sound of the toilet flushing, followed seconds later by the sink cutting on. Sylar spun around and forced his tensed muscles to relax along with his nerves and instincts. _Not only are you not used to hearing that noise unless you yourself made it, you're not used to noise from other people period. Wonderful combination. Guy had to pee; he's been drinking all morning._

Briefly his mind tracked back to the last place he'd been that had people in that kind of situation; the Carnival and before that, Parkman's house, sort of. _You know, it's really a shame everyone's dead and gone. My 'karma' is so damn unbalanced now because of those pricks. Someone somewhere owed me a shot at revenge and Peter Petrelli wasn't what I had in mind. _

He didn't want to consider why Peter wasn't…exactly on his hit list, so he didn't. Instead he shoved it away and banned the thought somewhere far, far away. _Two out of four Petrellis, check, check; Bennet, Parkman….possibly Mohinder. That weird Japanese kid for his ability….Samuel….Edgar….Eli….Might get Samson for good….Ugh, but all this is useless. It's increasingly sad that those are the only people you know._ _Okay, okay, all I ever really wanted was a decent shot to pound his face in a few times. Guess dreams do come true._

Sylar rolled his eyes, reaching out and flicking up the light to the living room since there was no need for continued darkness and he thought it might look fishy to Peter. He leaned against the wall to the kitchen, rubbing at the clenched shoulder that he'd succeeded in jarring several times now, stretching his neck and waited for Peter to emerge. _Suppose I should ask if he's okay…_

XXX

Peter came out of the bathroom, flipping off the light as he did. He was holding his right hand tucked up against his body. The wrist had swollen a lot - as had the hand, but not as badly. So also had the right side of Peter's face, now puffy and thoroughly reddened. He was sporting the beginnings of a black eye where the skin under his right eye had darkened - no telling how much that would spread.

For a paramedic, who knew better (and he did), he took crap care of himself and he always had. He _should_ have iced his face. He _should_ have compression-wrapped his wrist. But he hadn't. _He_ had never been anyone's first priority, not even his own. It wasn't that he put Sylar ahead of himself, but he hadn't felt he could leave until he was sure the other man could get up and get around. That, and it hurt to move, so he simply hadn't.

Speaking of Sylar though, he was up. Peter looked at him intently in the now-lit room, giving him as thorough a once over as he had before the fight, but this time with a completely different expression. This was detached and incisive, without the liberal hint of attraction. Peter examined the man's posture, how he'd chosen to lean against the wall, the steadiness of his gaze and the small movements he made in the normal process of standing there. Peter nodded once. "You feeling okay? Any dizziness?"

XXX

True enough, Peter emerged from the bathroom as he'd expected, looking worse for wear. Subconsciously he was aware of being a little smug about that factlet; that he'd trumped Peter in (probably for once) a fair fight. "Yeah, everything's-" He caught the tail end of a similar appraising look over the considerable breadth of his body and he quickly glared at Peter, who didn't catch it.

_Are you just that damn dense or wha__-_ he was halted before his anger could rise to its usually violent head when he saw that it was a 'nurse' look. Peter the medico, not Peter the Petrelli. "-Fine," he concluded calmly, his own glance going only as far as the man's hand and his face, bruises turning a funny shade of red on the man's skin.

In reality, his body was screaming sore. His knuckles were uncomfortable, his back felt crimped and his own face throbbing, but his head was worse; painful and distracting, but nothing crippling in any way (so he hoped). Most importantly his motor, linguistic and mental functions were working properly, near as he could tell.

_Wouldn't that just be funny if Peter helps you this far then kicks back with popcorn to watch you thrash around on the floor in a seizure, drooling and babbling from a concussion? _He snorted, amused at himself and partly at the image, shaking his head and beginning to stretch out his neck from side to side. _Already did that at Mercy. Been there, done that._

XXX

Sylar had his own semi-untreated injuries marking him. They were just things they were going to have to deal with. Peter was ready to go 'home', lie down somewhere that he felt safe, and figure out how to better tend his hurts once he was alone. He felt lousy. Sitting in the chair had been comfortable enough. He'd risen only when his needs had demanded it. A number of muscles had tightened up. He intended to make a lot of use of that tube of ben-gay he had at his apartment, as well as the antibiotic ointment - though the only spot he had that seemed to need the latter was the cut on his cheek. He didn't have any compression bandages or splints and it was just wasn't worth it to go the few blocks down to the store to get them.

On the other hand, he'd spent some of his time in the chair mentally cataloguing the supplies he needed to get on hand for future use. When he was able - he'd get on that.

XXX

"How's the hand?" Sylar asked in return, purposefully not pressing the issue of taping it, even though he was pretty sure you were supposed to as soon as the swelling went down. Peter was politely skittish about his help; not that he would or could expect less any time soon. The offer stood and he wanted to subtly remind Peter of it. The man's broken watch still annoyed him with its proximity, its silence irritating his mushed brain.

XXX

"The hand sucks," Peter announced bluntly. He wiggled his thumb and index finger, touching them together a few times to illustrate his next statement, "I can still do a little fine manipulation, but there's no grip strength." _Not without it hurting a lot. I can still pull a trigger, but I probably couldn't aim to be worth it. Not that that's an issue._

XXX

Sylar's eyebrow quirked briefly at the gesturing digits, wondering briefly at what Peter meant by 'fine manipulation' and 'grip strength' exactly. His mind going unpleasant and dirty places at once before he could focus himself. He was safe from the gun and already that sort of 'fear' hanging over him was beginning to pass. "No heavy lifting for you, man," he said in a way he hoped came across as good natured.

Suddenly briefly tempted to ask what Peter's worst injury barring death was, but that was personal and was bound to stir up bad memories for the sensitive man, so he put the question aside. Instead he asked, "What's your plan of action?" _Did that sound as bad as I think it does? Well….guess you hope he knows you're innocent and helpful and just shooting in the dark worse than he is about how to handle this… situation._

XXX

"My plan?" Peter raised his brows, one a little more than the other. There was a tiny shift to his eyes that spoke of aggression, as they swept across Sylar's face and read his features. Peter squared up his shoulders and drew his head back a little. There was the faintest lilt to his voice that anyone who grew up in the Petrelli household would have recognized as an attempt at verbal fencing. "I was thinking we'd do what you suggested - take the rest of the day off, limp home, elevate everything…"

Peter caught himself, recognizing what he was doing and discarding the action before he even finished his first sentence. He shrugged casually like that had been where he'd intended to stop talking, then turned away and headed into the kitchen. As he walked past Sylar, he ducked his head a little and reached up to scratch at his temple on the side closer to the other man. It was a defensive motion, warding him off, putting his hand between his face and the other man, though Peter didn't think of it that way. He just thought his temple needed to be scratched at that particular moment.

XXX

At his question, Peter homed in on him, quickly, too. Sylar's head turned fractionally under that intense wave of hazel. _Some latent hostility in there, methinks__. _He narrowed his eyes but shrunk back slightly all the same. In doing so he hoped to avoid another round and not get pushed around, but if Peter pressed it, Sylar would kick his ass again.

Peter increased the tension causing Sylar to hunch his shoulders and shove raw knuckles past the denim of his jeans pockets, unsure how to handle that or what to say. _What the hell?_ He noticed his own words being thrown back at him, but he was totally floundered as to the why. _It was an innocent question! Or are those labeled as no-no's now? _Would his further presence be viewed as a threat? An insult?

Peter all but slid by him, hiding his face, totally changing his tune with a shrug to leave Sylar blinking at his back. _I thought I was the one who's supposed to be 'touched' sans concussion. He is a Petrelli. _He stood still as the man passed, but turned to watch him move about the kitchen, playing with the pills as he went. _Didn't anyone ever tell you you're going to Hell for that, Peter?_ He internally mocked sarcastically, mostly at himself, but sighed physically.

XXX

Peter walked over to the counter next to the refrigerator, picking up the bottle of painkillers he'd left there. He read the dosage on it, ostensibly to remind himself of how much he'd taken, but mostly as a nervous fidget. He set the bottle back down and turned partway to address Sylar. "You should get a compression bandage around your wrist, maybe even a splint." _I didn't look at it. Wonder if I should? I'm not a physical therapist. I'm not sure what I could do other than say, 'Wow, that looks sprained.' I'd be pretty surprised if it was broken._

XXX

His companion spoke up about his wrist, leaving Sylar hopeless in the 'conversation' such as it was. Positive, negative, positive again. Not that he wasn't used to the behavior, he just….didn't react well to it. In the past the flip-flopper usually wound up dead by his hand, intentional or not. "I….yeah, I probably should. I have some back at my place." But he wasn't about to leave Peter alone because…well, he wanted to stick around. If that was 'allowed' that is.

XXX

Peter's leg hurt. He debated whether he should walk down the couple blocks and back to the store to get compression bandages - not for Sylar, but for himself. Sylar might have some in his apartment, but that was his business. Peter walked the one step across the kitchen to the counter on the other side, where he'd put the brown paper grocery bag that contained his findings, and the bear. He nudged the bag, like he was considering picking it up, maybe leaving, but the motion was abortive. All he did was push it around a little - again, an unconsciously nervous gesture.

Peter turned to face Sylar again and gave the other man a curious, intent look as his mind began to face the reason for his nerves and his previous, almost reflexive, verbal jujitsu. "Do you have any first aid training? Or…medical training, of any kind?" _Other than the obvious brain-removal type. It'd be sort of weird to find out he's a neurosurgeon. Or used to be, I guess. All the medical students said it took a special kind of person to be willing to cut into a live human being in cold blood. They usually didn't mean 'special' in a good way._

He leaned one hip on the counter in a false posture of relaxation. He pondered the memory (dream? thought-leak?) of Sylar as Gabriel, a watchmaker. _That rules out neurosurgeon, but not first aid. It would kind of help if I knew what he was capable of tending on his own. He made it as Sylar for a couple years without regen, so he's got to be pretty good at taking care of himself. No scars, he's symmetrical and balanced, good movement … just from that fall off the Odessa Stadium alone he should have been messed up for life. Huh. That argues actually that he had something better than first aid. It shouldn't have helped him __**that**__ much that he landed on me._

XXX

Idly Sylar saw Peter poke around the kitchen, his actions reading of discomfort and….something else he couldn't place. He looked almost embarrassed, why he didn't know; unless it was the medic's turn to overreact to something harmless, which it appeared to be. "I, um….took a first aid class in high school, but that was a long time ago. I've done lots of reading since then. I consider myself to be competent," he stated simply, without much pride, managing to hold back his wince at how that sounded. He'd had enough experience patching himself over, countless experiences actually. Sylar couldn't compare to Peter's training and his innumerable experiences and attempts at healing _others_.

XXX

To Sylar's comments about his first aid class, Peter nodded slightly. He looked to the side and considered that, face neutral. Sylar would make a passable aide – he could hold things and probably follow directions. The 'probably' part was what worried Peter and it had nothing to do with the man's competence. _Would_ he? Sylar had never agreed to help, to save Emma, to save anyone. In fact, he'd denied it and said that wasn't the kind of person he was. What he'd agreed to was letting Peter try to get them _out_ and Peter was very aware of that.

The other man had made a number of somewhat helpful gestures – he'd offered lunch, he'd offered a tour, he was here with Peter exploring although clearly it wasn't his cup of tea, and he'd offered to help tape Peter's hand. All but the last were basically self-serving gestures. He was bored and lonely and drawn to Peter as Peter had already found himself drawn to Sylar. When there was nothing moving in a landscape, the sole motion did tend to draw the eye. Maybe in a few days or weeks or months Sylar would get bored with observing Peter and go away. Somehow that prospect was more unsettling to Peter than the idea of frequent surveillance by the man.

There was also the issue of whether _Peter_ would let Sylar help him. He'd refused lunch, and the tour, and he'd made it amply clear he wasn't wild about Sylar being here with him. He was evading now on the matter at hand. _If I want his help with Emma, then pretty soon I've got to find out if he'll help at all, for anything, or if all he's going to do is make snide comments, goad me and molest stuffed animals_. He sighed a little. It was one thing to ask for help on something predestined, where Peter knew for sure the other man _would_ help and so in a way he wasn't even asking, he was just informing Sylar of what the future would be. It was another thing to ask on something like this, where as far as Peter knew nobody's life hung in the balance and it seemed pretty likely that admitting some form of weakness would just buy him trouble.

XXX

"Of course I'm more of a self-taught brain doctor with a ninety-nine percent casualty rate," Sylar said, voicing what Peter was doubtlessly thinking. He paused, inhaling and crossing his hands over his chest now defensively in preparation, "Until now, that is." It was obvious Peter wasn't going home any time soon. Sylar stared out the kitchen window before making a decision and padding off into a bedroom, returning moments later with strips of a bed sheet, entering the kitchen slow and cautious. He held out four larger strips towards Peter, waving them a little when the other man made no move for them. "For your wrist. You can wrap it around ice, too."

Retreating back outside the kitchen, he slowly leaned back to crack his spine and rub at a deep-fleshed bruise there.

XXX

While Peter was pondering, Sylar said his next piece about being a 'brain doctor,' earning him a hard look and narrowed eyes. Peter glanced over Sylar's crossed arms and then looked away. It wasn't like there was any point in denying the past, but Peter wondered what the other man meant by 'until now.' A long, tense moment passed in silence until Sylar broke it by walking away, further into the apartment. Peter sighed again, more deeply, and turned to lean back against the counter, facing towards the fridge. _'Until now' that he's changed his mind about killing people? He said he'd wanted his life to change – that's what he'd gone to Parkman about, apparently__. _Peter smirked. _Well, I suppose he's succeeded. Being walled up in someone's basement is certainly a change._

_Or is it just 'until now' that he doesn't have his powers and wouldn't get anything by carving my head open?_ He turned around and fiddled with the sack again, considering whether he should slip away without saying anything, or…_what's that noise?_ The distinct sound of cloth tearing drifted out from the back room. Peter's brows drew together as he stood and listened. It was regular, not hurried and accompanied by no other sound, so it wasn't like Sylar was having a destructive fit – as out of place as that would be at the moment. Peter replayed their last moments in the kitchen, mystified as to why Sylar would be off tearing something up.

When Sylar entered the kitchen with the strips of bed sheet, his slow and cautious approach was a good idea as it gave Peter a moment to stare between him and the fabric, uncertain of what he was being offered, or why. Sylar clarified. Peter took the cloth and blinked at Sylar's retreating back. He tried to think of how this was self-serving. Nothing came to mind. He smiled a little and looked at the sheet, wrapping it loosely around his right hand, tilting his head and gauging if that would work. Something stretchy or with adhesive would be better, but this would do for now, he supposed. It meant he didn't have to walk down to the store.

He put the strips on top of the bear in the sack and gathered it up with his left arm. He walked out to see Sylar stretching. Peter glanced away politely until the other man was done. "I'm going to go over to…my place," _Yeah, I guess it is_, "and stay there for the rest of the day." _Head aches, face aches, various other things…it'll be better tomorrow. I'll go get some proper compression bandages then and a splint._ He pondered what else to say. _See you tomorrow? Same bat-time, same bat-channel?_ Peter rolled his shoulders a little, creating a little too long of a conversational pause as he couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to express. Finally he said, "Thank you," with a slight jerk of his chin towards the cloth visible at the top of the bag. "I'll use them." He turned to go.

XXX

Who knew what went on in Peter's mind, the brain that coagulated the thoughts….ticked funny, it wasn't right. Not just the ability part, either, the Petrelli part of his brain was…unfitted. Like his wrist watch. Sylar realized as he walked away that he'd totally exposed himself to death again; Peter in the kitchen with knives and cleavers as he'd turned his back on it. He stood with his profile to the kitchen, should Peter emerge as he must eventually, his eyes closed as he tried to elongate and work the muscles in his back.

Peter's boot made a slight scuff and he snapped straight again, eyes wide to see Peter looking pointedly away until he regained some composure after his stretch. Sylar tugged down on his pea coat, making sure to cover his midriff, etc. _Oh, that was….more awkward than the bear. Huh._ Glancing around to relieve his own awkwardness at the situation, he made to move with his left hand and wound up making a face. _Fuck, not my hand….__Peter may be a medic, but he has no one to care for; he doesn't need his hands. I have my clocks…._

Sylar turned to blink at him, slightly surprised that Peter would concede what must be seen as 'defeat' so easily. He'd been expecting Peter to break out the taser and demand Sylar walk ahead of him for the rest of the exploration. Then again, Peter was probably in more pain, a busted up hand would do that. A kind of…guilty satisfaction surged through him quickly before it died. _Goddamnit, why'd it stop?_ His surprise (at both his feeling and Peter's words) probably registered on his face.

After a beat, he nodded. He took up a strip of the sheet, pushing up the sleeve of his coat to get at his left wrist under all the fabric. Instantly he realized he couldn't do it standing and, his eyes still focused on his arm, he did the mindless, intent-on-something-else walk towards the couch. Intending to sit and wrap up his arm, he was interrupted and floored beyond his bruised brain's capacity to accept by Peter's gratitude.

Wide brown eyes gazed at him before he ducked his head, nodding to hide his growing grin. "'S no problem, Peter," he said quietly. _Maybe there is hope…Of course it only came after a fight, but….Maybe that wasn't such a stupid idea….not that I'm gonna do it again. At least I hope not._ Sylar opened his mouth and looked towards Peter again, but caught his back, considering for a moment before he closed his lips. _'I only started it so I could know you weren't homicidal still.'_

Biting his lip for a second, he thought of another thing that was within his power to do that Peter seemed to like and appreciate. He darted into the kitchen again and snatched up the painkillers Peter had neglected on purpose or with intent, it didn't matter. Sylar then padded behind him, sure to make some noise to indicate his presence. Peter opened the door and proceeded down the hall with Sylar in tow, quiet, musing. _Really makes you wonder how much he likes this girl if he's willing to let you live._

XXX

_That grin__._ It made Peter feel warm inside to have said something to put that expression on another's face. Sylar's smile was open and happy, with a sort of embarrassed delight, like no one had ever told him thanks in his life, or at least that he'd never expected to hear it. Peter turned and headed out, concealing his own expression of a gentle smile complete with crinkled corners of his eyes. Yeah, maybe Sylar didn't expect to hear even a simple thanks coming from Peter, about as much as Peter didn't expect Sylar to do anything worthy of the words.

He heard Sylar scurry hastily in the apartment behind him and he wondered what he was rushing to get. The only item of note Peter had seen in there was the baseball bat and going for that now was so incongruous as to garner a snort from the empath. He hobbled slowly down the hall, in no great hurry. He heard Sylar come up behind him shortly and Peter glanced back. It wasn't so much wary this time, just looking, still checking, but Sylar had moved up to a comfortable distance, not crowding him, and then matched Peter's slow pace.

XXX

Sylar took up his…position, he supposed it was by now, next to Peter, this time unworried about being struck (and not just because of the broken hand). He managed to pocket the container of painkillers, not for himself, but for Peter. Peter took the hall slowly and he found himself grateful for the pace; every move, hell, being upright made his head throb with red pain, so the slower he moved, the less his heart had to work.

Sylar noticed the glances back at him, but pretended he didn't see them. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what he was so contagiously grinning about. _Peter said 'Thank you'. What made him say that? He didn't have to, I barely did anything. _A brief spiral of unease, he'd dub the emotional reaction, went through him. _Or what if he's manipulating me? No, he's not that quick, I haven't been that obv- Okay, I guess I have been in the past, but…What does it gain him? A personalized revenge slave?_

XXX

Peter continued on to the elevator, seeing no reason to take the stairs in his state. He reached out immediately and without thinking, pressing the button with his right thumb. He grunted in pain, but the button lit up. _Ow__._ He frowned at his hand. It had hurt. The slight pressure of pushing the button had resulted in a compression across the complicated structure of his hand, hurting where the bone was broken and where his wrist was twisted. _I really need to immobilize this. I can't keep looking around here, going through apartments, with my hand like this. I'll mess it up doing casual things like pushing buttons._

XXX

Peter approached the elevator doors, pushing on the button with what Sylar saw as a bare application of the force he knew those hands possessed. But that small motion triggered a noise of pain from him and that got Sylar's attention. Peter took it like a champ, stepping into the elevator car quite fearlessly, even though Sylar knew from long readings about arthritis and hand cramps from being a watchmaker full time that the motion hurt his broken finger like hell.

XXX

The doors opened and Peter walked inside with a glance at his companion. They were going to be trapped together in a small room, an awareness that wandered through Peter's mind without settling or setting off any action as a result of the thought. Peter moved politely to one side and Sylar did the same opposite him. Both were silent. Neither looked at the other. As the doors shut, Peter cleared his throat and said very quietly, "Can you push the button for the ground floor for me?" He had the paper bag held in his left arm and he'd already discovered that using his right for this wasn't a good idea. He could have put the bag down and used his left but…_Would_ Sylar help him?

Peter wasn't real sure what he was doing - being manipulative? Looking for opportunities to give positive strokes? Trying to be friendly? Sylar's earlier grin had surprised the empath. It wasn't superior or snide or sarcastic. It wasn't bitter or sneering or smug. It was a simple joy at being appreciated and Peter wanted to see if that was still there, or if it had been some kind of a fluke. Because yeah, Peter needed the help – with his hand, with Emma, with being stuck here for what looked to be years. As much as Sylar would never make Peter's 'interesting people to be trapped with on a desert island' list, Sylar was here, things were as they were, and Peter knew that sooner or later he was going to have to accept his companion's presence and quit acting like Sylar's mere existence was offensive. Even if it was. _Yeah, I'm going to have to give that up eventually. _

XXX

Sylar slowly stepped in beside him, keeping the usual distance between 'strangers' at this point. Since Peter was the first one in, Sylar assumed he would be the one to press the correct button. Sylar stood for a beat until he recognized that the 'normal' proceedings weren't going as was socially planned.

Peter spoke up quietly and he turned his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Sylar found himself responding instantly to Peter's question, taking a step and a half to lean forward and past the medic to push the button to get the car started.

"Sure thing, man," His reply was unnecessary and unnecessarily long at that, but it just slipped out. _Excuse me?_ He asked of himself. _Are we really his freaking pet now? Jump when he says? You practically signed yourself off on a silver platter with 'sure thing, man' as if it's a contract for 'anytime you need any heavy lifting' or 'a cup of su-' _Sylar bit briefly into his lower lip, but stopped before Peter could notice as he thought on how he could have blundered.

Hadn't Angela said something similar? _/"You had a skill that I needed."/_ Why had he never been afraid of manipulation from Peter? Aside from the odd fist fight that may or may not have led to some outright torture with a nail gun… _Maybe that's why: the only thing he's got in his arsenal is busted empathy, big puppy dog eyes and a real insight on how to convince people._

XXX

_He did it._ Sylar responded, pressed the button, and did what Peter asked. It was kind of amazing, really, even though it was such a minor thing. "Thanks," Peter murmured, briefly, and casually. He kept his eyes to himself and acted disinterested, which was far from the truth. He hadn't earned another grin and that was disappointing, but at least he'd gotten cooperation. Had Sylar declined, or smirked, or otherwise gone back to being an ass, Peter would have just put down the bag and pushed the button himself, or gotten off the elevator and taken the stairs. It wasn't like he didn't have options, which was a big part of why Peter was willing to ask - he was risking little here.

Sylar wasn't the only one 'testing' his companion.

XXX

The car lowered down to the first floor and the doors parted. Somehow Sylar felt the need that Peter, the more injured and smaller of the two should exit first, so he waited to allow that. Peter's hip clearly bothered him and Sylar's back ached and twinged at every step; what a pair they made.

XXX

The doors opened and Peter hesitated for a moment, noting Sylar's indirect indication that Peter should precede him. The paramedic remained very aware that Sylar was at his back, but he walked out first anyway. He walked towards the double doors, going slowly as he had before. The muscle of his right thigh kept trying to cramp. He was pretty sure it was the sartorius muscle. It affected how he moved his knee and his ability to keep a straight line without adjustment. It would affect him even more if he tried to do something that involved rotating the leg. The spot where Sylar had kicked him had swollen into something of a knot. It would stay that way for a day or two and really, he should stay off his feet during that time. He intended to try.

XXX

The men headed for the door and Sylar lengthened his stride to hit it before Peter, casually pushing it open, holding it a bare second or so too long so Peter could get out without hurrying/hurting himself or using his hand. He stayed in front of Peter a moment to keep up the act, but he soon fell beside him once more.

XXX

In the lobby now, it seemed Sylar had less patience to follow his slow pace. Perhaps, Peter thought, he'd misjudged the cooperation in the elevator and instead of being helpful, Sylar had just been speeding their journey. Maybe he was in more of a hurry to get back to his own 'territory' and alone than Peter was. Then the other man surprising him by holding the door open for him, hanging onto it with his fingertips after he'd had gone through, leaving it open enough so Peter didn't have to shoulder his way through it. Peter's eyes widened for a fraction of a second at that before he dampened his response to something more normal. He availed himself of the courtesy.

Repeating his thanks seemed awkward, and perhaps overusing the grateful phrasing (twice was enough, especially as he hadn't managed to work himself up to saying much else), so Peter gave an appreciative nod and looked Sylar in the face for a moment, giving him a quick half-smile of acknowledgment. Sylar fell into step next to him once they were outside. He no longer trailed behind, Peter noticed with a sidelong glance. Of course in the hallway of the apartment building, Sylar hadn't had a lot of room to walk next to him, but the day before, when they'd gone to the store, and before that, as Peter had sought to escape him - Sylar had always followed.

XXX

Sylar glanced around, secretly observing if Peter cleared the door, which he had. He turned back as they drew level and caught the man's nod, his face loosening at the smile, such as it was, but it was more than enough. His own lips quirked up as he turned away and looked down, amused and proud to have garnered the expression from this increasingly stoic man. _No idea why he's smiling, but I'll take it._

XXX

Peter hesitated at the edge of the sidewalk, whereas Sylar did not, taking a step or two into the street before noticing his companion had stopped. When Sylar glanced back at him, Peter said, "It's kind of creepy out here - all open…and empty. It didn't feel that empty, really, in the apartments." He started moving again, walking across the street.

XXX

Sylar started out walking, slowly down over the curb due to his back and the altitude changes to his skull. He began to head towards Peter's place. About three steps in he noticed that Peter no longer walked beside him; he pulled up short and turned to look. The medic seemed deep in thought. _Maybe he's drugged or high on pain__, _he initially thought before Peter spoke up.

Sylar studied him closely and he found the topic odd, but that was Peter. "Yeah," he whispered, eyeing their surroundings without seeing it too well. "Seems like it's not really New York without people, huh," he said, not entirely a question, but not a statement either. Really the whole thing made him kind of bitter, but he did feel better knowing that Peter would be going through the worse part-the transition, the loss.

Creepy he could deal with, loneliness he'd dealt with, no people whatever…. It hit harder, so much harder than he'd thought. The same was almost true for Peter, minus the creepiness which he'd just stated bothered him. Peter began walking again, past Sylar who started up beside him, keeping pace.

XXX

Peter stopped outside the door to his apartment. Sylar was still beside him, moving along with him just like they had merely decided to go explore a different building, rather than Peter going up to his own room. Peter paused. He was aware that he had something fragile here, a tenuous sort-of trust, a truce of sorts - 'you won't kill me, I won't kill you' and maybe even a 'you help me, I'll help you.' Telling Sylar to fuck off and Peter wanted to be alone didn't seem right, even if it was exactly what Peter wanted to do, and the rational part of his brain was reminding him that they'd only been together for a few hours and already had a serious fistfight. Further association was ill-advised. Plus he couldn't defend himself much, if it came to that.

Peter had never listened much to the rational part of his brain. It told him things like not to jump off high buildings and to question the existence of abilities, or perhaps even his own sanity. He was well-accustomed to ignoring it and he did so now, looking down at Sylar's swollen left wrist and asking, "Are you going to need help wrapping that?"

XXX

Not a minute later the pair reached the entrance of Peter's designated building. Sylar paused after Peter did at the doors. _Oh_. He had assumed- what had he assumed? Peter had stated clearly what he was doing and where he was going. He hadn't been included he noticed. Sylar took a few steps backwards, placing his hands in his pockets as he felt embarrassment. _Alone time. Duh_. To save him…almost, the irony, Peter asked about taping his wrist up. His embarrassment continued when Peter glanced at the limb, partly buried in his jeans pocket.

Fair was fair. He'd done the same or similar to Peter earlier when he'd had…something in his jeans pocket, something with an electric cord. Sylar swallowed; his imagination running untamed for a moment as to what that object might be before he stamped ruthlessly down on the runaway thought. (Nathan's memories did not help the process). Even if Peter told him to fuck off right then, he'd be pretty content. He could have lost the fight so long as things had gone the same way after it.

"Don't think so. I've wrapped my own wrist before; I'm ambidextrous. It's not a big deal. Different from a hand, fingers." Sylar nodded towards Peter's own coloring hand. 'Thanks' was…truly a barbed word if it were to slip from his throat and he realized how much it must be costing Peter's pride to say it twice to his brother's murderer.

XXX

Peter felt a tension build inside as Sylar glanced up at the building, the other man's eyes widening just slightly as he comprehended where they were. The steps back he took made it clearer that he understood his lack of welcome. His embarrassed posture did nothing to dispel Peter's tension - it just changed the tenor of it from apprehension that Sylar might insist on not leaving him alone (and cause Peter to be explicit in seeking solitude), to discomfort that the other man might deal really badly with such rejection.

Sylar still struck Peter as highly unstable. His overly shamed response at the moment was a perfect example. Saying good-bye to someone shouldn't engender the reaction he was getting and so Peter stood there uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do because he didn't know Sylar well enough to know what he'd do in response to any given action on Peter's part. The empath made his inquiry about Sylar's hand and thankfully Sylar didn't take him up on the implied offer of assistance, just as Peter was not taking Sylar up on his somewhat more overt offer from previous.

XXX

Sylar took a step further back, turning in the direction of his own apartment. He had his…way around saying thanks, something that said the same thing. Sylar had always been better at gestures than words anyway, apparently neither really ever really worked well for him. Words made him a lying psychopath and gestures, actions made him….Sylar so it would seem, the psychopath part.

"Peter, uh…" he began, turning back, tugging the bottle of painkillers out from his pocket with stiffening, scraped fingers to place it in Peter's bag. He couldn't hold it; couldn't catch it or else he would have thrown it, the memory of Nathan teaching Peter how to catch at the age of six coming to mind. "You're a medical man, I trust you to be more responsible with those than Mohinder was," Sylar said by way of a joke (Mohinder was a geneticist as he never failed to tire of telling everyone and Sylar's way of asking Peter to be careful about his consumption) as he walked away with a brief, tight, awkward sort of grin.

_God, just let this not make me look like a mother hen with a crush or something, anything but that. Let him not find me to care,_ were his parting thoughts.

XXX

Peter turned to eye the door to the building when Sylar changed direction and came back, addressing him and holding something out. The erstwhile killer put the bottle in the sack where it rested on top of the cloth strips, themselves on top of the bear's hat. Peter recognized the pill bottle from the apartment, complete with annoying childproof cap. Peter hoped the cap was only on loosely, as he'd set it before. If not…it didn't matter too much. He'd gotten a bottle of painkillers from the store the day before. They were in his apartment. But Sylar might not know that and the gesture he was making was clear.

"Sure," Peter said with a short nod. He stepped over next to the doors and shrugged his left shoulder. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then." _Not that I think I'll have much choice in that, other than maybe hiding in my apartment all day. I'm not going to __**hide**__ from him - especially not after the fight__. _He wouldn't be intimidated, though he was clear that he'd lost. Something his father told him once came back to him: _'__The winner is the one who gets to say when the fight ends.' Last time I noticed, that was the guy holding the bat - not me._ He shifted the bag carefully and managed the door himself. He propped it open with his foot and watched for a moment as Sylar walked away. Peter shook his head briefly and went inside.

Once within the apartment he'd at least temporarily claimed as his own, Peter leaned against the door and groaned…in pain, in frustration, in tension. Screaming was not out of the question, but his face hurt a bit much for that. He set down the sack on the nearest horizontal surface, which was the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He touched his forehead and went back to the door, locking it. He looked at the stack of soup cans next to it, ready to be assembled as a warning system in case someone had a key and bypassed the locks with it. Peter stared at them blankly, then picked up the top two with his left hand and moved them into the pantry. Leaning over made his face throb, so he didn't put away more than those two - but he'd get the rest later. He didn't think he needed them.

He turned on all the lights, gathered up his supplies, and settled on the couch. To his annoyance, he did not actually have a tube of antibiotic ointment. He cleaned his face and knuckles with the peroxide and cotton swabs that had been in this apartment from the start. The place also had a single box of bandages which he made use of. He applied ben-gay to anywhere that the muscles were sore. Finally he tackled wrapping his hand. He didn't do a good job of it, but it was better than it looked, it didn't cut off his circulation and it seemed snug enough to work. After that came ice packs, arranging pillows to keep all the right parts elevated, and way too much time to do nothing more than think.

XXX

Sylar grinned to himself as he walked stiffly down the abandoned road in an abandoned city towards his apartment. _'See you tomorrow'__. _It rung in his ears. Peter had taken almost all of that exceptionally well. While he wasn't sorry per se that Peter had taken the trouble to break his hand using Sylar's head, he was….interested. That was about the best word he could tack onto it; interest without being concerned or apologetic or even guilty. Peter was the one who'd swung first to begin the fight and he'd made the choice to take a stab at Sylar's head so he himself was blameless to his logic.

_I'm not convincing myself out of guilt; there is none except for premeditated aggravation which I'm not guilty for._ The several blocks to 'home' seemed to take longer than normal; he figured that was because Peter wasn't there. He could tell his hormones were haywire; his frame, aching and sore thought it was, flooded with testosterone and epinephrine, endorphins from _life_. The half a day he'd just experienced had been the most _life_ he'd had in three years.

It was hard not to get swept under the current. A fight, winning it, companionship, getting said companion to smile a little…He sighed, quite pleased with himself. He hadn't even toyed with Peter….much and the medic walked away with superficial injuries. _What is it about him that makes me think I have my powers back and I'm being merciful to him?_ He glanced back behind himself now several blocks away, swerving out of his formerly straight walking path to gaze a second at Peter's building which may well have been Peter himself.

He faced straight ahead; hurrying to his apartment as temptation suddenly struck him and struck him hard._ I could do anything to him….No one would ever know. I don't_ need _his permission_. Those thoughts sucked oxygen from his brain and made him heady on top of his throbbing headache as he opened the door to his building. He found himself in his apartment, a little shell-shocked.

Tapping the door closed, he wandered into the bathroom, discarding his coat on the bed as he passed, crouching slowly to get into the cabinet under the sink for his Neosporin, ben-gay and tiger-balm. To say he owned a brace was relative; he had a wrist brace, but he was fairly sure compression bandages would work better.

More comfortable at any rate, so he grabbed those out and set them on the counter. Sylar checked his face in the mirror for cuts and bruises. He purposefully never lingered at the mirror these days, so he moved on when he found nothing but swelling, coloring bruises; something that couldn't be helped other than to ice them and he didn't bother to. _Hell, maybe Peter will get his kicks off it._

He turned to the side, trying to use the pair of mirrors that reflected into each other at an angle on the walls to see the area Peter had hit. Peter had hit him behind the ears before; he'd had regeneration one of those times. _Peter plays dirty__._ Prying into his hair, he tentatively prodded the bruised skin, but felt no wetness of blood, even if the slightest touch drew a hiss of pain from him unbidden. _I'll live_.

He removed his shirt first so he didn't get the ointments on it and took up the ben-gay and tiger-balm and rubbed them into his back and wrist, washing his hands of the smelly stuff as soon as he was done. _I haven't had someone on my hands in three years_, he thought idly. The ointment was next and he leaned against the sink, dabbing it on his knuckles.

Padding out into the kitchen, bandages in hand, he got out the ice packets he'd found years ago; he'd kept it around for the odd headache and migraine he suffered from leaning over his clocks or books for too long and for him that could be a long time. Bringing them back, Sylar sat wearily on his cot, wrapping his wrist gently and securing it with the metal tabs, placing an ice pack on it as he slowly lay back.

The second ice packet went behind his head on the pillow. At first he intended to think, plan something out, pick a stratagem in regards to his new companion, but his eyelids grew heavy despite his earlier nap. With the ben-gay at work on his back, he drifted off relatively pain free.

XXX


	11. Learning to be Friendly

Day 6

At first, Peter had no idea how much time passed. He needed to shift the ice packs twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. His watch not working made that difficult to gauge. After a while, he took to watching where the sun slanted in the windows and the slow progression of the rays across the floor. Mentally, he designated spots as where 'enough time' would have passed. It was a system at least.

He had a choice of how to occupy his thoughts: distant memories of family and pre-ability times; more recent memories of the last several years; trying to figure out the current situation and this crazy prison dreamed up by Matt or Sylar; or speculating about the future. The last was painful even to try to think about. He shut his eyes and turned his head, but it didn't stop the recollections: stranding Caitlin, killing Nathan, watching Sylar blow up Costa Verde, the explosion on the floor of Isaac's loft…the carnival…Sylar with that odd smile, heading towards Emma…and Peter hoped like hell he was going to help her, save her. It _felt_ like that's what the killer was going to do, but Peter felt fear clench his gut, uncertainty. The more time passed since the dream, the more chance he had to second-guess, the more opportunity his memory had to distort the impression.

He tried to think of something else, anything else. A camping trip when he was a kid, with the boy scouts. Gaining merit badges, running around in the woods, trying to convince Jason that Derek had lied about the poison ivy Jason was now rubbing on himself because Derek had said you could 'vaccinate' yourself with it if you rubbed it on your butt where the doctors always gave you shots. Poor Jason.

In standard human nature, he'd blamed Peter for a while, until Peter suggested they jointly beat Derek up for it and then suddenly Jason was his best friend. They never got around to it, because although Peter had suggested it, the idea of actually attacking someone, even someone deserving of it, had bothered him. Instead they discussed plans and worked up strategies while Peter hung out at Jason's place because Jason was laid up with allergic reaction. By the time the opportunity came to pass to jump Derek, Jason's anger had faded and the two of them made up. Then Jason told Derek that Peter wanted to beat him up for the prank and Peter was never friends again with either of them. Sigh.

Oh well. It was a preferable memory to what he'd seen was yet to come, so he spent the afternoon trying not to think about his current situation or what might happen next. Eventually he slept, having weird, disjointed dreams about Sylar's father, or a man he assumed was Sylar's father.

Day 7

Peter rose in the morning, trying not to think about the thoughts that leaked from his companion's mind in this place. He suspected Sylar did not know he was doing it or that Peter was getting information about him this way. Peter didn't want to know him like this. He'd prefer to talk and hear how Sylar presented himself now. People could change - this Peter believed, and the impressions of how Sylar was years ago weren't necessarily relevant to how he was now.

He took more painkillers and ate a couple more pieces of raisin bread before going about his morning routine. This time he had an electric razor. It was a pleasant coincidence because his right hand wasn't up to holding a razor and he was sure he'd do a lousy job with his left. The electric razor was more forgiving of mistakes. He didn't bother to try for a close shave. He managed an even, uniform bristle length. He smirked at the mirror as he considered growing a moustache. _Ah! Hair grows here. If my facial hair is growing, then the rest is. Huh__. _He combed the rest back and let his thoughts avoid how he would eventually have to give himself a haircut … or the obvious alternative of asking Sylar to do it.

He applied more ben-gay, recleaned and rebandaged his knuckles and adjusted the wrapping on his right wrist and hand. He'd used plastic wrap and a bag over it for the shower, but it was a little wet regardless. He grabbed the messenger bag before heading out. He looked over at the bear. He'd stripped off the hat and bandana the night before. It looked a lot more familiar now and sat on the nightstand watching over the bed. He gave it a long look, then dropped his eyes and left.

It was easier to walk now, but he still took the elevator. His back, thighs and feet didn't hurt nearly so much, although he was still limping from being kicked. His first stop was not to go outside, but instead visit the building office and find the key to his apartment. There might be times he wanted to lock it behind himself after he left. He took the key and as many master sets as he could identify. None of this would keep out a determined man, but at least locking the door would establish that he didn't want Sylar inside without permission.

That done, Peter walked outside into the pre-dawn air. As before, he'd gone to bed early, risen early, and the sun would be coming up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. He liked the way the city looked at this hour - light enough to see a bit, gloomy enough to imagine that maybe everyone else just hadn't woke up yet. He was still hungry enough that the diner sounded like a good idea, but he also wanted to get some proper compression bandages right away. There would be things to eat in the grocery store, too. He looked around to see if he was alone or if Sylar was waiting for him even before the sun came up.

XXX

Sylar woke up slowly, rather groggy and hazy. The first move he made was stiff and seemed to trigger his entire body up to the same level of it. He grunted and took his time rolling out of bed. _Back…my back_, he thought, shuffling into the bathroom. When he leaned over the running tap to splash some water on his face his bruised scalp screamed at him next and a survivable if brutal headache invaded his head. He groaned at that one and rolled his eyes. At least it wasn't as bad as before.

Somehow he felt refreshed, odd given his morning pains, the fight yester- yes, it was the next morning which accounted for his waking. _Something about the spirit being strong and the body weak_. He was still in pain, his face aching and all to complete the look, but Peter had said they would meet that day. He chose not to label that emotion as hope. Because, really, what would they accomplish today?

He finger-combed his hair back, musing like he did almost every day about cutting it. Moving to the toilet he relieved himself and washed his hands, exited the bathroom lazily and going into the kitchen. He pawed around mostly out of boredom since he already knew today was toast; he always knew, it was unsurprisingly a routine.

After he'd placed the bread in the toaster, he ambled back towards the cot in search of reading material, trying to remember what it was that had caught his interest not so long ago. _What had it been?_ Baseball. He rubbed his face as he recalled it; he'd left the book at the apartment complex where they'd fought. Biting his lip he wondered how much suspicion it would place him under to go back and retrieve it. He had a legitimate excuse, but that building also housed known weapons.

Sylar had won the fight, so it wasn't like he was revenge-hunting in any way, but the thought that Peter might think he was collecting bats and guns and poisons was not a risk he wanted to take. _Maybe if I ask him…? Ask him? Ask him what? 'Peter, is it okay if I go back to the bunker building to get a book, pretty please?__' _No. He would find something else to interest them both. _Plenty of books in the sea. Fish being…scarce__._ While that thought twinged in an uncomfortable Virginia moment, Sylar went back as he heard the toaster spring up.

Grabbing out the butter and strawberry jam, he applied them to his carefully crisped toast; not burned, barely even toasted. _Mom always left it in__there too long. And she knows- knew I hate tuna…Why would she_- Sylar quickly derailed himself as his teeth began to grind, finishing his last bite. Standing, he went back to the bathroom and went about brushing his teeth with his usual spearmint flavor.

Once finished, he padded behind his desk and cot and dragged out a gray polo, sliding into it, cautious because of his back and grabbing up his coat which he worked his bandaged wrist into. As usual, he had nothing to carry and his internal clock told him it was the upwards of seven A.M, practically sunrise. He knew Peter tended to sleep later, but that seemed to change after he graduated med school.

Peter was alternately was up like a robin before the sun to get to work to save the masses or he crashed out like a toddler back from the playground, all depending on his schedule. Lately he thought Peter had been working too hard and wasn't getting enough- _Really? He has no job - he can't work himself to death. What the hell does it matter?_ Sylar couldn't help that he did worry about Peter's….sanity such as it was here; the kid had never handled neglect, total neglect with grace or understanding.

_Why is the instant I want and try to change my life, I get Hell instead of a- A what? Normal life? Claire is redundant and blonde on top of that, let's avoid sounding like her. Was it beyond the Band of Heroes to help someone who desired it in a time of need, especially when it would save some lives?_ He supposed it was; he didn't factor in as 'human: savable- please attempt rescue'.

He did so hate karma and irony. So maybe '_Hell_' had a point. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to be saved. Then Peter was…? What? What sin had Peter committed to land him here? Nothing on Sylar's level of sin; that he knew without doubt. It was all a riddle, all a puzzle and if he could just figure it out he'd…have some…closure. Joy.

Sylar sighed deeply, trying to keep the positive (-ish) attitude he'd woken with as he shut the door behind himself, trying to burrow into his coat as he became exposed to more chill air. He went about his way towards Peter's place, expecting to wait…who knew how long until he made an appearance. The medic had tensed up before when Sylar had accidentally made a move towards Peter's door, making his feelings crystalline clear as to just how far Sylar was welcome.

Gray puffs of air escaped his mouth at every breath and he recalled a singular memory of his childhood when he'd seen people smoking outside his middle school; later he'd seen the kids pretending to smoke using twigs and rolled up paper. Somehow he remembered considering joining them at the time, but the school bus was ready for him; and what if someone saw him and told Mom?

Sylar shook his head and tried to maneuver his bound wrist into his pockets to keep his hands from stiffening up in the very brisk morning air. It was December after all. _Shit…birthday. Um…_ His mind hitched over that course of action, but by then he'd arrived at Peter's place, as he'd taken to calling it.

He sat where he had yesterday, on the steps of the building across from Peter's and waited, beginning to count the pebbles of concrete and what few bits of trash and nature that lay around his feet.

XXX

To Peter's surprise, he was alone. He didn't wait, turning and heading off immediately, walking down the sidewalk at a steady but determined hobble. He'd stretched his leg after getting up. As injuries went, it wasn't serious, though it was going to keep him from running for a few more days. Actually everything but the hand wasn't serious. Already the kink in his right shoulder had faded to near-nothingness. Everything else would be down to merely tender in a week. His face looked nasty though - one eye was thoroughly blacked, the other darkened underneath; his nose and chin were swollen, neither all that symmetrically either.

He smirked to himself. For once he didn't need to make excuses for his appearance - not to his mother, his neighbors or, worse yet, his coworkers. That last had been repeatedly awkward. Hesam had seen the bullet scar Peter carried now thanks to Emile Danko. He'd seen it when Peter was changing in the locker room. And then there were the cuts to his face and arm he'd taken from Edgar and a plethora of other unexplained injuries. He smirked again. His mother at least was usually only concerned with his clothing and what sort of an impression he would make to others, not that she obsessed over him to the extent she had with Nathan. Nathan couldn't go out without looking perfect. Peter couldn't go out unless his looks wouldn't be an embarrassment to Nathan. He shook his head as he arrived at the little store.

He got compression bandages and two models of splints. He felt like a shoplifter to be putting them right in his messenger bag, but whatever. _I'm moving imaginary stuff from one part of Sylar's mind to another. It's not stealing__._ He grabbed a tube of antibiotic ointment, too, then walked over towards the fruit and vegetable area, wondering where they kept freezer packs. He didn't know, didn't really look, and didn't happen across them either. He picked up an apple and snagged an individually wrapped muffin as he walked out. The apple went in the bag. He continued on, examining the packaging for the muffin.

He searched the entire thing as he headed back, examining it minutely. The sun had risen while he was in the store, but the rays weren't to the street yet. _Still...there ought to be an expiration date on here__._ There wasn't, quite stubbornly. He opened the package and ate it. It was good - a little sticky, but good. He reexamined the packaging again. _Still no date. Huh. What to do with it now? I wonder what happens to trash around here?_

He had such a list of questions for Sylar - 'are there seasons here or is it always this friggin' cold?' was the next one. There were palm trees here. It shouldn't be this cold. Curiosity wasn't Peter's strong suit, but there were some things he needed to know for basic life. And while sure, he could find out about the trash one by tossing the wrapper down and seeing if it was still there the next day; and he would eventually find out about seasons with the passage of time, it would be easier to ask the other man. If, assuming, the other man was willing to answer him rather than be an ass about things.

Peter finally looked up, only a half block from his destination now and saw that Sylar was waiting for him on the steps of the building they'd explored the day before. Again, Peter wondered why Sylar picked there to sit - was it because it was across from the door of Peter's apartment building, or was it because it was in front of the building Peter intended to explore? Hardly mattered, he supposed.

A more important issue suddenly came to mind as he played events forward a bit. Now he was in a quandary and it was his own fault. He hadn't put on the compression bandage at the store, thinking he'd go back to his apartment and do it there. If he went up to his apartment, Sylar might follow him. It wasn't that unreasonable, but telling him not to would be awkward. Peter hadn't done that good a job with the cloth strips, so not putting the bandage on wasn't really an option, yet if he did it out here on the street, Sylar might want to help him - also awkward.

Peter huffed. _Let's get this over with_. He was on the sidewalk on his building's side of the street already, so he continued his path. He walked to the steps and settled down, scrupulously ignoring Sylar, who was across the width of the street from him. Peter opened his bag and pulled out the compression bandage. With his left he dug out a multi-tool knife. He looked at it blankly for a moment. _How do I open this with one hand? Dammit. I am __**not **__going to accept help__. _Very carefully he worked his fingernail into the indentation at the top of the tiny set of scissor and swung it out. It was easier than he'd expected. He began to cut off the cloth strips from his right hand.

XXX

After seventeen minutes and twelve seconds of waiting, a surprisingly short period, Peter appeared, having already been out by the look of the muffin he had in hand. Sylar eyed it with momentary and half-hearted devious intentions; before 'Hell' as he termed it, when he'd had regeneration he'd always been hungry. _Something about burning through nutrients and calories at a super human pace_.

It would be a chore to approach the man until he'd eaten that, even if he no longer had regeneration and the (other) hunger to eat almost anything in sight. Peter, however, appeared oblivious to his presence; not entirely unexpected as he didn't exactly stick out of the cityscape sitting as he was and all. From across the street, unimpeded by traffic, Sylar couldn't tell if Peter was being purposefully oblivious however, something that annoyed him.

It would totally be within Peter's motives to pretend not to see him for as long as possible. _Off to a flying start today, I see_. He fought off the urge to allow his expression to sour. _Momentary set-back, that's all._ He watched the other man, thoroughly engrossed in his (_fucking blueberry_) breakfast, sit similar to Sylar only on _his_ side of the street.

Sylar was left to quirk an eyebrow at that. If it was intentional…he had that much further to go, literally. He stood, but didn't shake his cramping, jittery legs like he wanted (Peter might spook or…see it and take it funny, whatever), instead crossing the street solidly meanwhile thinking of metaphors and tacky unanswerable jokes about chickens…

The analogy caught him as so unfunny as to actually be amusing, so, biting down on his lip, he approached Peter as he began to fiddle with…a knife? His humor dissipated on sight and his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of that. _Oh, right. I-talian Eagle Scout and all_. He rolled his eyes and made enough noise walking over so he avoided startling the one-handed man with a freaking knife.

Peter made a lousy job of springing out the small scissor attachment in the knife before he tried to cut the bandage, Sylar's sheet strips. So he had used them. That made him grin slightly to himself as he murmured a greeting, "Morning," as he sat beside the lamed medic. _Can't use one hand to save people, Peter. No people here to be saved, right? Can't even save yourself…_ The cold was traveling up his legs and butt, the concrete making his back that much stiffer.

XXX

Sylar walked over as Peter got started. This was not a surprise. After all, Peter was here; he was doing something. Were their positions reversed, then yeah, Peter would be over there looking to see what was up. He wouldn't have sat himself down next to someone who had made it so clear they didn't want him near them though, or whom he had a history of killing them, their family members, friends and a mixed bag of strangers. But maybe for Sylar, that just wasn't that big a deal. Peter tensed, hunched and tried to ignore the other man, not even returning his murmured greeting.

XXX

Sylar gazed at the package of compression bandaging Peter hadn't opened and couldn't open. Deciding on a tactic (one he'd…vaguely picked up on from TV pre-Hell but clearer from Nathan and how to…act around a brother) Sylar picked up the package and held out his hand, surgeon-like, for the knife Peter had finished with before he put it away.

He made absolutely sure not to so much as glance Peter's way as he did this, his eyes fixed to the package. His hand remained empty for all of five seconds as Peter processed, but soon he felt slightly-warmed metal and deftly twisted it around in his hand, plucking out the actual knife portion. The blade exposed, he popped it quickly (unthinking of the motion, noise or speed of the action) into the otherwise-sealed plastic. _Heh, that was fun. Oh, god…just let me not turn into one of those kids with bubble wrap, please._

XXX

The medic had sat on the right side of the steps, where there was a raised edge he could rest his right elbow on. He'd laid out his materials to his left. Sylar sat on the opposite side of them and almost immediately picked up the very thing Peter would need next – the compression bandage. Peter glanced over at that and said nothing. He finished cutting free the cloth strips and looked over, beginning to bristle, as what he needed was still in Sylar's hand. Sylar's other hand, empty, was extended to him. He looked between hand and face – Sylar's expression was blank and he was looking studiously down.

Peter realized what was wanted, but it was the body language that defused him, not the offer itself. There were many ways Sylar could have offered to open the package for him that he would have refused, argued, or objected. This was not one of them. He put the knife in Sylar's hand and turned back to his hand, peeling off the bandages from his knuckles while Sylar fought with the stubborn plastic. He had no fear that Sylar would do anything to him with a two and a half inch blade. If he had been concerned, it would have been that the other man would slice himself on the plastic.

XXX

Extending the knife back to Peter, sans eye contact, Sylar dug into the hole he'd made, peeling apart the plastic by main force. The reason he used brute strength rather than the knife is he couldn't imagine Peter appreciating the hacking, sawing movement or the sound since it was one of those _welded_ shut packages. Soon he'd created an opening and tugged the bandage out as gracefully as he could, tossing the container aside carelessly and handed the prize to Peter, staring straight ahead as if nothing had happened because that was the key.

Brothers, hell, men in general did things for each other and either hit each other, laughed it off or ignored it and pretended it hadn't happened. They'd already covered the hitting; the laughing probably wouldn't ever come, so pretending was the easiest way. _Act bored, just act bored. Surely even he can't find fault in that?_

XXX

Peter took the knife back, relaxing a bit more at the continued lack of eye contact. Peter closed it by putting the back of the blade against his thigh, then set it down on the step next to him in case he needed it for anything else. He waited another long beat when Sylar offered the bandage. _No strings attached? Huh_. He took it and began wrapping, knowing he really ought to say something – Thanks, Good Morning – something. He huffed instead and applied himself to his task.

XXX

Peter snatched the bandage away after a pause for those dented cogs in his head to spin around a dozen times or so; almost like he was afraid Sylar would force the damn bandage on him or something. While the thought was amusing and admittedly tempting, Peter was giving him the red light. He could see it; he just usually ignored it; he usually didn't have to pay attention to what someone was feeling.

Contrary to popular belief, he was pretty astute at reading people after having a good twenty-five years or so of hard, day-in/day-out practice with a highly unstable adoptive mother…figure person. And if popular belief were true, as a psychopath he could easily read what a person wanted in direct opposition to what they said they wanted. Psychopaths were _shallow_, the books said and that had always irked him, almost as much as the label did. He knew he had feelings, people just ignored them (okay, and he sort of hid them).

Psychopaths easily shifted their _shallow _exterior to adopt what the person needed at the time, rather what they said they wanted. So Peter got his foot of space in actuality, got his knife back and got all the help he would willingly allow himself to receive even though they were both aware that Sylar would assist in binding his hand.

XXX

Peter snugged up the bandage, tested what limited flexibility he had, then set down the rest of the roll. He picked up the splint that would hold his wrist and hand immobile. What he had was more suited to carpel tunnel, but it would work. Maybe in the afternoon or tomorrow he'd go looking for a hospital, pharmacy or hospital supply store. He secured it then reached down to pick up the box the antibiotic ointment came in. He poked in the end with his thumb and fiddled with it briefly until he got it out. He let the box drop and picked up the tube, working the cap with thumb and forefinger while holding it with the same hand.

XXX

_So far…so good_. The only response he got was a huff, but he was fairly sure it was aimed at Peter himself and not Sylar. It made him wonder though, just how inhuman the Heroes thought he truly was. _Surely Peter…_ He pursed his lips, ditching that line of thinking. It no longer mattered. He supposed what did matter now was how interesting things would get until Peter trusted him. And how long it would take.

XXX

He could feel Sylar's eyes on him during this operation, but he was pretty sure if he looked over, the other man would look away and that was fine. Keeping his eyes on his task, Peter asked, "You ever been hurt all that bad here, while you were alone?" Peter applied the ointment to his knuckles. He frowned down at his supplies. He'd planned – as much as he _had_ planned – to do this in his apartment where he had bandages. _Oh__ well__. _The ones he'd just taken off had been applied less than an hour before. He started putting them back on.

XXX

Sylar found himself watching with only a kernel of curiosity for the process of 'how to wrap a broken finger' and Peter didn't give him an indication that it was somehow wrong or that it was unwelcome. The other man asked him about his previous injuries here in Hell and he glanced up, a little stunned.

_Odd question….probing for weaknesses?_ He smoothed his face over in case Peter decided to look, swallowed and licked his lips before he answered, "I broke a toe, sprained my ankle, cracked a knuckle, twisted my knee, so no." All his attempts at 'out' or attention from the non-existent populace had ended in a one-sided fight with a face of a building, immoveable and solid. _Doesn't matter now. You're here to take over that job. Aren't you, Peter?_

Sylar made a face as Peter reapplied a used bandage to his knuckles after turning it over and he caught sight of Peter's black eye. Wouldn't it just make more sense to get another strip of fabric or band-aids when they explored instead of using an old bandage? That was Peter's problem since he was not inviting any real help.

"I dropped a plate once, sliced up my thumb and hand…lots of times, actually, with the can opener. Bashed my elbow into a cupboard trying to open some juice; the arm stayed numb for a week, turns out it was fractured. Tried to stay awake to shut myself down, see if I still had….abilities….hit my head in the shower. Got an infection once, lasted about a week. Burned my part of my hand relearning how to cook without telekinesis; it's actually harder than it sounds."

Sylar's voice was similar to someone reading things off his grocery list, trying to keep the emotion from his face as well. It was probably something most people considered 'personal'. To him it was a bad time he'd rather forget. He was totally confused as to why Peter would want to know, unless it was 'What can I expect here?'

Everything had healed over time, not a scar or nick to be found. Somehow the idea of suicide wasn't as prominent as it probably would have been….should have been otherwise. He'd felt a horrible pang of empathy for Claire who had no pain on top of being unmarked. "Nothing changes," he whispered to himself, adjusting his elbows on his knees, his fingers twined together loosely as he looked out over the street wistfully.

XXX

Peter snorted and continued on his knuckles. "How do you cook _with_ telekinesis? I can't even imagine that."

XXX

Sylar made a face, barely holding back a glare. It wasn't his fault Peter couldn't cook or use telekinesis. It was probably too delicate for a messy empath. "Yes," he drew out the word a little slowly, careful to keep anything from his tone. "It's...a hard habit to break. I guess three years learning it and three years going the other way."

XXX

Peter sighed. _More attitude. Well...whatever_. "What I mean is, how do you actually cook with telekinesis _at all_? It's just moving things around. What are you doing with it when you cook? Using it to hold the pans on the burners or something?"

XXX

Persistent. Clearly he wasn't mocking if he was still asking. "Moving stuff around, I can flip a pretty good omelet," he grinned a little to himself, "I never got much chance to use it, you know. I mean, with Ted's power we c- I could technically be the fire while I did it. Great for multi-tasking."

XXX

_We__?_ Peter glanced over. _We__? _That was so loaded he didn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. "Yeah. So I've been meaning to ask, since you've-"_ said you've_ "been here three years... are there seasons, or is it always this cold?" He put the last bandage back on his right hand, smoothing it down carefully, and began to remove the ones on his left. The scuffs and abrasions there were much slighter - hardly broke the skin even. Under normal circumstances Peter wouldn't have bothered with bandages on them, but he'd been bored last evening.

XXX

Sylar sucked on his lower lip instead of biting it as he wished, managing to cover a wince at his lapse. It was just instinct. Most people he interacted with were specials. He had the urge to whistle to distract the other man. He tilted his head, looking around a bit with disinterest. "Eh...seasons is a...relative term. It won't always be cold but the leaves don't turn color, flowers don't bloom..." He shrugged, really at a loss for an answer; possibly a bi-product of having a Petrelli near. He stole a quick glance at Peter's left hand, practically unblemished. While he had his own questions, he knew Peter was the newbie here and needed them answered first; his own curiosity could wait as it had for, yes, three years.

XXX

Peter dabbed ointment on fairly liberally. "Okay. That...answers something else I was wondering about - gardens, growing things." He straightened, rolling his shoulders and looking off down the street like he expected to see something that wasn't there. _I want out__._ He sighed, frowned and looked back at his hand. "Do we-" _Now I'm doing it. Fucking 'we__.__' Oh well._ "Do we ever run out of things here?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head sadly. He was no green-thumb, but growing something, being responsible for a plant would be similar to having a pet he imagined. It would have been _something_. Peter began moving around and it made him want to move around; the concrete was no fun to sit on when the cold seeped through his jeans. _I should call him grasshopper. Ha_. Sylar turned towards him, amused and not-so-secretly delighted at the plural pronoun's usage from Peter. "No. I never have to scavenge; not really. It's...it seems to replenish itself. I don't know how or even why." It sucked not having answers, especially when he was being asked for would-be wisdom.

XXX

Peter started rewrapping the bandages on his left hand now, taking care not to get the adhesive fouled by the ointment. "Huh. I guess that's good to know. How about trash? I hadn't really paid any attention to the trash can in the apartment, but," he shrugged one shoulder, "I don't want to be throwing stuff in the street if I'm going to have to walk over it for the next however long." _I am __**certain**__ Parkman could get me out of here if he tried. This isn't a freaking one-way ability. I must have lost it somehow when I touched Sylar. Maybe I accidentally swapped one of his abilities. That would explain __**a lot**__. An awful lot._

XXX

"Disappears." Sylar scratched at his calf through his pants, the feeling uncomfortable in the chill weather. Peter was making him look bad what with his head-to-toe medical care. Sylar took care of immediate needs and immediate pains if at all possible (because sometimes it wasn't) and dealt with the fall-out once he was safe. _That's his job. He can get sued for that kind of crap. When was the last time I was in a hospital?_ "If you did, it would probably be gone within a week or so...it seems to depend on how often you see it or visit the area. I'm not sure why."

XXX

Peter nodded and picked up the tube of ointment. He made a gesture with his right hand - just an odd, abortive motion with it._ Damn it. With the freaking brace on I can't get my thumb and forefinger together anymore._ He picked up the cap to the tube, also with his left, and stuck it in his mouth. He screwed it back in. _I'm going to have to put up with this for weeks? That ain't happening. That's going to get really frustrating, really fast. Next time I go back to hitting him over the head with 2x4s, I swear__._ "Well, that's good to hear, I guess. So don't toss things where we go frequently and we'll be fine, huh?" He changed subjects back to an earlier one. "Does it ever rain or get windy or anything like that?"

XXX

"Y-yeah," was his response. He was hesitant to address this one because he had his suspicions about it and it probably showed. Over the years it had finally dawned on him that the weather appeared to follow his...moods, roughly put. He liked to ignore that part of it. Peter was just turning into the act of the day, wasn't he? Sylar's attention was being focused more and more on what Peter was doing (trying to do). "Wind, rain, storms, thunder, hail sometimes...and lightning." He really shied from that one, splaying his hands on his knees.

_XXX_

_Huh. Is he scared of storms? Wouldn't that be a riot? Scary serial killer, frightened by thunder. I'll have to remember that for the next time I think he's going to snap and kill me__._ "Okay. That sounds pretty scary. I've never liked tornados myself." He shook his head. "Whirlwinds." It was true; not that it was a crippling phobia, or that he'd had to deal with it much in his life. He realized he was sharing automatically and tensed.

XXX

Sylar caught the condescension at 'That sounds pretty scary.' Go figure his reluctance to address a fucking storm was read as fear. His fear was long since past, the person who had owned the lightning...equally harmless and no longer worthy of anxiety. "Oh, it's completely terrifying," he shot back, keeping his tone within the realm of teasing, but laden with sarcasm all the same.

XXX

Peter shot him a smirk as he gathered his stuff back up and put it in the bag, then stood up. "So, uh... I was going to continue where we left off yesterday." He jerked his head at the building. "Over there."

XXX

As Sylar stood to follow Peter, he got the static again: _/"...Sometimes the cabin gets so compressed it crushes the pilot," he was telling his seven year old kid brother, ever full of questions. Nathan had completed boot camp and was soon to leave again for further training and eventually a post. "What happens to the plane in a tornado, Nate?" He'd asked, so innocent and wide-eyed with fear for his idol. But now it was "Really?" There would be no pulling the wool over this kid's eyes, evidenced by the expressive furrowing of his dark little eyebrows up at Nathan as he unpacked. "Ah, yah. I'm pretty sure they give you a Purple Heart for those missions. If you survive. They happen all the time in the Middle East, Pete. And when they get really bad...__"/ _Sylar's balance wavered, but he caught himself and stood straight. "Huh?" He'd missed what his companion said, but clued in at the gesture. "Ah, yeah. Great."

XXX

Peter stretched a little more, taking a few steps and working his thigh from where it had stiffened while sitting. He watched Sylar for a few moments as he did so, wondering if the wavering was due to lingering effects of the concussion or something else. When it didn't recur, Peter didn't obsess about it. _Okay, let's go__._ He didn't actually say it, though, because he didn't really want Sylar to come with him. He just expected he would. He glanced over at the other man. _I wonder if it's possible he'll go off and do something else? Nah._ He turned back and crossed the street, looking up and down the empty pavement. _It's really lonely out here. I don't like it. If Matt Parkman can manage to make a place where __**Sylar **__is good company, then...wow, that says something pretty twisted about Matt's brain_.

Peter went inside, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. He stopped once inside and stretched his leg again. Yes, the pause would make Sylar wait - or the other man could go around him. If he was going to be following Peter around, then he'd have to put up with Peter acting like he wasn't there. "Do you still think you're going to live forever? In here?"

XXX

Sylar stayed behind Peter as they entered the building. He was surprised by the choice of stairs. _Is he trying to be tough or work out a cramp here?_ He was left to make a quick decision whether or not to hawk over Peter and his leg, risking serious awkwardness; or if he moved on and around, risking the appearance of callousness. He stepped around Peter and continued up the stairs, taking his time, since the motion did unpleasant things to his back_. __I'm not a mother hen for you, Peter,_ he told himself. So he heard the man's question and it gave him pause. Sylar turned from the flight above the medic to face him. "I think I'm going to live as long as long Hell goes on. In here," he delivered with solemnity and seriousness. _'You don't have Claire's power...I don't know how long you'll last, Peter'_ he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Giving him a weary, pained glance, he headed up to the fourth floor.

XXX

Peter waited until Sylar was well out of sight before miming him mockingly, _'I'm gonna live as long as Hell lasts__.' _He didn't actually speak, he just mouthed the words and moved his head sarcastically. _Yeah, sure. You don't __**have**__ Claire's power in here__. _He sighed. _I should drop it. This place is thick with logic problems. He thought it was real. Might still. Just leave it alone, Peter, unless you __**want **__to start another fight__. _Slowly, he mounted the stairs, emerging on the third floor. _Which floor were we on last time?_ "Sylar?" He listened. No answer. "Sylar?" Still no answer. _Huh_. He went on up to the fourth floor, stopping with his hand on it. _He's got to be around here somewhere. But if this isn't the right floor, and he's trying to stage an ambush or something, then I'm getting out of here. I wanted to freaking __**avoid**__ him. Why am I following him anyway?_ He snorted, rolled his eyes, and opened the door anyway. "Sylar?"

XXX

Letting the door clang shut behind him, he meandered into the hall and around the corner, hands contentedly in his pockets. There was nothing here to keep his attention besides Peter. And Peter was being a slow-poke today. Sylar didn't turn as he heard his name called; the source and the source's location obvious. He was visible enough in the middle of the freaking hall. "Lost so soon, Peter?" Sylar gently, very gently teased, leaving out his thoughts on Peter being afraid of the dark...(Also dirt he possessed on Peter's childhood). Wasn't he generous? Maybe he was feeling playful. He opened a door at random and made a mild if facetious gesture of 'after you', tilting his head and letting himself in with a grin on his face.

XXX

Peter didn't dignify Sylar's question with an answer, but he did approach him and looked into the apartment Sylar had opened. After a pause to review it, he walked inside. The set of his shoulders relaxed a little. Sylar had sat next to him earlier, walked past him in the stairwell and Peter passed by him now as he walked into the room. The distance between them was literally shrinking, but more noticeably Peter was not bristling so much and reacting warily at every move from the killer. This was not to indicate any acceptance of the other man's actions, but rather an acknowledgment that perhaps there was nothing to be on guard against here. The back of Peter's mind remained dead-certain that was a "_here_" condition only – with abilities, outside, Sylar would still be very much a threat and one that Peter was ill-equipped to contain.

For now though, he didn't need to think about that. They might leave tomorrow or maybe in ten years, or maybe Peter would die here (tomorrow, or in ten years, or a hundred – he didn't know). He'd think about it some other time. He was sometimes cautious, occasionally afraid, and tried not to get hurt, but his own mortality had rarely stopped him from attempting something if the cause was worthwhile.

XXX

Sylar prowled around aimlessly, careless of the belongings in the rooms, but then again he'd never been careful with them. He gave only the initial, cursory glance as Peter entered. Peter also seemed to be slowly losing his inhibitions towards it. _This isn't gonna sink in for a while and it has nothing to do with my presence_, was his insightful comprehension. _It's a nature, isn't it_, he grumped to himself, wishing he could fast forward it or something. He knew he couldn't expect Peter to just 'get over it'; he wasn't capable of it; he wouldn't _let_ himself 'get over it' either.

_Is Peter ever_ going_ to let this go, not just get over it? It's either that or giving up and he's….that's just not in him_. He knew from experience, even if he couldn't claim it as his. _So much crap so fast_, he thought. _Mind rape, being a hollowed out husk, then getting my body back, asking for help then…__._this. _I got my body back, now there's someone in the world now. I don't know how or why, but he's here. So….now what?_

XXX

Peter looked around the place and started making judgments and guesses – occupant male, middle aged, middle-income and employed, no pets, no kids – not here at least. He walked over and looked at the books on the built-in shelves, letting his eyes trail over the titles on the spines. "You ever search these apartments yourself, or is this all new to you?" He squatted to look in the cabinet set into the wall under the shelves. There was a photo album. He pulled it out with a surge of enthusiasm, only to find it full of pictures of landscapes. He stared at it blankly. _What was it I expected to see?_

He looked over his shoulder at Sylar, then back at the album. He put it up quietly. _A human face. Whoever lived here. That's what I wanted to see. This whole place, all these apartments, and the only person who really lives here is __**him**__. And me, I guess. Now_.

XXX

After he'd perused the bedroom and bathroom, finding nothing shocking or of use; it was a guy's apartment, what could really be interesting in it? Sylar leaned back against the wall and watched Peter. The man picked up a photo album (must've been a girlfriend involved in that one) and he wasn't surprised. _Still looking for people?_ He knew what the medic wouldn't see. He kept his eyes on Peter, not being shy about it this time. "I explored lots of buildings, first just to look for people, then signs of people than for anything useful or a place to crash. I ended up at my apartment, which you've seen," was the answer.

XXX

Peter looked at the back of the couch, then pulled it away from the wall a few inches and peered down between the furniture and the wall. _What am I looking for here? I know there's no one here. (Not that they'd be hiding behind the couch of all places.) Or do I know no one's here? There's Sylar__. _He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of pawing through Sylar's apartment like this. The thought of invading the other man's space like that was amusing, not that Peter was about to do it. It was invasive enough just being mired here in his head. _It's not like there's going to be anyone else in here__._ He stood up, brow furrowed. _Sylar…was in Matt's head somehow. Then who was in Nath-, uh, Sylar's body?_

He looked over at Sylar and then down, blinking back a moment of sadness and confusion. It wasn't a question he wanted answered yet and he knew it. Even more, he didn't think he'd believe what Sylar had to say. He gave himself a little shake and went on into the dining room. He looked over objects, touching them, shifting them, going through the place one possession at a time, in no great hurry but moving steadily.

XXX

Sylar's brows inched upwards at the couch-wall ratio checking. "It might be New York, but sorry, no rats." _There went his pet idea_, he mentally sniggered. He found his gaze wandering and what more interesting than Peter; injured, cranky and depressed as he was.

It was difficult to keep his mind off…the things he wished to do, the things he wished he could let himself think about. But he knew once that cat left the bag he could never put it back again. _He'll…come around to something….eventually_. Right? If he could keep his cool, his control and in doing that control his communication which was his biggest problem (and thereby Peter's), he would win him over.

_So what now?_ He felt something had changed after the fight, not just the lack of death-threats either. Then he caught Peter turning away with a deeply saddened expression. _It wasn't me. I didn't do it. (Did I?)_ It was getting frustrating and he didn't handle that well; violence or snark or even talking someone's ear off to ease his discomfort with a situation and none of it would actually help here.

"Um, Peter…" he began lamely, trying not to belabor 'why the hell are you here' and 'how did you get here' or ask the personal questions that would just get him smacked again, but trying to…be involved. Casually. (_Involved?_) "What was the worst scene you had to clean up?" Whew. Something Nathan wouldn't know, something that was unrelated, casual….safe? _I'm learning something; it's not a failed question_.

XXX

Peter appreciated, probably more than Sylar knew, the opportunity to think about something else, as well as the invitation to talk. The subject itself - that made him smile, and not because he was a fan of gore, but because that was such a popular question. In fact, it was something of a running joke among EMTs. There were many hilarious answers. "Heh," Peter said, wondering if he could pull one off on Sylar, and what sort of reaction the other man would have to it if he did.

"Lemme guess, you don't have any experience with EMTs and what they have to deal with, do you?" He cast a speculative eye over Sylar's response, confirming for himself that yeah, he might be able to pull this off. He wandered into the kitchen and started looking through drawers, one after another. It gave him an excuse to keep his face turned away and minimize how much he was likely to give away.

XXX

"Vaguely, yeah," Sylar nodded seriously, his expression interested and unsuspecting when Peter glanced back. The medico launched into his story, and it was a story. He was a little surprised by that somehow, recognizing he'd asked the man to tell him a _story_ and even more so intrigued that Peter was actually taking him up on it. _Cool_. He nodded and made the appropriate sounds to encourage the man to continue; _oh, please do continue_. It had been a throw away question from him, but Peter took it and went with it and he was getting more than he'd hoped for. It had been the right question.

XXX

"The worst scene I was ever called to was an auto accident, but that wasn't the bad part." He shrugged. "The people in the car, they were fine, just shook up. They'd ended up in the ditch after swerving to miss the body. It was out on the highway; it was dark; summertime; really hot day. Whoever hit him first must have just clipped him. I say him, but it was so bad no one could tell if it was male or female - at least, not from the side of the road. Two or three different cars must have run over him."

XXX

Sylar winced as Peter got to the part about the sex of the person, trying to picture it and not picture it at the same time. "Wow," he murmured. _A whole body? Getting run over two or three_- He didn't have time to pick it apart because Peter was already moving on and he was enraptured.

XXX

Peter sank down to open a cabinet, continuing talking in a mostly bland monologue. He shook his head slowly and sadly. "The thing you don't realize about corpses…or maybe you do, really…" He paused considering that most of Sylar's kills had been, as far as Peter knew, fairly clean. He shuddered, not wanting to contemplate that. _Back to the story__. _"Anyway, it's the _smell_. The abdomen had been torn open, guts were out there, there's this stench in the air and here's Hesam - my partner - trying to get me to go out there and pull this body off a busy highway at night. _**No. Way**_. I have limits, man." He shook his head again and hazarded a glance back to see how his audience was taking it.

XXX

Sylar did narrow his eyes at the part about corpses, mostly so Peter's spine knew he was onto his brain and mouth's train of thought there. Peter missed it with his back turned, but it was the thought that counted, right? It hadn't been menacing anyway. "Hmm," was his hum of response. He'd read about the smell of the abdominal cavity during autopsies and Discovery Channel animal shows and such.

_Wait, who's Hes- Oh, okay_, he wondered briefly, following gamely along. His eyebrows rose as Peter adamantly refused to get the body and that really did surprise him. _/"Triumph of the human spirit?"/_ He could understand the why (not) in this case, but this was still Peter Petrelli, Rescue Hotline One-Oh-One. Even to corpses he was sure, Nathan's memories assuring him of that about the hospice care.

XXX

Peter moved on to another cabinet. "It's not like anyone's life was going to be saved. Dead was dead. We put up some road flares and worked the auto accident until some cops showed up. Then we got _them_ to do it." He didn't think he could milk this much further without Sylar catching on, so he wrapped up (even though Peter had seen a few masterful tale-spinners continue this particular story for fifteen or twenty minutes). "I'll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a dead skunk on hot asphalt."

Peter stood with the punch line in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat, or…really, he had no idea how Sylar was going to take the joke. In retrospect, he suspected this was probably a really dumb idea.


	12. Telling Stories

Day 7

A grin must have stuck on his face for some reason, probably because Peter was good at relaying the events and he was interested to see where they concluded. He chuckled at imagining Peter conniving the police, not the 'rescue' team to clean up a body because it was a mess. And before he could clue in on that fact, Peter delivered the punch line he hadn't seen coming.

He laughed, completely unexpected even from him. "A-a skunk?" he managed around his laughter. Oh, god, he'd forgotten Peter had a sense of humor. Something panged inside him, but he ignored it. He clapped his hands a few times, not really at or for Peter, just in amused reaction. His face felt like it would break since he hadn't laughed this hard since…well….

"Oh, god, Petrelli….You're a keeper," he said once he'd calmed down sufficiently. The words held no meaning and his tone was normal and light. He placed a hand on his stomach for a brief moment to remember to breathe before he straightened; not noticing that he'd adjusted his stance a little. Exhaling, he smiled at Peter, who now stood. "I didn't know EMTs covered the animal division."

Sylar had his own memories of road kill, some that had scarred his memory as a child as the…animal had been still alive and stuck and…But Peter's story brought levity, much needed. He recognized that Peter Petrelli would probably end up doing most of the story-telling here, at least on the lighter side. He interacted with people (and animals) and had actual stories to divulge.

He noticed that had not answered his question by any means, but Peter's reply had been what he needed to hear, not what he'd been expecting. "Good one."

Peter grinned right back and it was a pleasant sight. C'mon, it was a face and it was a nice face. It was smiling because of him and that was a good feeling. The medic went back to rummaging and that was kind of amusing. He hoped Peter didn't think that he considered him….some kind of doll with a pull string, available for cheap amusement. He considered that a moment. Actually….up until now, he almost had thought of him that way.

XXX

Peter gave him an easy grin back, very pleased to have put a smile on Sylar's face. It was so much better than a scowl, or a glare, or that arrogant condescension the man seemed to wear like it was his favorite hat. And he had such a nice smile, which was really surprising. Peter was glad to see it again, but he got his eyes away from it before his attention looked like anything else. He opened a drawer and sorted through a haphazard collection of utensils.

"Good to know you have a sense of humor," he said and chuckled. "I have to tell you I was a little worried there for a moment." _You certainly do worry me. The limits of what you might do are just way off the chart__._ He shut the drawer and went on to the cutlery drawer, actually bending down a little - a spot hurt in his back where he was sure he had a bruise from Sylar's elbow - and looking inside, behind the silverware tray. There was a collection of bits of kitchen errata there - a cocktail fork, some straws, and salt packets from a fast food place, among other things. _No cockroaches here. That has its good points, at least._

XXX

The other man chuckled at him, a sound that, in the past, hadn't spelled good things. "I could say the same thing about you." Heh, oops. Was that losing his cool or…being normal to Peter? He recalled several snarkier things Peter had delivered even while they were at odds with each other; enemies; of course he had other sources for Peter's idea of manipulating, teasing, pranking and interacting.

XXX

"I think I'd have to say that every EMT who managed to get past the first breaker - it happens after a couple months in the seat - develops a pretty morbid sense of humor. You kind of have to. Every day, every person you go see, they're always hurt, a lot of the time ungrateful or uncooperative. I'm not saying that's wrong or they're bad people," Peter's voice softened and gentled remarkably, "they're just people." Then his tone went back to normal as he said, "But it wears a person down. You get swung on by a rowdy drunk or cursed at because something hurts and you can't make it stop instantly - there's a certain attitude towards it you have to learn or else the breaker breaks you."

XXX

His companion continued in the same vein and for once (for once in his life!) he didn't care one bit. He did _actually_ want to hear about Peter's job, gone though it may be, it didn't matter at all. He tilted his head and shifted his weight to get more comfortable, watching Peter's face where he could as he spoke and searched. He spoke about breakers. _Wait…breakers?_ That idea confused him coming from Peter.

Sylar watched the man's face and noted the changes in his voice as he talked about people, in general, that were injured and hurt. 'They're just people' stuck out at him, it barely made sense to him, actually. _How... why does he think they're 'just people'? No one is 'just people'._ His gut clenched when Peter spoke of losing someone; first for his own loss, that is murders, which led to the most…prominent and as yet unaddressed kill. Badly he wanted to ask of Peter, 'what do you know about loss?' not including Nathan, of course.

XXX

Peter opened the cabinet above the drawer and found himself looking at drinking glasses, mostly mismatched. He sorted through them with his left hand like he expected to find something behind them, which was absurd, but he did it anyway. "The next breaker comes the first time you lose someone - and not the first time someone dies, because yeah that's hard, but it's the first time you make a mistake and you realize, you _**know**_, that your mistake killed someone. If you'd done what you were supposed to do, if you'd done something different, they'd still be alive. A lot of people wash out then." He stared at the cabinet without really seeing the glasses anymore. He closed it and moved on to the one next to it: plates.

XXX

Half-aware, he saw Peter 'looking' for something in the glasses before he took on the plates. 'A lot of people wash out then' was so much more true than Peter knew and it made Sylar's gaze fall away from the other man's face, his own flickering over emotions he probably had little right to feel. Still, the former EMT went on, his voice dulling and that made Sylar ache by proxy.

XXX

Peter's voice got a little hollow. "The next one after that is when you realize you're not really making a difference. No matter how good you are at your job, there's always more calls and a lot of the time it's the _same_ people for the _same_ thing." He looked at the counter, frowning. He rubbed the edge of the brace against the counter and sighed. "Makes you just want to yell at them to quit fucking up their lives already.

"If you can make it past all of that, you're usually set until your body starts giving out." _The pay sucks, too__._ He smirked and looked over at Sylar, wondering if he should continue carrying the conversation, or shut up, or figure out something to ask the other man in return that didn't touch on the last few years. _I wonder if he's got any cool watchmaking stories? I suppose if he doesn't, I could tell him about that guy in the house on the island, where I had to cross that icy footbridge…_

XXX

_That explains why people yell at me_, it dawned on him quickly, _but it's not because they care. It's because you're fucking someone _else's_ life up. That explains Bennet and Angela and Peter. They won't help you because_ you couldn't change. His insides were already a little funky from a deep, long-overdue laugh moments before, but this made him uncomfortable, his feet shifting as he swallowed.

Peter glanced back and he straightened, not tensing, just covering up his adverse reaction, nodding at him and forcing a quick grin. _Unlike you, my body doesn't give out. My mind does. When it isn't being swept under the carpet or forced into police officer's heads._ "Totally listening, man," he said, just so Peter wouldn't stop. It wasn't like the things Peter said would affect him permanently, but the medic was so perceptive and he had no idea he was doing it. "I've heard that about medicine." Not detailing the fact that as a kid he once considered being a doctor 'when he grew up'.

_The one and only Brain Doctor, Neurosurgeon M.D, slightly used; a.k.a. the Boogeyman. I'm so special now__. _It made him wonder how much he'd thrown away those years ago the moment Suresh senior walked in his door. _Clearly a lot_, he supplied himself all-too-helpfully. Sylar was aware he'd missed whatever life-train that was supposed to make his stop. There hadn't been a lot of options. Why had every decision, every option always been a catch-twenty-two? In the end, he'd pleased himself, 'looked out for number one' because even when Virginia and Elle had been alive, even when he 'was a Petrelli', that was all he'd had. All he still had. He blinked and tried to focus on something else, desperate to do that.

XXX

Peter was getting a kind of weird 'read' off Sylar, not that this was terribly new as he didn't read people as well as he once did, and Sylar was fairly opaque under the best of circumstances. But this was a different weird than the previous weird. The man's smile was forced and whenever Peter looked over at him, he changed his body language from whatever it was unobserved, to whatever he was trying to project. While Peter considered that, he opened the refrigerator and looked at the contents.

Peter nodded to Sylar's observation. "Yeah, burn-out rate's pretty high." He shut the fridge. "I'll tell you another story." It was something to fill the time and reduce the awkwardness of the silence between them, and maybe even, Peter was hoping, reduce some of the latent hostility in the air. Just because he was talking to Sylar didn't mean he was happy with him, but as long as they studiously avoided talking about anything 'important', Peter could unwind a little and be civil.

He headed back to the bedroom, walking by Sylar and expecting the other man to follow him. He assessed the room, then started in on the dresser. "Last winter we had a bunch of snow, it had melted a lot, then refroze and it snowed again. So we had like an inch of ice under three or four inches of snow, which was also melting now – really nasty. Most people had enough sense to stay in though, for once, and we'd been lucky – me and Hesam, that is – if you want to call 'boring' lucky and a lot of EMTs do. We'd pulled transfers all day and had hardly gotten our boots wet. Transfers are when we move patients from one clinic to another. There's not much work involved, because the nurses will have them prepped and packed when you get there and pick them up at the door when you drop them off. You're just a glorified taxi service."

XXX

Sylar tagged along behind Peter in his search for…lint or his dead pet moth or something, thoroughly enjoying hearing his voice. Not that it was Peter's, but that it was _a_ voice and it spoke to _him_. And on top of that, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a story beyond _/'My boys have been such a disappointment. But you…I can give you what all boys crave from their mothers; inspiration and guidance'/ _along with his given name from dear '_Mommy_'. He grinned as Peter launched into another tale, the ache in his heart slowly fading away due to the amusement in the man's voice, knowing that they could have been brothers or close to it had they met under alternate circumstances.

His expression was open from the stories, even if Peter didn't think he was sharing anything, indeed he probably didn't see it, not that it mattered. Sylar took every word at face value. He chuckled at _lucky_ being the same thing as _boring_ and that struck him as just Peter's speed. It occurred to him to wonder just where Peter found the time to rescue the world (not just New York and his friends and family) and keep a full-time, full-responsibility job.

Sniggering at the image of Peter being a glorified taxi service was really the cherry on top of the story.

XXX

He didn't see anything of interest in the dresser, not even porn this time. He wandered into the closet, avoiding the nightstand for both porn- and gun-related issues. It was a little surprising the place _had_ a walk-in closet. The clothes were all out of date. Whoever had lived here was a big guy, around the middle more than tall. "So there we were, crashed in the break room. I was watching one of the Die Hard movies – it wasn't the first one, which is the best, so I wasn't real invested in it. Hesam was snoring. He'd been out late the night before with his brother at some karaoke club. Then the call came in."

XXX

Sylar kept his grin and moved into the bedroom behind Peter, poking aimlessly around over a bookshelf as the other man took to the closet. He was instantly forced to bite his lip over about a million "closet" jokes. _Oh, Peter…I see what Nathan was talking about with you. So naïve._

XXX

Peter opened some boxes in the closet a bit hesitantly, then relaxed. Bills, paperwork, records. On the last box, he jerked. Porn. _Ah!_ He knew that had to be around here somewhere. He shut the box, shook his head, colored a bit and left the closet, heading to the bathroom. He went on with his story. "The call was for a nonresponsive out in the middle of nowhere. I didn't even know we had a nowhere, New York City, but Hesam said he recognized the address and we went. It was this hilly little undeveloped district and the roads hadn't been plowed yet. On the way there, we got some details: the police had been dispatched, too; the subject's brother had gone by his house that morning and couldn't raise him so he walked around the place and could see in the windows that he was all slumped over in a chair and wouldn't respond to hammering; doors and windows all locked."

XXX

Hearing a sudden movement, he looked to see what the cause could be; Peter merely held a box, exposed for a moment, but he couldn't see inside from his position. The man closed it with an odd look as he left the closet in favor of the bathroom. Feeling sneaky and still able to hear Peter's voice, he padded inside himself, taking up the exact box that made his companion's expression so…whatever. Lifting the lid he was instantly stared in the face by a naked woman…on a magazine of course, but he practically threw it away from himself.

He'd seen women naked a time or two and all that, but _porn_ wasn't…he barely restrained himself from looking around to see if he'd been caught by Virginia. It was just that ingrained in him. A blush found itself on his face at the thought that Peter Petrelli had just seen this same magazine. He'd never owned a speck of porn or anything of the sort. Of course, he had used his library card to read a few romance novels as a teen. They were….cliché and predictable; no characters or real-life aspects to be found. None of it was his style. The magazine…model, he supposed he could call her, had no features on her face, where her face would be rather. Instead it was just blank skin with no hint of nose or eyes or mouth. He narrowed his eyes back at Peter. That probably did cut down on the value for him.

XXX

Peter found a box of bandages in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. A quick glance inside revealed they'd work for his knuckles. He set them out. "So we get there. Hesam's still hung over and there's no way we're getting the rig down this windy little driveway the guy has, so I get out on foot and head in. The police car had gone ahead, but I go over this rise and there it is stuck in the snow, one cop with it trying to get free and the other had gone ahead like I was doing. So it was a good thing we didn't try it ourselves. We'd have slid right down the incline into them. I go on and I'm sure getting my boots wet now, because it was slushy and a mess and I'm having to really watch my step with the ice under all of this."

He finished with the bathroom and headed out, recovering his messenger bag and moving to the dining room with it and the box of bandages. "Because all we need, you know, is one of us to slip and fall and need extraction – that's always embarrassing. I finally look up, because I'd been watching my feet and following the tracks of the other cop, and see that right in front of me is this rickety old wooden bridge – the only way to get over to the house." He glanced up at Sylar. "I kid you not – a freaking footbridge like out of a bad movie, with planks missing and only one rail, which looks on the edge of falling off. The other side has a rope and honestly it looks more reliable. The thing's covered with ice and it's above this little stream – I'd like to say a river, because really, when it's wider than you can jump across, it doesn't matter how much. If I fell in that thing I was going to be drenched in freezing cold water. It was all swollen from the melt."

XXX

Snorting to himself (the blood in his face rearranging itself by now), he moved to the dresser, just to be _doing_ something. Peter gave excellent details and he was able to follow the story, practically see the moment in time for himself and he appreciated that. Sylar wasn't surprised by how animated the other man was; Peter held his singular audience captive regardless. But when it came to the point about the 'river' as Peter dubbed it, Sylar did speak up in its defense: "I think that's a stream, actually," he suggested quietly, his voice quiet because it didn't matter if Peter heard or not. It did matter if he stopped _talking_.

XXX

He took off his old bandages and began to apply new ointment after wiping off the old. "I could see where the cop had slipped a couple times, but he'd made it. I started across. Speaking of the cop, all this time he's banging on the guy's door with his crowbar, trying to get in and all I can think of is how we're going to get the guy back if he's dead or unconscious. Well, actually, all I could think of was if one of these planks was going to break under me, or if I was going to slip on the ice. But I got across."

XXX

Sylar dragged his fingers over the random objects on the dresser without seeing them. Peter seriously did that for a living? Then again, who was he to talk, not that he made a living out of it. Sylar kind of made _death_ out of it. Momentarily he was distracted with Peter's long-gone, rather irrelevant conundrum: how to get the man back over the bridge, but his attention was snapped back once the rescue got within the house in the story. He watched Peter who was now re-bandaging his hand, properly this time.

XXX

"Now it's just me and the cop. Hesam's come over the hill and the other cop has given up on getting his car out, but neither of them are all that interested in trying that deathtrap of a bridge. We manage to force the door and head in. We go through the house – it smells pretty musty, but not bad; it's warm; it's dead quiet. We go in the den and there the guy is, slumped over just like his brother said. But his color really isn't all that bad and about as I notice that, I also notice this huge hearing aid on his ear."

He chuckled. "Cop touches his shoulder. Guy wakes up." He laughed again. "He's perfectly fine. Battery ran out on his hearing aid or something and he fell asleep in his chair. Nothing to worry about." Peter started putting new bandages on his right knuckles, smiling warmly. "Nothing to worry about, of course, except getting back across that bridge." He glanced up at Sylar, really looking the guy over, trying to read if he was still 'off' on his emotional read or if he'd settled during the story.

XXX

At first he blinked. Then Peter explained about the battery and he had no choice but to laugh again. _Peter_ _really is good with people, isn't he?_ Sylar thought to himself, his amusement tapering off and his chest felt funny in its absence. _Look at what he does; easing the tension, telling me what I probably need to hear and probably what he wants to talk about __instead of what I asked for._

His head tilted to make eye contact with Peter as he looked back from his self-care, Sylar's own face was still pleased and much more calm. He'd quickly slapped down the memories of Virginia's own hearing loss from his younger days. _Choosing_ not to recall how he'd had to repeat everything in his quiet, shy child's voice and how it annoyed her to anger. It got better after puberty when his voice broke and he rumbled instead of squeaking and whispering.

"Sounds to me like you're the risk-taker of the group," was what he said, thinking, _we're so different, but god, if he isn't just like me in some ways_. He knew that would be a bad case of over-sharing and not knowing a good thing when he saw it and avoided glancing at Peter's busted hand as he delivered his comment.

XXX

Peter laughed off Sylar's comment. "Yeah, maybe, but I've gotten in a lot of trouble over that. I'm not a very good partner…or rather, I'm not good at it the way my partners want me to be." He leaned back, frowning, and reached over to flick at one of the bits of waxed paper from the bandages. Hesam's words came back to him: _'You run off the second we get on scene. I'm a chauffeur.'_ That had stung - really stung. Being called a chauffeur or taxi driver was one of the worst insults EMTs could sling around at each other. Having abilities and concealing them from Hesam had driven a wedge between them, at a time when Peter's only social outlet was his work.

He felt resentful and grumpy about his partners, which was what inspired his next story choice. "Here's one that's bothered me for a long time." Peter stood up and gathered his bag. They were done here, as far as he cared, so it was time to move on to a new apartment. "Maybe you'd like to hear it." He laughed a little hollowly. "It's not like I've ever had the chance to tell it to anyone."

XXX

Sylar swallowed hastily. _Er, what? Good at what now, exactly?_ Peter delivered it so honestly that he was clueless as to how Sylar might be (and was) taking his words. "Last time I checked it was about the patient, not the partner," he replied, voice a little reedy. He watched the man closely out of the corner of his eye as the storm grew in Peter's expression. He tilted his head, eyes widening as his companion (not to be confused with 'partner') was about to let him in on the equivalent of a secret._ Whoa__…_ he didn't know what to say or do for that one; it shocked him to the core.

Then it struck him. Peter had nothing to lose now. What good was a fucking secret when there was only one person to know? _He's not entrusting you with anything, get over it_. He did slowly, but his lower lip jutted out a moment as he thought. The creepy laugh put him off and he didn't like considering what this man would have to have seen to utter it so well. Peter was on the move again and he followed as a faithful shadow on to the next frontier, AKA apartment. _Then again….he doesn't have to share this, but he is anyway._

XXX

The next apartment was another messy one, but not with trash. It was cluttered and full of things, very much like Sylar's place, but the objects themselves were different - not books and clocks, but crafts and carved wood and pottery. _Huh__. __Neat__._ Peter smiled a little. There was a lot to see here and that pleased him. He started in on the living room while he talked.

XXX

The not-so final frontier was crowded and cramped with something Sylar would have called junk had it not been so similar to his own apartment. Objects littered the floor and nearly every available flat surface and he felt right at home, oddly enough, in the ocean of stuff. Peter looked happy, but Sylar was busy stroking at a carved quail figure. Whoever had lived here before, the guy was into pottery, carving and some leather working and toy-tinkering. In other words, his stuff could be useful. Peter looked around on his own as he launched into his third and probably a genuine horror story. How could he resist?

XXX

"A couple years back, just after I'd started as an EMT, I didn't have a regular partner. I just took whoever I was assigned to. So me and this guy, we got called to a violent psych. There were two cop cars there, a third arriving, and five different people had this one guy pinned down on the grass. We get out and as it turns out, no one's really bad hurt, but the guy's not calming down, and they're going to send him in for evaluation. One of the cops asks me if we have a body bag.

"I say no, because we don't. And I'm not too wild about what he's suggesting, but I know it happens." He looked over at Sylar, realizing he needed to explain that before the other man got the wrong idea. "A body bag can be used as a makeshift restraint. It's thick canvas and it keeps them from thrashing around. We're not allowed to have a guy handcuffed in the ambulance without a cop right there with us and even then it's iffy, but we can have them strapped down and by the law that's fine." He gave a shrug and a roll of his eyes to indicate what he thought of that, then went back to searching, looking at a series of nesting eggs made up to be…dogs in suits? Something like that.

XXX

He straightened up, glancing at Peter as he blurted out something about body bags. _Has he ever been in one? He is on the 'good' side of the law…sort of__. _The medic explained the usage of the body bag and he nodded, turning towards a full table, poking around on it. His eyebrows rose slightly as Peter explained the laws, rather, the rights of the 'patient' such as it was. _Well, you learn something new every day__. _He agreed with Peter on this one; whatever that law or practice was, it was ridiculous. Not to mention it inhibited saving people. Not that he gave a damn.

XXX

"My partner gets on the line and has them send us over a body bag. I try to talk to the guy, but he's cursing and struggling and really strung out, plus the cops aren't letting up and there's no way for me to get a connection with him. The other ambulance gets there and we get him in the bag, long story a little shorter. Just at the end, he manages to spit right in the face of one of the other EMTs, and after everything else we'd been doing trying to handle this guy, she lost it, tried to kick him, screamed back at him. Now this guy had been saying everything under the sun at us that was offensive and…"

Peter frowned, thinking back on that, seeing the scene, hearing the insults. He stopped looking at things and just stood there tensely, because it was provocative even in memory. "Her partner drags her off; she gets in their rig to drive. Her partner gets in the back of mine, with the patient and my partner. My partner tells me to drive. He knows I haven't been around long." Peter reached up and scratched lightly at the bump on his chin left by Sylar's fist, then up to his forehead in a nervous gesture.

XXX

Sylar engrossed himself physically in sorting through the tools of the previous occupant. He took up a small pick that he knew to be from the leather working and clay-carving station; an awl and he might have a use or two for it. There was a nice sized flat-head screwdriver that he stole as well. _Can never have too many__ screwdrivers__._ Peter spoke on about the experience; a wild raving lunatic by the sound of it causing his medical teams some disturbance. His mouth twitched in amusement at the idea of the medical lady being spat on…and then throwing a tantrum, but he knew the conclusion of the story when Peter said that the partners got in with the loon-patient. _No punch line for this one, I think_.

XXX

"I drive. I hear some noises from in back. I know what they're doing, but I turn up the radio chatter and put on the music. I didn't look in the rear view. We get to the psych ward. Patient seems same as before - violent, psychotic." Peter looked at the ceiling and sighed, then headed for the bedroom. "I guess they didn't hit him in the face. But that bothered the hell out of me."

XXX

The other man moved again, with a sigh, obviously still frustrated over something years past and he tagged behind at a distance, sensing the air to be….potentially unwelcoming. Into the bedroom they went, the exploring part fading to the background of the story-telling. Sylar got his ending, the one he predicted, too. And it was somehow offensive to his idea of who Peter was, somehow that was a little insulting, why he couldn't say. _You're __supposed to be the hero__. _That seemed to come from the additional person in his head, but he felt the same.

XXX

He glanced back at Sylar. "I try to tell myself that if I'd known what they were going to do, I would have tried to have my partner drive so it wouldn't have happened. But then even after I knew, I didn't stop the rig. I didn't report my partner. I just kept driving. But I never partnered with _him_ again." He shook his head. "There was no one I could even talk to about it." But it felt good to get it off his chest after all this time, sort of like a confession. _What a weird idea - Sylar listening to my sins. Ha._

XXX

Sylar stared head-on at Peter, not bothering to spare him the gaze he'd been told was intense. _For all your morals, you're so human, Petrelli_. The rest of his mind was having difficulty with what he'd been told. It didn't matter now; the loony patient was long gone, Peter didn't work at Mercy any longer and so couldn't report the former partner. Peter had no responsibility to the public any longer and 'people were people'.

Peter Petrelli essentially stood by and watched someone get beaten. From Sylar's perception the incident in and of itself was unamazing. _One__ guy gets beat and you bottle it up like this? How many years?_ In truth, Sylar would walk by that and not feel a thing other than smug humor and a sense of normality. Peter couldn't see the _world_, he saw the people in it.

His expression as he pinned the other man with his eyes was probably one of stern question. 'Really?' and/or 'Why?' It set his teeth on edge, making them almost itch in anger at Peter's thoughtless hypocrisy._ '__That totally explains your routine with the goddamn nail gun,'_was so close to slipping out. _It's okay so long as you're __not the one watching, hm?_ "Ever consider that he deserved it?" was what he said, stiffly nonetheless. '_It's how the world works, you innocent kid_. _And I thought that people were your responsibility_.'

XXX

Peter wanted to cringe from that intense gaze, but despite feeling contrite, he wouldn't do that in front of Sylar – glare or no glare. Instead he turned partly away, literally giving a cold shoulder to the stare. He looked back at Sylar's question though. "D-deserve it? No one d-" He looked Sylar up and down with the briefest flick of his eyes, remembering who he was talking to. Stiffly he said, "Not for cursing at people and spitting on them."

XXX

Sylar gave a deadly glare at the shoulder he was presented with. _He thinks he can brush it off? No one deserves it my ass_. He got no response and Peter looked a bit peeved overall, but he didn't chuckle since that hadn't…necessarily been his goal. Peter knew his fault and now Sylar did, they glared, they shrugged, they moved on. _Man-code_ (they were certainly not in the realms of '_Bro_-code').

"If you're following the moral straight-and-narrow, your partner, such as he was, deserved something he didn't get from you," he delivered honestly (as if Peter was interested in his warped morality), cocking his head forward and raising his brows briefly to Peter as he knelt to peer under the bed. Weirdos like Samson would probably keep nick-knacks and other useful junk in odd places and it would allow him to avoid eye contact rather neatly. "But I'm sure you know that."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips at Sylar's comment about what Peter's partner deserved. "What?" he said before he could stop himself, but then shook his head and muttered, "Never mind," to head off any potential answer. Instead, he looked down and brooded, taking Sylar's comment to heart and really thinking about it. _What did my partner deserve that he didn't get? My support? I let him do it. My help? Not happening and no, no work partner 'deserves' my help to do something unethical. If he deserved anything, he deserved to get written up for it. Should I have talked to him privately maybe and jumped his case about it? I was the rookie; he wasn't going to listen to me. Of course, maybe I should have said something anyway__._ Peter's brows drew together. _It's not about what he hears. It's about what I say._

He leaned his back against the wall, driving his left hand into his pants pocket and letting his right hang. He met Sylar's eyes for a moment, then looked away and down. It was sort-of an agreement. _Okay, I should have talked to my partner. I should have told him someone knew, someone didn't approve. I enabled it by not speaking up. Somehow I doubt that's what Sylar's implying__. _He sighed a little, but kept himself from nodding to 'I'm sure you know that.' He suspected he and Sylar weren't talking about the same thing so he was silent, staring at the floor and mulling over the situation from years ago and the words exchanged today. He hadn't told the story with any intentions of drawing parallels between the violent psych and Sylar. _I need to be more sensitive to who I'm talking to__. _He frowned, listening to Sylar rummage under the bed. The list of things he couldn't talk about here was pretty long.

XXX

Sylar studiously didn't open his mouth on the other man's inability to speak to someone. _I'm not gonna touch that one. Again with the hypocrisy, too. So horrible when it happens to you, precious Peter__. _He pulled out boxes from under the bed, rifling through them for something of technical appeal, ignoring his companion for a few moments.

He brought out a pack of pro-diamond filers, ten in all, a perfect addition to his collection of tools, and a cross peen hammer, then continued on his search. He found various wall hangings, pots, tools, random clothes that slipped under the bed (mostly socks, eck), papers and toys (really how old was this guy?), a guitar…

Something ticked in his head and he drew out the instrument, not quite sure why he did. _Peter plays…sort of_. He exhaled a little in relief at finding something to take away his temptation of anger. _Nathan__ does come in handy now a days_. "Guitar…?" he offered up hesitantly because he didn't feel the guitar was wholly his gift and that bothered him. It was akin to telling secrets and scars under hypnosis. But as much as he hated it, he needed it, too.

XXX

Then the other man straightened, pulling out something big. He was on the other side of the bed from Peter. Whatever the object was, Sylar looked at it blankly for a moment, then offered it up.

"A guitar?" Surprise flashed across Peter's features, obliterating the gloominess that was threatening to settle there. "Oh wow. Let me see that." He took it from Sylar's hands, eyes for it alone. It was a steel-string acoustic guitar with a light buff finish. He could see a traced pattern on the wood where apparently the apartment's craftsman resident (_imaginary __resident__,_ Peter corrected himself) had planned to paint or enamel a design on it. A slow smile grew across his face. "It's been a long time since I've played a guitar."

The warm memories of sitting at the piano with Emma bubbled to the surface along with more distant recollections of the punk band he'd been in during high school. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to Sylar, and held the instrument as if to play it. The strings weren't tight, but that didn't matter. His right hand was immobilized anyway. He rested the fingers of his left on the frets and stepped through a few positions, trying to remember.

"Cool," he said happily. "You know, this would be great physical therapy for my hand in a few weeks." He looked back at Sylar, the previous tension dispelled as if forgotten, and asked, "You said you could play the piano some. Any other instruments?"

XXX

Peter looked up quickly from where he'd been sulking _(__wasn't _my _damn __story__)_ and cradled the unfinished guitar, that even Sylar could see was beautiful. "I know," he replied, addressing Peter's playing. Obviously that was all he'd intended to say, but his brain wriggled and reminded him that that was privy information, so he hastened to speak up again to cover the pause.

"You look like you know how to handle that." _Oh__, _well_ done__. __He won't suspect a thing with that type of smooth recovery. Sound like a girl with a goddamn crush_. He longed to rub his face, but kept casual, leaning against the foot of the bed stand as he watched Peter.

"Guitar is actually doctor recommended for hand therapy, yeah." Peter was instantly sucked in, latching onto the instrument with a passion evident on his face, what little he could see of it through those floppy bangs from his place behind and to the side of the medic. Anything that had gone wrong that day was forgotten by both parties it seemed as Peter chatted a little. Both bodies were relaxed as was the air between the two.

"I played the triangle in band," Sylar deadpanned and nodded with seriousness. He kept his expression one of light accomplishment. Peter was obviously, hopelessly out of his depth when it came to jokes; he hadn't ever joked with Sylar, King of Sarcasm. He held the pick, the filers and the hammer in one hand and went on, "Then came the bagpipes sophomore year. That was hard to practice with in an apartment complex in Queens, let me tell you. The nose flute was always my dream, though."

XXX

Peter felt a prickle of irritation at the 'I know' - Nathan's memories and Sylar's condescension cut at him even through the odd happiness he was feeling. But Sylar tried to cover it, or maybe he was just elaborating and either way Peter let it go. He had the strange feeling the guitar was _his_, sort of like the bear - something he wanted, something he was going to hang onto. He wasn't normally a possessive type of person, but the whole of this world belonged to Sylar and Peter felt like such an outsider. He felt like he was here at Sylar's mercy, but there wasn't anywhere else he could _go_. Sure, he could go off by himself and be alone. But come on, Sylar was better company than being alone. Most of the time. Usually. Or at least he _could_ be - Peter had seen that in bits and pieces. If he could just get past what was between them and see Sylar as he really was … Now that was a laugh.

Speaking of which: the triangle? Peter looked at him blankly. It was a pretty standard joke. Yes, he recognized it. But although Sylar had laughed at Peter's funny story, their positions were now flipped and it was Peter getting the ribbing. He didn't know how to react at first. When Sylar went on, Peter started to smile and then laughed at the part about the nose flute. Sylar did have a pretty big nose. The mental image made Peter chortle. He wasn't relaxed enough to laugh out loud, but his grin was wide and easy. He shifted to turn more towards the other man, opening up a little.

XXX

Of course he was making that up, but it was to garner a response. Peter asked things and expected things a certain way and Sylar did so love to throw people for a loop, catch them off balance. Honesty did the trick most of the time, he'd found. Well…that wasn't entirely accurate; he himself seemed to throw people for loops and not in a good way.

Without abilities, he was (almost) an average guy…with above average problems. Maybe it was time for Peter to see that. _/"I'm__ not a good guy…but I'm not all bad either."/ Stupid Sam_. It was uncanny how he knew to sound _just_ like Sylar. _Word for word_. That's what had thrown him. But in the end, Sam was another puppet.

To keep the man's attention where he wanted it, he stood smoothly (more graceful then he felt with a dull pounding in his head and a crick in his back). Bracing his feet shoulder width, sliding his fingers into his pockets, he said in a low, intimate voice, "And don't 'what?' me, sweetheart. I know you enjoyed nailing me more than you let on, Peter Petrelli." There it was; his invitation. Out in the open.

He accompanied it by giving Peter a look that the empath would probably manage to mistake anyway; he allowed need and enough lust into his eyes while they brushed all over Peter. _I could_ _play_ you_,_ his gaze projected.


	13. Dialing It Back A Notch

Day 7

Just when Peter thought things were easing between them, Sylar rose and took up an odd pose - not quite confrontational or defensive, but way too tense. It put Peter on alert. _'__Sweetheart?' Did he just call-_ But by then Sylar had delivered the rest of his sentence and "_**What?**_" was pulled from Peter's throat despite (or maybe because) of what Sylar had just said. It was almost comical in the startled, yelped delivery. His mind repeated Sylar's line to himself several times as he fairly jumped off the bed, guitar in hand. His skin tingled where Sylar's eyes swept over it and he bared his teeth slightly. His initial expression was somewhere between guilt and fear. It took a little bit too long for 'outrage' to register.

XXX

Peter actually stood in shock, the tone of his voice reading a little offended, too. He grit his teeth and purposefully didn't move a single muscle. The other man was squirming and mentally wrestling with what he'd said, but the outcome was impossible to discern. Sylar fully expected the fastest shut-down since high school with this, but….It had been a week. Which in retrospect was nowhere near enough time; Peter was still a baby here and not sure at all how he wanted or how he needed to handle living his life.

Sylar kept his gaze steady and non-threatening on Peter's face, catching the grimace he made head-on. He hated the prickles of doubt that signaled the loss of hope; it felt like being in a landslide, but he kept on. What more could he do? The check-up look he received was the usual; clinical and heartless. _When was the last time someone checked you out with serious intention?_ He didn't want to consider.

XXX

The need to have a weapon in his hand rose fast in his mind. All he had was a guitar. He liked the guitar. He wasn't going to hit Sylar with it. His eyes darted up and down the other man's form, but there was nothing in Peter's look that spoke of lust. He was just unsure. Sylar's hands were still in his pockets. Peter looked past him at the door. He'd have to walk closer to him to get out. But really, rather than running away, he knew he ought to say something; something other than squawking 'what?' at the man like a dog who'd had its tail stepped on. This couldn't go unanswered. And despite the reflexive desire to meet the statement with violence … they'd been getting along. _Where the hell is this coming from? Wait … was that an actual come-on rather than … some kind of challenge? We _**were**_ getting along - that's exactly what this is. Whoa. Talk about zero to sixty!_

Peter stood up a little straighter and blinked. "Maybe I just enjoy kicking your ass, Sylar. If you want to talk about nailing people, you're the one who went for a hammer as soon as I got here. Let's just dial it back a notch, okay?" Peter thought he knew what was going on here. He moved his right hand in gesture of de-escalation. He was certain he wasn't ready for whatever it was Sylar was implying here, but overreacting to it was … well, overreacting. And that looked suspicious.

XXX

The glance Peter made at the door finally made him look away with a mental noise of 'ah'. _Is it really that bad? He must be more righteous than I thought, giving up a chance to beat the hell out of me and get laid pretty much however he wants. Or he just came from_ Amanda _and he's in shock_. Peter spoke about his enjoyment of kicking Sylar's ass and he was confused, a slight furrow making its way between his brows.

His head tilted completely at the mention of his running for the hammer. _True…Surely he understands why I did it, though…right?_ Then again, this was Peter. He could pull off 'I have no idea what you're talking about' with perfect innocence and ease and no one would ever know the difference. _Is he being dense?_

He straightened a little at 'Let's just dial it back a notch, okay?' While he knew that was just Peter being Peter (a nurse and empath at that), it was still the adult-to-child tone with 'Let's just…' _Is he mocking me? I don't think he knows what just happened. That explains it. Better clarify it for him then_.

Sylar let out a false chuckle that probably read 'real' to someone who didn't know him (i.e. Peter) and pasted a grin on his face, "That's supposed to be the part where you say 'yes, it was amazing' or 'no, I didn't enjoy it.'" His kept his tone almost corny it was so light as to be teasing. He didn't fancy picking splinters out of his face from a guitar from the look on Peter's face. '_Let's not patronize the serial killer, o-kay?_'

_Or was that 'Let's not patronize the empathetic crazed nurse (while holding a guitar)?'_

_Oh, screw getting laid for the next hundred years then. No big deal. Never was a big deal. We'll be finding out just how in love he is with his hand until that day comes. Should have fucking waited….what were you thinking?_ Sylar didn't expect much of an answer as he had enough of one, not definitive, so he gave Peter lingering look of 'checking in' and partly turned away after a moment, keeping his face blank.

_What did you expect? For god's sake, you killed his brother and he probably still thinks you raped his niece. He's not going to fall into bed with you the first damn chance he gets_. Somehow it still confused him a little. The extent of his offer was rather broad…revenge was a kind of given and he was still getting 'N.O.' Actually….he was getting 'grow up and slow down' which wasn't a no…yet. And the lack of specific signal (answer even) was what made him continue with his clarification earlier.

_It doesn't matter. You still have someone. And you still have such a long way to go._

XXX

"You- You … actually want an answer?" Peter looked a little nervous and thrown. He had absolutely no intention of being pinned down on this, because the truth said something about himself that he was really unhappy with. He intentionally stripped out the sexual innuendo and rephrased Sylar's question to something that was … not a lot easier to handle, but he figured of all the people in the world (the real world), Sylar would get what he was saying. "Did I enjoy torturing you and trying to kill you? Well, I dunno. I guess we could re-enact that and find out." His voice rose and he snarled, "In fact, I think I saw a hammer in the other room!"

He leaned forward on the verge of taking a step, before he caught himself. "Wait, wait." Peter raised both hands because this was just about to turn into threats if it hadn't already. He was in no condition to carry them out and even more importantly, the whole reason he was getting worked up was asinine. He looked at the guitar and put it on the bed carefully. He didn't want it involved, no matter what happened, and he'd seen Sylar look at it a couple times like he thought he needed to be wary of it.

XXX

Sylar knew from Peter's face that he'd struck out if not…worse; yeah, there it was. He shrugged at the comment about re-enactment. It didn't faze him. If Peter killed him, he killed him and he would have to live with that. If he didn't, Sylar lived and that was that. Brushes with death…rather, brushes with Peter would be exciting, full of adrenaline and heat with no powers to aid them. And he could really use some excitement.

His companion's voice took on that deeper, close-to-breaking quality that showed he was upset. _And that's the defining moment for my…is it_ our_?_ _Foray onto the mere _subject_ of sex in Hell_. _Well, it made a few exchanges at least. That's looking up_, he thought dully. Peter made a move for the door, doubtlessly in search of the hammer he mentioned in the living room, so he stood still, impassive, watching as the other man surprisingly stopped himself short. _That's the only way he can control himself; stopping before he starts_. _Wonder that that makes me?_

XXX

"Wait. Please." He hesitated, looking at Sylar's expression, trying to read him. "I do **not **want to go over what has happened between us … before. Maybe for you, it's been three years. For me, that was a couple weeks ago." _I still want to kill you. Maybe a few stories and a couple smiles made you forget that I have some reasons to be pissed at you, or maybe you're such an out-of-touch sociopath that you can't understand why anyone at all would be pissed at you._ Peter's thoughts paused, his eyes narrowing slightly._I don't think that's the case, exactly. Probably the former._ "I don't know what you're angling for, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I don't want to talk about it with _you_." _Not that I've talked about it with anyone else, either._

Having someone to open up to about his life was something Peter badly needed, but Sylar was pretty much at the end of his list of candidates for it. '_Pretty much_' at the end - but it might amuse the other man to know that Peter's mother actually ranked lower than the serial killer. At least all Sylar was likely to do with the information was laugh at him and exploit it whenever Peter got in his way. His mother might ruin the rest of his life with it, and maybe lives of untold others. So … yeah, he trusted Sylar more than his own mother, sad to say.

XXX

Peter asked…told? him to wait; so he replied, completely calm, "I'm not going anywhere." Peter went about explaining himself and he stood still to take it in, his head having turned back towards the man at this time. "It's not a big deal, Peter. And it has been three years," he prompted softly, but firmly, looking up at Peter from under his brows. Of course Peter was still struggling; he hadn't healed yet, not even close. Sylar had been…forced into therapy, such as it was. _/__"But today we're gonna course-correct."/_

"I wasn't asking you to talk about it. I realize it…probably…came across that way," his voice shifted back to uncertain and soft, stuttering lightly, "I was...just making an...analogy," he sputtered out a little quickly. "Just forget I said anything, if you can. It's not important," he pressed a hand towards Peter, but kept his elbow close to his side in a placating gesture. He gave a tiny grin just to show he was serious and meant no harm, fighting the need to shrink back and pretend he wasn't there. _Invisibility was always a good power_.

"I'm, uh…gonna go…check the kitchen," _If that's okay_, Sylar almost added, hooking his thumb in that direction. Ducking his head he shuffled out into the kitchen like he'd said, taking a moment for a deep, shaky breath once he found himself there. His hands shook as he leaned them on the counter top, staring blankly at it as he tried to reassemble after such a botched effort.

XXX

Peter stayed where he was until Sylar left, then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. _What the hell was all that? 'Sweetheart?' Sarcasm, sure, but even the most snarky wouldn't call me 'sweetheart' unless they were a woman or playing at being gay. Or unless they __**were**__ gay. Or trying to say they were gay. Or were completely unconcerned about being perceived as gay__. _He looked at the door. _O-kay. I think this answers the 'Is Sylar even gay' question._ Peter thought about his own rather broad preferences that didn't have a lot to do with gender. _Hm. Actually, technically, it doesn't, really. All it says is that I'm not outside his range of candidates, which is a little creepy._

He shrugged. Sylar had walked off. Previously he'd asserted he wanted his partners willing. And now, he'd even demonstrated a realization of the awkwardness of the situation, so there was that. Sylar making a come-on was less upsetting than the idea that Sylar was making a come-on by referring to a highly upsetting moment in Peter's life, when he'd pretty much hit his nadir and tried to kill Sylar with his bare hands. More-or-less, depending on how someone counted Rene's ability, but then aside from that there was the nails and a few bits of near-gratuitous torture, which in retrospect bothered the hell out of Peter. That Sylar would even mention it so easily was bizarre.

XXX

Sylar was left totally in the dark if Peter caught his meaning at all. _What if he did_? he asked himself. _It doesn't matter_. _He doesn't want to talk about it anyway. You're going to have to deal with that. He's…I forgot how fragile he can be_. What had gone wrong? Was it the delivery? _Yeah, 'Hey, Pete, remember that time you took my powers and hit me in the head with a fucking 2x4?_

'_Then we beat each other up until you pinned me to a table with some handy nails…I think you wanted your brother back, but you know, that's really Parkman, Bennet and your Mom's fault cause they raped my mind and left me like a crushed, empty beer can. Forgive me for misinterpreting your fucking _grinding _as __sexual when you were _panting_ and _sweating _over me, eyeing my _face _like _candy_. Did I take the whole__ '_nailing_' __thing too far? I thought it was a good analogy. I've been here for three years and I need a goddamn _connection_. __Thought you might be it. We'd fit oh-so-well at the hips; I'm sure you know the _drill_. __What? You don't wanna fuck? What's _your_ problem?'_

Closing his eyes he scraped a hand rapidly through his hair, which completely failed at the ideal goal of keeping it back due to speed, but he had other things on his mind. _Shit…now I have to be around him and wonder what he knows? Goddamnit….I had to back off, too__. _His knuckles rubbed at his eye socket for a moment, ignoring the ache of the roughed- up knuckles for a moment, his headache screaming at him. _Bastard Peter_, he thought uncharitably, left to stew on his own.

He heard the sounds of someone from out of sight and he stood straight and tried to smooth his face into innocence in case Peter was headed his way to take up the more painful option he'd offered a minute ago. Even if he had succeeded or had Peter come in, he wouldn't read as innocent, would he? Three years without a single sound hearing something he couldn't see set him off anyway and his nerves jangled again.

Another softer breath was taken before he began to mindlessly go about opening and shutting cupboards, moving utensils and cooking equipment around in the kitchen. He hoped the noise would fool Peter into thinking he was actually looking around in here for something so god-awful important where there had been silence from the kitchen not long before.

XXX

Peter shook his head, got up and went in the living room, bringing the guitar along with him. He searched through stuff a little more - there was plenty here to look at, even though he'd been through the room already. He wasn't really interested in what he was seeing, so he sat down on the chair in front of the crafting station and started tightening the strings on the guitar, plucking at them lightly as he did.

He was pretty much blowing off the whole incident. He didn't see what else to do about it. He wasn't going to forget Sylar said anything, but sure - he could act like he had. The guitar had a nice timbre to it. He looked forward to playing it. He knew Sylar could hear him, so he voiced out into the air, "You know, I think I might be able to play this even with my hand wrapped up, if I worked out some sort of tool to use as a pick. I suppose I'd be pretty lousy at it, but whatever. It's not like I'm going to bother the neighbors, huh?"

XXX

Peter spoke up, loud enough over the noise of the guitar, obviously tightened enough to use now, sort of, and over Sylar's own faked noises, which Sylar paused to hear. _Why do I care, Peter?_ He wanted badly to blurt it, too. "Oh…" he replied at the same volume, "The neighbors, yeah, don't get me started about those crazies." He rolled his eyes at the lame turn in conversation, but it beat silence…and wondering.

It was at times like this he wanted his most prized ability back; telekinesis; for the sole purpose of ripping Peter's head open to see what he was fucking thinking. That way he wouldn't have to worry or guess or wonder at what went on in that twisted gray matter. He would _know_. As a bonus he wouldn't have to feel like a chump for (attempting at) propositioning a man in a world devoid of people.

_However I got here, whatever Fate or Destiny put me here didn't have my sexual preferences I mind clearly. Sex period, actually…at any time in my life. _Sylar tried not to feel less- than at that. _Fate, honey? I know you can hear me and when I get there I'm going to wrap my hands around your pretty throat and wring the life out of you_ so slowly _it will take me the rest of my life._

XXX

Peter made a semi-forced chuckle at Sylar's answer about the crazy neighbors in this place. "You are sarcastic about _everything_, aren't you?" he said quietly, in a volume that might or might not carry into the kitchen. He didn't care, as he was talking to himself with that one. He smiled a little and continued the process of trying to get the strings adjusted_ correctly_ now that they were tight enough to be usable. Peter didn't have the best ear for it but he wasn't in a hurry.

XXX

_Oh, so you noticed_, Sylar thought. He made to casually stroll over from the kitchen to the couch where he sat and picked at a large leather album, hand-engraved and old while he kept his eyes to himself. It was a trick he'd learned as a child: not seeing the other person's disgust helped.

XXX

Peter went back to fussing with the guitar as Sylar moved to the couch. He changed the subject, saying, "I saw a movie once. Guy alone in the world after a d-" Peter stopped, thinking about that vial he'd been duped into retrieving by Adam. _Someday I should tell Sylar that story. He'd probably get a kick out of it_, he thought sourly. He frowned and went on, "after a disease wiped everyone out. He set up mannequins in the streets, gave them names, talked to them and pretended he wasn't really alone." He glanced up at Sylar, or at least in his direction. "I haven't seen any mannequins around here, so I guess you're still pretty sane." It was an attempt at a distant sort of compliment, saying Sylar had managed to hold it together over several years of isolation, and an oblique way of agreeing with Sylar's earlier assertion that for him, it had been that long. Peter was also rationalizing to himself why Sylar had said what he had just a bit before, in the bedroom.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar made a noise in his throat, "Read about that one, I think. I Am Legend?" The only point in bringing up movies let alone discussing them was for conversation and perhaps a trip down a more pleasant Memory Lane. He went so far as to glance at the guitar Peter held and the mangled paw he tried to strum with at the mention of his sanity.

_Sane as I ever was. We'll wait for him to change his mind the next time I do something that doesn't make sense. Think it was people that sent me over in the first place; he'd be pleased to know. Wait, did he just acknowledge the three years? Does that mean he's coming around?_

XXX

"Yeah, I think that was it - I am Legend. I saw part of it in the break room. One of the guys was going on about the differences between it and the book. I haven't read the book or seen the whole movie, so." Peter shrugged.

XXX

"A disease of super smart, super agile zombie/vampires, yeah." Sylar's hand barely paused over turning the page of the album he'd picked up that was surprisingly not full of photos (blank of faces as they would have been anyway). Comic strips from the newspaper filled it—of course without faces, but still. It had the dialogue bubbles and that was better than nothing.

_Oh, Garfield!_ He chuckled lightly to himself, his lips quirking despite himself at the overweight, pessimistic cat and his hapless 'owner'.

XXX

Peter looked over, not sure what it was Sylar had decided to look at. It looked like an album, but it didn't hold pictures, he saw when Sylar turned a page. He noticed the lack of eye contact. Sylar was usually scrutinizing Peter closely, eyeing him, watching whatever it was he was doing. Now - not. Well, actually that made Peter feel a lot better, because it was a normal reaction: do something embarrassing, be embarrassed about it, act embarrassed in typical embarrassed ways. _That_ Peter could deal with. He could keep offering up casual conversation, keep inquiring gently of the man and talking about things he hoped were inconsequential and convey that faux pas or not, things were still okay between them. Or at least, as okay as they were likely to be between Sylar the psychopathic serial killer who was even more crazy than usual and Peter Petrelli the reluctant scion and black sheep of what Sylar had not yet killed off of the Petrelli family.

Peter thought, _We're certainly an odd couple, just not in any of the usual ways._

He threw out another invitation to discussion, saying, "I noticed you were collecting up some stuff. Is there anything in particular you'd," _like? Ah, bad phrasing. Very bad phrasing._ "Um, you're looking for? As far as, you know, things go. You had a lot of stuff in your apartment. What kind of stuff are you looking for? Maybe I could keep an eye out for it."

XXX

Sylar meanwhile semi-politely ignored the other man (tried to), perhaps for the first time since Peter had appeared. He was all nerves, still tense, and he wasn't looking for a conversation. "I'm not looking for anything. Tools and books are the things I collect." _And brains, Peter, are you volunteering?_ _Funny how he almost goes from saying I, Sylar the psychopath, am sane to I'm messy almost in the same breath__. _He wasn't bothered by it. He knew what his apartment was and he knew what he was.

XXX

"Tools and books," Peter repeated. "Okay. I'll watch for those." _Freaking broad categories. But what he picked up were little bitty tools. I'll look for those._

XXX

Normally Sylar would have smirked at his admitted dick-ish behavior. It would be his way of having fun with Peter. Not giving him specifics on what he 'wanted'—tools and books. He didn't, instead he kept flipping through the comics as if he cared, ignoring the man's tedious and rather useless offer. Sylar mostly hoped Peter would get over what had happened moments before and this was his way of dealing with it.

XXX

At Sylar's moment of silence, Peter resumed the dialogue, unwilling to let the conversation die. "I'm going to need a pick, but those are going to be hard to find," he paused before continuing, "If you have any ideas, let me know, okay?" Peter put the instrument's butt on the floor, bracing it with his right while he iteratively plucked strings and adjusted the pegheads with his left. He was trying to tune it – or at least get it to an approximation of properly tuned.

XXX

Sylar was speaking almost before Peter finished the 'okay?', "If you find one of those dish scrapers, I can cut it for a custom pick for your hand. But that's if you don't find a real one," he said with his attention torn between the comics and his companion as he butchered the tuning, wincing at the attempts.

XXX

"A dish scraper?" Peter thought about that. His dish-washing experiences were even more limited than cooking. "I've seen brushes and scrubbers and stuff, but you must mean something else?" He didn't know what a dish scraper was.

XXX

Looking at Peter for the first time since he entered the room, Sylar's eyebrows hiked up slowly and he blinked once at the man. "I….forgot who I was talking to. Someone alternately too rich or too busy to clean a dish," he delivered with little inflection, "It's basically a plastic chip that you use scrape off dried-on food with. If I cut it, it would make a good pick because that's all a pick really is. It has a nice worn down edge and-" He shrugged, realizing he didn't need explain how it looked.

"'C's right there, stop," his finger tapped the album's cover as Peter stumbled onto the correct sound with the guitar. From there, Peter _should_ be able to find the rest of the notes, but he lacked confidence in the man's ear. Sylar knew Peter was making an effort and he couldn't help the ingrained sense of patronization he was getting, but he knew a lifeline when he saw it. And that's what made him speak at all. Peter was overlooking his…mistake even if he wasn't forgetting it.

As soon as he thought of this he stuttered over it. He _is_ overlooking_? I hit him too hard, that's it_. _Rattled his poor brain_. Sylar blinked at the comics, suddenly unseeing. _I take that back. I was sane before he arrived_.

XXX

Peter stopped when Sylar asked, then twanged the string a few times and listened. _Yeah. Yeah, that does sound right__._ "Thanks, man."

XXX

He nodded in reply to the thanks and straightened comfortably in the couch, finally visualizing 'relaxed', not entirely sure if it was genuine or not yet. Really it was in his best interest. For the sake of his eardrums (and latent sanity therein) he wanted Peter to be in key.

XXX

Peter strummed it a couple more times, comparing the sound to the string next to it and beginning to work on that one. "That should make it easier on your ears later." Peter frowned a little and shifted uncomfortably. "You know, if you … I don't know if you … Well, I'm not very _good_."

XXX

Sylar said, "I don't mind. Music is music. I don't care to learn…yet." Give him another fifty to eighty years (not including Peter's presence) and he would be scrambling to get his hands on something new to learn.

XXX

Peter began digging himself deeper _on purpose_ here, playing up his insecurity. It wasn't like he had much of his ego tied up in whether Sylar liked his guitar-playing, but he thought there was a use in showing what looked like a weakness, making an appeal for a reassuring ego stroke or setting himself up for a cut-down. He wasn't invested in either response, but he wanted to know what the response _was_ to Peter being less than competent at something. "Of course you know that," he muttered to himself. "But maybe I'll get better. It's not like there's not plenty of room for me to practice where you don't have to hear it."

XXX

Sylar just gifted Peter with a blank stare with a hint of 'really?' The other man was pushing his bullshit button fast enough that Sylar, rather easily manipulated all-in-all, caught on. Rapidly. "You learned years ago and you probably haven't touched a guitar since then; it's natural and you're hand is broken. You'll get better," his voice lowered at the last sentence, indicating the end of that conversation with light threat.

After a moment Sylar cleared his throat, "Um…how about you? Looking for anything besides the pick?" Sylar felt that weird tickle that seemed to live in his guts at Peter asking what he wanted while he didn't return the courtesy. He would be well within his reason to clam up and not give Peter anything on the communication front, but the man was working whatever Petrelli, empathy, nurse ability that seemed innate to him. And it was working, damnit.

XXX

"What am I looking for here?" Peter set the guitar down and looked around the cluttered apartment. "I know this isn't how you take it, but … for me …" he made an expansive gesture at the place. "This is all your head, your mind, your thoughts, that we're trapped in and for whatever reason - Parkman, your subconscious, or both - this is how it manifested." Peter shrugged. "So maybe I can find out something about you in all of this. Or maybe if I see enough empty apartments I'll get that little voice in the back of my head to _shut up_. I'm sure you know the one - the one that keeps making me want to _look_ for people." He snorted. "Parkman's voice."

XXX

_What? More about me…why? That doesn't bode well,_ he decided. _Good luck with that_. Sylar's expression did smooth into listening mode as Peter went over what he didn't believe yet again. While he wanted to hear the man's goals, hearing it still didn't help. It still made no sense; yes, the theory behind it was….sound-ish, but he didn't buy it. Three years of solitude said differently. His mouth tightened again, "Oh, I know his voice better than you can imagine." He found his eyes narrowing slightly. "Whoa, wait…" he held out a hand for 'stop', leaning back as he frowned. It took him a minute to actually formulate, "You're changing your story."

_And don't think I don't know it_. _If_ stupid _and_ gullible _was all you got from the time I was your brother, you're dead wrong. Possibly literally_ dead _wrong._ _You have a cute face and you're empathetic, good at getting your way by being convincing, but your last name is still in the picture here._"Why…" he shook his head and looked away, dismissing the question. _That made no sense. Had it been 'a few weeks ago' you would have left me to "rot in my mind". Why the hell do you care_ now_? __You're not even _here _for _me_!_

XXX

Peter replied, "I don't know if my story has changed. It's complicated. It's like the blind men trying to describe an elephant, so if it seems like what I've said at one point isn't the exact same as another point; it doesn't mean I'm trying to lie to you. It might just mean we haven't really explained much to each other because we're both …" He hesitated. "I don't trust you. Trust comes from being able to predict what someone's going to do next and the reason maybe it seems like I treat you like a mental patient is because I don't know you well enough to know what's coming next." He shrugged and straightened a little, lifting his elbows from his knees for the gesture. "I just don't."

He leaned back down. "I came here _to get you out_. It didn't work. We're stuck here. And from what I can tell, I might leave here tomorrow or in ten years or in a hundred. However long I have, my goal is _still_ to get out of here with you and have you fulfill that prophecy that … I saw." For some reason he shied from calling it his mother's power, or maybe it was that he didn't want to mention her name in this. "Thousands of people were going to be saved based on what I saw you do in that dream. And you're right - you don't strike me as the savior kind. Which is part of what confuses me here. I'm supposed to get you and go have you do this, and I don't think you _will_."

He shrugged again. "But … I was supposed to save a cheerleader, too, and that didn't work. She's dead. It's not like the precognition stuff ever made much sense." _Or the time travel_.

XXX

_Oh, please. Don't bullshit me, man. He doesn't trust me, that sure hurts__, _he thought with a mental roll of his eyes. _Ever occur to you, Peter, that survival is a mystery and I need one to have the other? Besides its…fun__._ Peter addressed something important to him and his head tilted in interest. _He__ admits he treats me like an asylum resident. So he knows. Good__._ Annoyed and angry now at Peter's flagrant use of 'you're not the savior kind' despite having been saved at Sylar's hand before…

"That's wonderful, whatever. I'll show you around," he paused to draw Peter's full attention to a (more) serious matter, his voice harsh, probably threatening, not that he cared, "but the deal is you have to stop treating me like a charity case and mental patient. Since there's no one else here, my reputation won't suffer by my telling you I'm not actually_ that_ insane." Sylar leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee to get closer to Peter's face in near-threat, "and I hate manipulators and liars." The instant he'd spoken his body language reflected content and he'd settled back to being comfortable, throwing his arms over the back of the couch as if he'd discharged his piece of warning.

XXX

Peter snorted a little and set the guitar aside for the moment. "Is there anyone who likes them? Manipulators and liars, that is?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on knees and making direct, serious eye contact, speaking in a low, steady voice.

He smiled a little, but he was completely serious when he said, "I'll make that deal with you - I'll quit treating you like a mental patient when you stop treating me like a kid." _You keep reminding me of my dad, and that seriously creeps me out. I don't think I can stand years of this arrogant condescension__._

XXX

_I dunno, Pete. I'm looking at one now, to a certain degree_. Peter agreed and he grinned a little; the man's body language amused him in its mimicry and seriousness. _Progress is possible with this Petrelli, the sanest and most reasonable of the bunch._

His new goal _had_ been getting _"__help__" __(what a joke)_, cleaning up his act, potentially ridding himself of powers if possible and making something of himself that the heroes would find…acceptable. Maybe getting a "connection" on the side, but that was…

The other man stood and Sylar followed with less speed. He held back the snort he longed to make at 'That's not what I'm here for'. Peter mentioned continuing on and he nodded.

"My week is wide open," he said just to irk his companion, waiting for Peter to lead the way out.

XXX


	14. Dream Jobs

Day 7

The pair had explored another two floors that day. Each time they left their findings in the hall and went into the individual apartment to search around. The air between them was much more relaxed and Sylar found himself enjoying it. Yes, of course, he'd been effectively stranded for three years and he was starved for companionship, but as much as he wanted to slip into it like the glove companionship or partnership should be, it felt odd. That was someone else's glove; one he wouldn't lie and say he didn't crave.

They parted ways when they reached Peter's door, Sylar following him out of habit it seemed and to get that last minute with the other man before they settled down to sleep and whatever it was Peter did. The medic didn't watch his back almost at all and that made him feel better, not that he'd been on the alert for being attacked particularly, but still.

Sylar trooped back to his apartment after a brief stop at Ralph's to pick up some jam and crackers since he already had his dinner in mind. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. _Not the same like Mo-Virginia used to make. The wrong way, but still_. She'd always used grape jelly. As a kid he'd thought she listened when he said he hated grape and as he grew up he knew she didn't listen to anything he said period.

Sylar climbed the stairs to his apartment as he felt anxiety begin to creep on him again. _Did I push him too hard? He's so young and naïve—those damn rose colored glasses._ Sylar tilted his head to himself in thought. _He seems to be losing those and that's probably on my head. Isn't everyone's loss my doing?_ He entered the hall, slipping into his apartment with relative silence that was inborn, shutting the door behind himself to go into the kitchen.

_Mom always made the triangles. Five years old, twelve, eighteen, twenty-one; didn't matter to her_. Opening the _strawberry_ jam and stirring it up he got out the peanut butter, specifically the chunky brand his _mother_ hated so much. Sylar thought back to Ma's cooking. _/Strange how for a woman who could have anything she wanted in the world yet chose to cook when she had servants. He remembered getting the random peanut butter and jelly sandwich in middle school before Pete was born._

_He recalled the parfaits and toast and oatmeal later on. He remembered missing it in boot camp. On the ship had been worse. __Heidi__ hadn't been that great of a cook either./_ Sylar blinked. _God, it never gets any less real. If only we had abilities, I could rewrite myself the right way, damnit. If I had abilities I could__… _Could what? Force Peter to do what he pleased?

Something told him he still could as he smeared the thick gooey spreads onto the white bread, slapping them together and biting into it derisively. The food he had to prepare never tasted as good as it did when someone made it for him. Maybe that explained why he liked to eat out when he could afford it; when he was allowed; when he had time; when he could get there.

_Why does this hell seem to have everything I hate in it? No fiery pits or crucifixion crosses, no red demons with pitchforks because that just might make sense, but maybe this truly was Hell incarnate: having nothing of comfort with the illusion of normality. Hell was a slow-burn; it takes thousands of years, right?_

_But that doesn't explain Peter__._ Everything came back to that blasted little man. _He's got a gift, that_. Sylar moved slowly to sit at his cot and poke at his watches idly as he chewed. The headache was still present; his back was still out, his neck felt stiff as a board, and his face was swelling and throbbing. The ribs weren't too bad, but his head was a painful mess. Back to the question at hand; had he over played his hand? Had Peter understood? _I offered him heaven and hell in one package and I got…dial it back a few notches, okay?_

The men may have made a truce, no, a deal; it was more binding, at least it implied more bondage. He winced at his own word choice. _Strange how he wouldn't accept me as his brother even when I was the one doing all the good deeds yet I mind my own business for once and somehow end up in Hell and he comes running for me to save this Emma girl he's got the hots fo-_

Sylar head rose, eyes widened as he stared at the wall in sudden understanding. _He_ loves_ her. I'm so damn sure he…goes "both ways", but that's why he won't. That and the small account of his brother. And he loves Nathan._That just made things more awkward. _And somehow funny. What's that about being the last man on earth?_

_For all I know he could have just come from being with her. It's been a week and he's been hurt and stressed and on his little hero quest I don't know why…But he isn't desperate_. That's _why_.

Sylar still longed to feel another's flesh with his hands, with his body, to taste something that didn't leave a dusty aftertaste on his tongue. He still longed for the thrill that shuddered down his spine and coiled in his loins. He longed to please and pleasure. He still longed to hear another's voice in his ear while he-

He cleared his own throat to remind himself where things stood. Play-tonic: sans any actual play. Hell, platonic wasn't even the right word, but he still hoped. A stray thought passed by about why he bothered to still hope for anything, but it disintegrated quickly.

It didn't occur to him to analyze his actual attraction, if there was any at all. Sylar knew he wasn't hard on the eyes by any means…he had his ways of getting what he wanted and he'd used them before. As his brain worked over his perceived problem and maybe it was a problem, he hit on something less pleasant.

_The first time I try to hit on a guy with serious intent to fuck or be fucked and be fucked over and I get 'dial it back'_. Sylar couldn't begin to label or process the rejection at that point so he left it unattended because it had nowhere to be filed in his mind.

The knowledge of not knowing what went on in another person's head and for some reason the lack of the option to tear it open for the final answers was throwing him back to pre-Hunger days; pre-ability days where people's thoughts bothered him. To think that was how most people lived their lives…it had already driven him crazy.

Sylar finished his sandwich and dusted his hands free of crumbs into the waste basket because he hated vacuuming and he was no slob, despite his apartment's appearance. Laying back he gently propped a hand under his tender head and stared at the spot on his ceiling that had always reminded him of a set of bowling pins.

_He has to come around. If you have to stall him from killing himself or play hero-trust-worthy so he doesn't give up and leave…you know you'll do it._ He frowned as he grew drowsy. _What was that he said about 'getting to know me'? Even if what he said is true…he doesn't need that kind of knowl_- He closed his eyes; Peter needed it if he was going to be _using_ that information to get him to save Emma.

_Or….maybe…when he said mind games it went both ways; I don't play him and he won't play me_. That seemed like quite a concept. (If only he could control his inner jester to save his mind. Wasn't Peter here to volunteer his brain to be teased?) And awfully fucked of him to be more worried about being mentally fucked than physically tortured. Apparently being the most powerful man on the planet came with perks of paranoia. Or a paranoia of perks. Sylar's eyes popped open and he flipped his middle finger at the ceiling at Fate. "Suck that, babe. I'm onto you."

He found himself chuckling to himself. _Talking aloud to yourself now. Wonderful developments. Just…plain…wonderful…zzz_

XXX

Peter said his good-byes, such as they were, at the door of the apartment building. He didn't want Sylar coming inside. Later, he considered why he cared as he lingered outside his apartment door, checking the keys he'd picked up that morning to see which fit. He wasn't being territorial because the place was only tentatively his. Rather, he was trying to assert boundaries and see if they'd be respected. Sylar was sort of known for a high degree of home-invasion and breaking and entering, among his other crimes. When he wanted something, no one was safe from him. Not even the president.

But, '_I wanted my life to change__,_' he'd said. Peter thought about that as he fished around in the pantry for something to eat. _How serious is he about that? Hm, tomato bisque. Is this one of those that needs milk? I don't think I have milk__. _He carried the canned soup over to the refrigerator and looked inside. _No milk. Huh. _He read the directions on the can. _Yeah, doesn't need milk. Dinner in progress._

_Change how? And why? And does it have anything to do with Nathan interfering with Sylar attacking Mom and me at Thanksgiving?_ Peter didn't think Sylar would be answering these or any similar questions any time soon. He didn't trust. The shock of Peter's first appearance, when Sylar had been a little more forthcoming, had worn off. Of course, the watchmaker had also thought he might be talking to a figment of his own imagination then, so there had been no need to hide.

Peter didn't ponder it too much. After eating, he looked to his hurts, rebandaging everything that needed it and noticing that the blisters on his feet were looking better. He gave one last thought to Sylar opening the compression bandage for him that morning and being helpful, then went on to bed. He laid in the dark, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, staring up at the bland, featureless ceiling. He had no idea what time it was and he didn't care. _No alarm clocks, no schedule, no nothing__. _He smiled to himself and let himself relax more deeply than he had for months. Maybe years.

He slept deeply, waking while it was still dark out. He considered, briefly, getting up and doing something useful with himself, then discarded the idea and sunk back into slumber. This time his rest wasn't as sound. Relaxed, wandering, near-formless thoughts seamlessly slipped into dream-state. He supposed the dream had started with him considering the guitar and what he might do with it. He was back in the cluttered bedroom where they'd found it. Sylar was standing nearby and Peter was trying to put the instrument down. He couldn't manage it for some reason. He kept getting distracted. But by what? Oh yes, that was it! There was a ... thing on the bed, the faceless model from the cover of the porn magazine he'd found earlier. Sylar was tapping his foot impatiently, because Peter was supposed to have sex with … it.

For some reason, this made perfect sense. And just as Peter had every intention of attempting the coupling right in front of the other man, he also had absolutely zilch interest. Plus, he couldn't manage to put the damn guitar down and he was still fully clothed.

The weird scene changed in the abrupt manner that dreams often did. Sylar was gone; Peter was naked, the guitar was on the bed, and his partner was no longer faceless. Or at least, he thought she wasn't, because her face was turned from him. He was unclear as to whether they were having sex or just playing. The guitar kept bumping against them and he kept trying to catch a look at her face. She was blonde and familiar. He was sure he should be able to place her even from the snatches of profile he was able to make out.

She rolled him over on his back and the scene changed again, just as suddenly and with the change came recognition: Elle. _What the hell am I doing having sex with **Elle**__? Wait, what? I'm thinking? I must be dreaming__._ Peter had had lucid dreams before, but they weren't common for him. More often, the simple surprise of realizing he was dreaming woke him up and ended the experience. But not now. Now he was seeing things from the point of view of the man on the floor, busily engaged in intercourse with one Elle Bishop. An unwanted arousal flushed through him.

His shoulder hurt and Peter knew with certainty that he'd dislocated it earlier, even as he knew it was Sylar who had experienced the injury. A phantom memory of agonizing pain and Elle popping it back into place came to mind. He, or Sylar, had no powers. _The eclipse. I was in Haiti_. Where this memory fell in his internal time line was very clear - something else that was bleeding over from Sylar. Other glimpses of what had gone before flitted through his mind: kissing, undressing, wanting and needing, his hands tweaking and pinching her pert nipples, her tiny hand on his penis, then her mouth. How that had felt - Peter remembered how that had felt. He was hard. And panting. Or remembering panting. Or both.

The memory played forward to this moment: a haze of grunts, growls, groans from him and squeaks and whimpers from her. Peter began struggling for _out_, trying to wake up in earnest, but his thrashing against the sheets took on a rhythmic quality that was appropriate to the recollection, but not to leaving it behind. He didn't know if he'd waited too long or what, because the next moment he remembered - or rather, Sylar remembered - how _good_ it had felt when he'd burst inside her with a white-hot fire, crying out.

He hung in that instant of ecstasy for a long moment before floating down from it. He felt rubbery and spent. Or maybe he was just remembering how Sylar felt, the other man's thoughts drifting to considering how he hadn't expected his first time to be like this - on the floor in an empty house with only ripped clothing and a sleeping bag. The tiny body that lay on him was warm and sweaty, but it felt great. Sylar held her face and kissed her. Peter made another, less determined effort to wake himself up. Bits of the post-coital conversation came back to him, as well as the striking affection, passion and gentleness Sylar showed his lover. Peter paused to consider that. It was a side of Sylar he had _never_ seen.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it. Elle grabbed her partner suddenly and yanked him to the side, just as a gunshot went off and a bullet crashed through the wood floor where his head had been a half second before. _This_ time, the shock finally propelled Peter into wakefulness. He blinked his eyes open, breathing hard, blood racing.

Day 8

_That was not a normal dream. That was__ …_ He wasn't sure what that was. He rolled over on his stomach, feeling a wet patch in his boxers. _Great. I wonder if I should feel like I was molested? I suppose that depends on whether Sylar knows he's doing it. Or knows … hell, it might just be some lousy effect of being here._ He threw the tangled sheets off and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his face. It was getting light outside. He waited, but nothing else happened. He was just alone in his room, the world silent all around him. _Might as well get up._

He went through his morning routine, playing the memory, dream, whatever it was over and over in his head, focusing on details, making sure it wasn't a fabrication of his own imagination. He thought about the other thought-leaks he'd had that had held enough information to matter: the ones of Sylar as Gabriel the watchmaker, or of Peter hitting him (though Peter had been pretty distracted during the last). He had, without consciously thinking about it, resolved to ask Sylar about it. He didn't want to know the sordid details of Sylar's life. Well, he _did_, sort of, but not like _this_. This was dishonest. Did Sylar even know he was sharing this sort of thing?

Peter took another round of painkillers. The only thing he really needed them for now was his wrist and hand. The swelling was down a tiny bit on his face, even if his right eye was still ringed by a fascinating shade of blue-black. He didn't think he'd ever had his eye this blacked before. The skin under the left side was grayish. His feet were fine and the dull ache from all that walking had finally left his thighs and lower back. He stretched carefully and thoroughly, working on the spot where Sylar had kicked him. The knot there was fading, too; though he still limped and probably would for a week.

He grabbed up his bag and three slices of raisin bread for breakfast, walking out to the stairwell and heading down it. He went down two flights, then summoned the elevator. His thigh was starting to give him twinges - too much, too fast. _Must not have stretched enough._ He did a few shallow lunges until the elevator arrived, then took it the rest of the way down. By the time he was walking out, it was almost sunrise. He finished his bread and looked around for Sylar.

XXX

Sylar woke slowly, stiff, as he was finding himself to be of late but that was probably mostly to be accredited to one Peter Petrelli. Ambling up into the bathroom as he heard a few joints readjust themselves, he used the facilities, wincing at the light, washing up and leaned against the sink counter, staring into the mirror for a moment.

_Why do I feel a hundred years old?_ The bruises from the fight and the tired circles under his eyes weren't helping him look any younger. Sylar sighed, briefly checking in his hair again to be sure he wasn't overly concussed still then tried to avoid creaking his way to the dresser to change clothes.

Once he'd done that, he rubbed and stretched at his back and neck. _Let's see what new trouble we can get into today just to spite the boredom and remember that we're alive_. It sounded like a good game plan to him, as it usually did. He'd been here a whole week with Peter and the addition was already making his life more interesting, both in good and less-than good ways. As he was leaning over to tie his shoes, he felt a dull pressure shift to the left side of his head, as if there was a bowling ball crushing his forehead from inside his skull and knew it was there to stay.

Sylar then eyed the medicinal cupboard behind the mirror in the bathroom in debate; his wrist was still a concern, too, twingeing painfully as he moved and twisted it. _The headache is just starting now…it's only going to get worse and that's before Peter starts talking. _The question stood however; was it enough cause to take a painkiller in advance?

Ignoring it for the moment, he went into the kitchen and grabbed up a muffin. As he munched on it he considered milk, but his internal clock was telling him Peter would be up by now so he ditched the idea and finished up, tossing the wrapper into the trash. Brushing his teeth quickly he stared himself down in the mirror, spitting and rinsing out before shutting the door behind himself as he left.

It didn't take him long at a brisk pace in the brisk air to reach Peter's place, rough knuckles scraping his jeans as he walked. They were supposed to go on a tour or something for a guitar pick today. He snorted to himself and tried to burrow further into his coat as he approached—it had sounded like a date in his head. How ridiculous.

As he drew closer, he saw Peter was already emerging, chewing on what must have been his own breakfast, but it just made him look a little funny given the dead nerves in his lip. Sylar felt his lips quirking up at the sight and he nodded in greeting.

XXX

He watched Sylar approach, thinking about how the other man had come here specifically to see Peter, to spend probably his whole day with him. He was the center of someone's attention and that made Peter stand up a little straighter and lift his chin. _It's like I have my own private … what? Person? He has nothing **else**__ to do but come hang out with me. To be fair, though, I have nothing else to do either._

He glanced to the side briefly. _No, there's other things I could be doing - exploring, thinking, sleeping, music, swimming (hey, that sounds good), I could take up jogging … anything to pass the time, really. I suppose he does, too_. He looked back to Sylar. _But yeah, I guess I have to admit that company is better than none_. For the last couple days, Peter had been with Sylar only because Sylar showed up and inflicted himself on him. That was starting to change as he began to accept the other man's presence.

"Good morning," Peter said cheerily. "You still on to show me around?" He paused for some sign of assent, then went on, "I need to find a pharmacy or a hospital supply store, or even a hospital itself. I'd-" Images of fighting Sylar at Mercy Heights ran through his mind. Very deliberately, he ignored them. _That isn't part of this__._ "like to know where the closest one is, in case we ever have an emergency. I'd like to see what works there and what doesn't, so I know if there's even any point to trying to get there."

XXX

Sylar felt himself being watched, but for once it didn't seem to be in a bad way, so he watched Peter right back for a moment before looking off to the side as he drew near. He grinned and nodded at the greeting, the other man surprisingly in a good mood for how rough he- they both looked, "Yup. Place to find a pick is on the way. Music store, art district."

He was ready to go and started to turn to walk to the art district, or so he'd named it, when Peter spoke up about additional places. Normally something like that would irk him no end…but he had no schedule and nowhere else to be. Peter had his undivided attention and limitless time. He quirked an eyebrow in question which Peter answered.

He didn't give any indication that the part about the hospital bothered him—it actually didn't occur to him this once. For all Peter's promises he knew they would eventually end up at each other's throats once or a dozen times in the next hundred years, however long they lasted. All that to say, Peter's planning ahead was a good idea.

Sylar assumed Peter was referring to medical equipment 'working' so he didn't press it. He was happily along for the ride since he himself had no needs to meet; not really anyway.

XXX

"There's a music store here?" Peter wondered if Sylar had just thought one up overnight, but decided not to press it. "That sounds cool. A lot better than a dish scraper."

He scuffed his shoe along the curb, looking down. "And I was kind of wondering if there was a hotel nearby." _A hotel will have a pool. So would a school, come to think of it. I'd have to ditch him first. I could go at night. Yeah, that would work._ He moved the conversation along; unable to avoid smiling a little at himself because he knew he looked guilty as hell and for it to be over something so silly was funny. He held up his right hand. "At a hospital or pharmacy, they ought to have a proper brace for this."

XXX

Sylar squared more directly towards Peter as he acted…shy all of a sudden, or perhaps it was avoidance; tilting his head as he waited for some explanation to the behavior.

_Hotel? Did he change his mind? _Did_ he understand? Or…medical equipment as in scalpels and rib-spreaders and a gurney_ before_ the hotel use?_ He brushed it off. It would happen either way and it would happen anyway. _Whatever_. The smile was slightly unnerving, but everything Peter said made sense, perfect sense. Then again everything either of them had ever done, good deed or sin made perfect sense to the one doing it. _Such an odd little man_.

"Sure. There's a hotel between you and the hospital, but the music store is closest. And we can always stop for food on the go or whatever when we get hungry. There's plenty of places to raid for food around here." He supposed that was a small blessing in its own way even if it did drive him crazy: having food at his fingertips instead of having to cultivate it himself.

He turned and walked slowly at first off towards the music store since it was the nearest. Everything else would be circling back towards Peter's apartment. He couldn't think of anything to ask that didn't violate their tentative deal and engage their tempers other than, "So what kind of music do you play?"

XXX

"A lot of different things," Peter said immediately, then gave Sylar a more piercing look. He knew, or should know, from Nathan's memories, exactly what sort of music Peter played. But then again, as Peter looked back down the street, Nathan had been overseas on assignment for much of Peter's late teen years, returning and enrolling in law school shortly after Peter's graduation. For a while they'd been in college together - not the same college, or even similar courses - but it had been the first and only time they'd really shared a life experience. Well, that and abilities.

Still, Sylar had asked. Even if he already knew, it was polite to give him an answer. "I like rock, mostly. Grunge, punk, and metal." He chuckled. "Anything that gets the blood pumping. That's for guitar. But as far as sitting around and playing, I do slower stuff. I learned the guitar doing the Beatles, Paul McCartney, Gordon Lightfoot, all that old stuff-" _What do I call her to him? Ma? Angela? It's not like they're strangers, even aside from Nathan's memories._ "-my mother liked. Of course that's never what I ended up playing with the guys, but I probably put twice as many hours in on the old stuff compared to the new. For the piano it was mostly classics and hymns." _'Church music', Dad always called it. _"It's not like I got into anything exotic with either of them."

XXX

Sylar kept his head down and nodded as Peter began, doing his best to weather the look that was leveled at him. He had no idea what that was about, but the other man continued. He chuckled, too, mostly at picturing Peter and his goofy bangs flying everywhere while rocking out. "That sounds about right for you," he conceded in amusement. "Hmm, the originals," was his desirous reply. He was an oldies fan himself.

His eyebrows did take a hike in that Angela liked something that wasn't Mozart or something upper-class. "Hymns?" Sylar winced a little when Peter got to the part about piano. _Why is that so fitting for him? He is a freaking choir boy; he just wasn't raised as one__._

XXX

"I banged around on the drums a little bit. I can keep a beat, but it's not really my thing." Peter looked around as they passed through an intersection, rubber-necking like a tourist. He remained in good spirits. _I have someone who's actually listening to blabber at. That is so weird. _Usually he was the listener, picking up cues, taking in what others said and repeating back to them what they wanted to hear - which tended to be a simple restatement of whatever they'd told him. He was content with that - it worked, and, wow, did it ever work in dating and medicine (with totally unrelated results) - but it sometimes left him feeling unimportant. The attention he was getting now was sort of going to his head, making him more loose-lipped and full of himself than normal.

XXX

Sylar just nodded about the drums, a little surprised, but Peter would probably like to have his hands on or involved in the instrument, not just his fists. Ha.

XXX

Peter continued, "I wouldn't mind stopping for coffee. I didn't make any this morning. I think that diner I've eaten at a couple times now is right up there." _The diner. That night I slept in the furniture store on a recliner. That's the night I had that watchmaker dream__._

XXX

Peter chatted away, even going so far as to make a suggestion for coffee and that had Sylar glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. _Sounded like an invitation to me. Is this one of those coffee-use-you-for-the-tour-then-take-you-to-hotel-to-….what? things?_ _Never been out to coffee with someone before_. Sylar began to actively look around when Peter mentioned he ate nearby, a little surprised that he would let that slip, but enjoying the information flow greedily.

XXX

Peter pursed his lips. "There's something else I want to talk to you about, too. If you want me to know about your past - _tell_ me. Just like we're talking now. This is _normal_." _As opposed to some sort of psycho memory insertion. Okay, Pete, you agreed no mental patient stuff. Don't even go there__._ He huffed.

XXX

Suddenly Peter's tone changed and he looked over to him, expecting the same 'what do you know about this place?' routine. "What?" He was taken aback and it showed on his face—complete surprise and incomprehension as to the topic. His head reared back as he began to feel some verbal attacking going on in Peter's delivery. _Oh, it's back to 'normal' is it?_

XXX

Peter grimaced, explaining, "I don't want your watchmaker flashbacks. I don't want your … intimate moments, especially with Elle." _Of all people. But that **was**__ fascinating, to see her being normal and him being kind. Like a glimpse into Bizarro world__. _

XXX

"What am I not telling- _what?_" Sylar's own voice rose up, filled with plenty of emotions, namely shock and anger at being addressed that way with some embarrassment at the content. "What did you ca-" His eyes widened and he stopped walking, sputtering a minute for a response. He was ready to start shrieking for a start and then move on to some strangulation, ideally using Peter's scrawny neck for a test dummy.

XXX

"If it was a stranger it wouldn't bother me as much, but she and I …" Peter shook his head. "I'm not even sure you know you're doing it. But you need to **_stop it_**. I do **_not_** want to learn about you that way."

XXX

'My _what_?' was on its way out of his mouth before Peter threw down the gauntlet, a very cold, horrifying mitt that held potential to shatter many of his previous beliefs. Sylar felt his blood stream rush with total rage; that Peter would imply that he should only be sleeping with….less-thans, with strangers. That he should be careful who he fucked to save Peter's precious ego or whatever the fuck; with no real reason when Peter himself had women, patients, and his rescued strays, his precious fucking _Emma_ that he would actually demean Sylar enough to make demands on when, how, and who he got laid with…

"You son of a bitch," was what actually slipped out, his gaze contemptuously raking Peter over. "I don't even want to know what-…" He inhaled on a sobbingly gasped breath, turning away a little to stare unseeing at something else than the object of his homicidal urges, grasping at his hair to try to wrap his mind around what had been _implied_. He was totally acting like a jilted boyfriend, he knew, the whole cliché enchilada with toppings, but…

"What the fuck are you talking about _exactly_ here, Peter? _She_ is not your concern and never was," Sylar turned back to pin the man with his eyes, pointing a would-be deadly finger towards his face. That was all he could say towards addressing…Elle. _How did he know about that? And he called me watchmaker. Did he talk to Bennet? How does he know this?__ "_I didn't do anything. I went home and slept _by myself_ and it's not my fault if you hallucinate at night. For once I'm actually not responsible."

XXX

"Whoa, whoa, whoa …" Peter took a step back and put his hands up in what was either surrender or defensive at Sylar's pointing. He did not want this to become violent. This was nowhere on Peter's list of things he was willing to fight for. His standard go-to of what to do when confronted with violence he wouldn't or couldn't return was simply to run away. That wouldn't work out well if Sylar decided to give serious chase. When it looked like the other man was going to keep it verbal, he stopped retreating and listened.

XXX

Something occurred to him and he glared at Peter in righteousness, "You said you had Matt's ability. Learn to respect some privacy—_it's my fucking head!_ For once, as a Petrelli, can't you leave it alone?" _I expected better from you, even your shoddy abilities_. _How did you get them in the first place, you fucking snitch?_

XXX

At the reminder that he had Matt's ability, Peter's brow furrowed. _Is that possible?__ Could I be pulling memories from him without intending to? Why … Didn't Matt say something about not always being able to control it? I've never had a problem with his ability in the past, but right now I'm … I'm inside Sylar's mind, completely. All of my consciousness is in here. Maybe that makes a difference. It's not like I've been able to use his ability the way it **should** work. _Peter's face mirrored his confusion and uncertainty. He backed off physically a few more steps.

"I'm … I don't think I'm doing it." _How would I know? All I've been able to get out of Matt's ability is vertigo._ "You're sure … you're not?" _How would **he**__ know? Dammit._

He leaned forward a little, gesturing earnestly. "Sylar, I was telling you because I wanted it to end. If I was doing this on purpose, I would **not** be telling you about it, okay? And especially not **_now_**."

As if to himself, Peter added, "Of course if _you_ were doing it on purpose, I can't figure out why you'd choose _those things_ to send me."

He eyed Sylar. He'd hurt him, stung him and managed to strip away the man's defenses. Nowhere in his comportment or delivery now was the sarcasm or superiority he'd shown before. He was fragile. Peter didn't want to have done this to him, but a very small part of him smirked at how shaken Sylar was. Peter knew a few disparate episodes in his life, when the man had the entirety of Nathan's life, stolen and stored away in his brain. _Learn to respect some privacy! Ha._

XXX

Sylar threw up his arms in surrender, shaking his head in defeat. "I'm neutered here, man. Three years without sight or sound of another living thing. What more do you want?" Probably something to ease the pain of losing Nathan, he would imagine. But taking away a semi-genuine experience, one-of-a-kind, at least for him was…cruelty he didn't know he could handle. "What kind of…additional punishment would you place on me?" He really did want to know. Nothing was good enough for these people: Petrellis and heroes.

XXX

Peter raised his hands in a calming motion. "I'm not trying to punish you. I'd like to talk about this. It sounds like neither one of us wants this. I think it's been happening every time I go to sleep. I have these weird dreams. I thought at first … that they were, like you said, hallucinations or something." _And then there was that moment during the fight. But … I don't know what that was. You know, if I'm really interested in full disclosure here, I should probably mention that,_ _too_. "And … when you were hitting me. I got distracted. Something happened to my concentration and it happened then, too."

XXX

Something in him felt confirmed when had Peter backed away, and so quickly, too, raising his hands as if Sylar pointed a gun at him. It broke the head of his anger. _'__Normal' hadn't he said?_ _What else does he know?_ Was his next capable, rational thought. His hand dropped and he sighed, looking away again as Peter spoke.

"Peter, you're an empath, a very….trigger-happy one at that. You might not be aware of your capabilities or what powers you're using, especially while you're stressed, unsettled and asleep," he felt inclined to point out, keeping the insult from his voice, instead infusing it with statement. "Do you still have Matt's power? Can you use it?"

XXX

"I _think_ I still have Matt's power." Peter pointed at his head. "It _feels_ like I do and I'm sure you know what I mean. It's in there. When you have an ability, you know it." He huffed. "But it doesn't **do** anything. The only thing I've felt from it was when … when I was touching you and tried to use it to get out. I felt a kind of vertigo, like …" He looked away, lips thinned, trying to find words to describe something that human beings felt so rarely that they had no vocabulary for the experience. "Kind of like I was dizzy, except … not _dizzy_ exactly."

He looked back to Sylar. "I have not tried to read your thoughts or push a command on you since I got in here. If I'm doing it while asleep, that's _entirely_ unintentional." He thought about the simple sleep exercises he'd gone through in college, back when he'd been dating Brianna._ I should probably start doing that again: keep a journal, focus on recognizing dreams while I'm in them, wake up for every single one of them and make a note in the journal._ After enough repetition, the mind became accustomed to the new pattern, and each dream state brought with it associations of waking and thinking about the dream rationally, resulting in an awareness within the state of what was really going on. It had been part of a whole phase of tinkering with altered perceptions.

XXX

"I…" Sylar actually did stop to think, his brows furrowing in thought, "I wasn't thinking about her. Of course I can't control my dreams, but that's…." Again, his head shook and he looked back to the younger man. He had been thinking about his watchmaking background when Peter first arrived; he'd asked about his Primatech file. Sylar nodded, his head hanging a little as he bit his lip; Peter was making sense again even if the situation wasn't.

His brow crumpled completely. "I wouldn't…be telling you those things, sending them, whatever." He didn't entirely believe the part about lack of punishment. Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Peter hadn't answered his more important question, "What did you mean about her, Peter?" he looked up to stare at the man, demanding answer with his eyes. _How does he even know her?_ He dreaded the reply.

"And what did you see?" These were things he needed to know. The idea that someone was…in his head and he was helpless against the loss of information, such personal memories at that was very troubling to him. That Peter would get a head-movie of his life every night was horrifying. He knew he'd get a new disgusted or angry look in the morning and have no clue what kind of battle he'd be fighting.

Having his life picked slowly apart, viewed, experienced and subsequently judged by someone who was still the enemy-of-my-enemy technically; and Peter was upper-class for god's sake, a hero and empath or not; Sylar wouldn't be understood. Was judgment part of redemption? He would become naked and so humanly ugly; Peter…of all people would see him at his lowest points even if it took years of night's sleep.

He made no move to continue walking and wouldn't until he had his answers. Sylar staved off his instinct of panic because once again, he feared losing his mind to another.


	15. Peter's Ponderings, Part 2

**A/N: This section is presented very slightly out of sequence, having occurred within the time frame of Peter's second posting for the previous chapter, "Dream Jobs". Sylar last sees Peter as Peter goes inside the apartment building, but instead of going straight to his apartment, Peter has the interlude I relate below first, then goes to his apartment a little later as shown in "Dream Jobs".**

Day 7

Peter felt weirdly cheerful as he headed back to his apartment building. He didn't give Sylar so much as a second look though. The man was not the source of Peter's good mood. He took the elevator up to the eighth floor and then, after setting down his finds outside his door, he began a search for the roof access. He had what was a probably disturbing familiarity with getting onto high places he wasn't supposed to be on, so he wasn't long in looking. He just had to find the right stairwell. Like nearly all the other doors around here, this one was unlocked. His grin widening, he walked out onto the roof.

The sun hadn't set yet, which was what he was hoping to catch. He wasn't a huge fan of sunsets, but there was no TV and really … not much of anything worth seeing. No TV show schedule to watch - not that he'd followed shows for years now; no movies to go to - again, something he'd given up after discovering abilities; no people to call on the phone; no work tomorrow; no schedule to keep; no dates; no obligations; no _responsibilities_. His smile nearly split his face.

It was weird. He _wanted_ responsibilities. His life for the last few years had been a constant reordering and prioritizing of his responsibilities: to strangers, to his friends, to his family, to the whole freaking world. But now he had none and he was thrilled. He watched as the disk of the sun touched the horizon.

He gave a quick mental review of his situation, in case he was missing something he needed to be doing here. He couldn't affect the outside world. There was no one here to save. There was no work to be done. There was nothing here to improve or maintain. There weren't even any novel experiences here that he might need to indulge in just to be able to relate to people. There wasn't much of a point to rigorous self-improvement, though he sort of hoped his efforts with the guitar and maybe the piano would have an effect later, but that was guessing. He'd like to tell himself he was going to work on music for some practical reason like physical therapy or self-improvement, but really … really he just wanted to _play_. He wanted to do something for no reason other than to do it, and he finally had a chance to do just that. After years of burning himself out, he had no choice but to reinvigorate. It was an enforced vacation. And God, did he ever need one.

The sun slipped below the horizon. He was still smiling. He leaned over the edge and looked down. It was a long way - maybe a hundred feet. Definitely lethal. No, he had no plans of jumping or killing himself. He'd been threatening Sylar, and not even very seriously. After that episode with the stuffed bear, Peter wanted Sylar to know he wasn't just a helpless victim plopped down into the man's prison. He snorted, sure there was some cool prison analogy he could make about Ben Dover and being locked in the same jail cell with a psychotic serial killer who had it in for your family _in __particular_.

He turned to face 'east', looking across the roof towards the gradually darkening sky. So what about Sylar, really? He reacted badly to compliments. He was staggeringly intelligent. Peter felt like an idiot around him, which wasn't entirely a function of his intelligence. More, it was a function of Sylar being an asshole. Peter had been around brilliant people who actually left him feeling smarter when he left their company, proud of himself and like there was a meaning to everything that happened in the world, if only he was clever enough to see it. Being around Sylar made him feel stupid, depressed and angry. His smile finally slipped from his face.

He kicked at the roofing material. _Yep.__ That__'__s __about __the __long __and __short __of __it._ He looked at the door that led back inside the building, suddenly less enchanted with being up here, wanting a change of scene to change his thoughts. He refused to be run off though by the mere memory of dealing with the man. He took a stroll around the roof instead, looking over the edge to see what he could see on each side.

So what else about Sylar? He reacted especially well to gratitude and while everyone wanted to be appreciated, this was stronger than usual. He was insecure, which wasn't surprising with that over-inflated ego. That he wouldn't accept ego strokes made him difficult to deal with. He wanted only sincere appreciation and even then it needed to be carefully delivered. He was sensitive - very sensitive - to being manipulated and used. Peter reminded himself yet again to cut it out on the casual maneuvering. If anything would get him abused and killed here, it would be doing something that Sylar interpreted as a betrayal or a lie.

He sighed and stopped at a corner, leaning on the edge and picking at the concrete with his fingernail. He'd come here with the express intention of manipulating Sylar into something - saving Emma, saving the rest at the carnival. But Sylar would not be handled. So how to get him to do it? Peter frowned. He could ask and he had; Sylar could say no and he had, more or less. And that was it. He couldn't see what else there was to do here, except pass the time until someone outside managed to get him out. He could try to tell Sylar about the people he might be saving, but the only one Peter really knew was Emma and he was loathe to tell the man too much about her, or anyone who had an ability. And as for those without abilities, he didn't think Sylar would _care_.

The smile began to creep back on his face. Yes, that was the long and short of it: there was _absolutely__ nothing_ he could think of to do here except whatever he damn well pleased. He pushed away from the wall, grinning again, and went back to his apartment.


	16. Coffee Confessions

Day 8

"I wasn't thinking about her either, man. At least I don't _think _I was." He gave Sylar a sidelong glance at the man's renewed intensity when he asked what Peter had meant and what he'd seen. Peter turned to the side and paced a little. He gave a little evasion to that question - but only a little. "I was having a dream at first, a normal dream. We …" _Hm, this has the potential to be embarrassing fast unless I watch my words__. _"You and I were exploring apartments." He waved a hand generally back the way they'd come. "Then you were gone and she was there, but I was having trouble seeing her face. I …"

Peter stopped pacing and drew up. "I **_tried_**. I tried to see her face and I _focused_ on her. Then everything shifted and I remembered …" He looked over at Sylar thoughtfully. "I remembered the image of her face from your memory." Of course the image of her inflamed with passion would brand itself into Sylar's head. Maybe that was his single strongest memory of her, or maybe it just correlated with Peter's because of the sexual content of Peter's dream.

He chewed his lip. "Maybe I _did_ do something."

XXX

Peter's descriptions didn't match any of Sylar's memories—it sounded more like a dream. It was very likely Peter was (literally, this time) dreaming it all up. _Her face from my memory? You expect me to buy that?_

Sylar couldn't help but roll his eyes at the man's density and long-winded, rather unnecessary explanation. If the ability didn't work, it didn't work and as he would never know the difference (honestly the idea of _Peter_ with telepathy was bad enough); there was nothing either of them could do about it. He waved a hand in the air towards the other man, dismissing. "That's wonderful; I can't prove you wrong otherwise. And that's not intimate, Peter." He and his tone moments ago implied Peter had seen something potentially graphic.

His thoughts stuttered off the track. _Has he seen me naked through…memories? How much more awkward…Can you focus on nothing else? Really._ _That is the least of your problems_. _He says he's not doing it on purpose; he says he's not doing it at all; so why would he purposefully go through your mind for anything with bare skin? Then what would he have been looking for?_

_This__-_he _is worse than Lydia!_

"What did you mean exactly about _you. and_. _her__?"_ This time his voice telegraphed that he wasn't messing around. Asking the man directly would surely yield the answer. _I can always rebreak his fingers; I can always rebreak his fingers__…"_How do you know her? You have a history? What?" All this was useless in the present, sure, but it meant that his one halved-relationship might be…what, tainted? Not what he thought it was, regardless. His only consolation at this point was that Peter didn't know that it had been his only significant 'relationship' of sorts to date, meaning he still didn't know Sylar was kinda pathetic on that front. Yet.

"You said….you said something about….watchmaking," Sylar purposefully avoided saying 'you said something about ME being a watchmaker", but the last word did exit his mouth a little whispery, trying not to call attention to it. _These are the things I need to know. For god's sake__, _tell me_! Am I gonna have to stay up at nights so he doesn't fucking dream? Or keep him up? His ability is so busted his powers won't work, he doesn't know what he has, he can't use them and they're probably using him!_

He was completely frustrated, Peter was being frustrating on purpose probably in hopes of avoiding letting something slip that Sylar would find…a need for violence in. Annoyed and on edge were his coinciding emotions as he considered the depth of the damaging leak that had mysteriously sprung between them.

Peter could potentially know everything about him if this continued—every one of his regrets; suicide attempts and murders; all of his feelings; how he thought; what he desired; the things he liked and those he didn't; how he'd changed and why; the things that bothered him and set him off; how he groomed; how he ate; how he slept; the things that terrified him and what kept him up at night; worse still, his history, the people he'd known. Hell, Peter might manage to dig up the things Sylar had totally forgotten, childhood memories that he himself didn't even possess. Peter would essentially be inside his head, just wandering instead of looking for something specific to pluck out and ogle.

His breath escaped him in a small sighed gasp. _Guy's gotta have some secrets_…

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar at his insistent question about what was between Peter and Elle. He didn't say anything right away. It gave Sylar time to elaborate and he did it with enough apprehensiveness that Peter knew what he was dealing with: _jealousy, insecurity, and fear_. Peter knew he had a knife in his hand, metaphorically speaking, and Sylar's heart was bare. He remembered himself years before, standing invisible on a rooftop, watching Simone with Isaac. Claude had been standing next to him radiating '_I told you so_.' Even though Peter wasn't the jealous type, he'd still felt hurt that she'd dumped him a second time.

"You remember that I said I was locked up by the Company for months, right?" He spoke slowly, giving himself time to think about his choice of words, what to say and what not to say. It also gave him the opportunity to watch Sylar's face. "She was my jailor, most days. It was usually _her_ bringing me my neutralizing pills, clothes, and food." He looked off to the side briefly, then back, meeting Sylar's eyes without blinking. "She had a lot of time to torture me. It didn't leave a real good impression. So yeah, she and I have a _history_." He looked away again.

He _was_ leaving out something important here - kissing, playing (a dangerous game; he had been at a dark point in his life), and being toyed with. But Elle did not _belong_ to Sylar, not that Peter had ever been all that respectful of such boundaries anyway, as Isaac could have attested, had Sylar not murdered him, too.

How did this work for Sylar anyway - him and Elle? Did he trust her? What was he afraid of discovering between her and Peter? Peter was too much of a Petrelli to leave this alone right away. "You _know_ her. I saw _that_ well enough. What do you think she'd do with me if she had me locked in a Company cell?" He looked back, eyes slightly narrowed. Peter was locked here, with Sylar. There were parallels, which had a lot to do with Peter's paranoia. There were no cameras, no guards and no Daddy Bishop to encourage Sylar to treat Peter well. And of course Sylar had been in a Company cell as well. Peter knew his own treatment, as a son of one of the directors, had been VIP compared to whatever Sylar had received; so he was interested to see what Sylar imagined had happened. Peter had, after all, spent a little time as a Level Five detainee, a nobody named Jesse.

"As for the watch-making … Yeah, you were working as a watchmaker. You were younger, I think, or at least you sounded younger, thought … well, you were younger. You were working on a watch. A guy came in." Peter made an empty gesture with his left hand. "You told him you had his order ready and you rang him up." It wasn't a big deal. Everyone had something in their past. What, did Sylar want people to think he'd grown up as a rabid serial killer, terrorizing his school and secretly offing the other kids in Gifted and Talented class? Sylar stressing over this would be like Peter getting bent out of shape that someone knew he'd worked in a pizza shop briefly in his freshman year of college, until his father caught wind of it. Honestly, he'd just been trying to fit in. He tried a half-smile. "I don't really think I got any deep secrets about you out of that. Nothing embarrassing happened." _Come on, man, it was nothing that like that crap with the bear you pulled. That was mean. And on purpose._

XXX

Sylar grunted in response; he recalled being a little surprised that the Petrelli clan hadn't yanked him from his 'self-imposed' therapy or whatever Peter saw it as. _She was his what?_ Sylar hadn't gotten so much as a visit from her and he'd been there probably the same amount of time Peter had, all in all. _Not a good impression_.

As much as he longed to relax, forgive and forget over that, something wasn't hitting him right about Peter's demeanor. He snorted in partial amusement, but failed to look away from Peter. Maybe staring continuously at him would prod any lingering…guilts. _He placed emphasis on 'history'._

"I don't know, Peter; that's what I'm hoping to find out. Clearly your eyeballs aren't ash, so she didn't rough you up too bad," he delivered with a hunk of snarky condescension. Again, he doubted Peter had been fried inside-out at any given time. Of course, Peter didn't _deserve_ it. "So how did you escape? Or did mommy pull strings when she got sick of you? Did Nathan sue to get you out?" He highly doubted it was the last two.

Elle would have thought him quite the pet—amusing, probably squirming and screaming just right to keep her interest, funny, dramatic, trapped, and what she would have labeled 'a cutie'.

Basically, Peter was a potential threat to Sylar's memories as he was attractive, available and, as far as he knew, virile enough to do the job. Yes, the idea that they'd fooled around was prominent on him mind. It didn't fail to make him queasy. As far as Sylar was concerned, she'd never treated him like a 'pet'. Not really. She knew when not to fuck around on someone after the first time, but fool him once…

Social graces were demanding he relinquish his hold on the conversation and its subject, so he did, if only temporarily. Peter suddenly got dodgy about it so he hadn't reached the bottom of the barrel yet. He released Peter from his piercing gaze to at least affect at relaxed as Peter touched on the secondary subject of watch-making.

_Would he lie about this? Is he really just pulling my leg, getting a kick out of this while feeding me a story?_ Peter seemed determined about his innocence, rather, the innocence of the dream's contents. His lips pursed for all of two seconds when Peter stumbled on the part about 'deep secrets'. _Wonderful, so he's onto it, too. _

He kept his body language, though calm, at an 'in charge' tension to let Peter know he wasn't through with this talk as he began walking again, shaking his head. Sylar now had to sort through the information and his feelings, the instincts he had on it. Peter was smart, smarter than he looked, anyway, and if he'd been doing his 'empathy powers activate!' thing he surely picked up on the fact that it was sensitized content.

He might also have passed up an opportunity to do real emotional harm to Sylar, something that hadn't been covered in their agreement on mental patients and adult-to-child behaviors. _Is he sparing me something? If so what was it and why was he doing it? Does he know she's dead?_Was the next thought in his head. Maybe that explained Peter's apparent befuddlement as to why Sylar cared. Then, _Should I tell him?_

Sylar heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky as he walked, quite sure Peter was tagging behind him since he wasn't looking to get away, exactly—he just needed space. "She's dead, Pete. About four years ago. She won't come back and fry your balls because you told me something," he said quietly, loudly enough for Peter to hear.

XXX

When Sylar turned and began to walk away, _that_ was when Peter started to worry. He bared his teeth and looked around for … a weapon, a defense, an ally … something. Anything. There was nothing. He had a moment to decide whether to stalk off on his own and hope for the best, or to try to recover this. After a beat, he hurried to follow, trailing a little behind though. He hoped like hell he wasn't letting Sylar lead him to something lethal and that this was just a normal tense, pissy moment - always questionable when dealing with a killer.

Sylar was just walking down the middle of the street, so it wasn't like an attack was imminent. Peter went back over the conversation. _Maybe if I just answer some of his questions? I'm **already**__ answering some of his questions though. Not telling the whole truth though and obviously he can tell that. I'm a terrible liar. Why am I not being totally forthcoming here? 1) That wasn't the agreement - Bad form, Peter. That's petty. 2) He's a murderer - which should be, you know, all the more reason not to cause problems without good cause. 3) I'm embarrassed - um … yeah, I think that's accurate. 4) I'm not sure how he'll react - so? See reason #2._

_I've got one decent reason: it's embarrassing that I tried to seduce her and she turned on me. I failed in manipulating her and I was willing to use sex to do it. To someone as damaged as she was. That's low. I **should**__ be ashamed of that._ He eyed Sylar's back. He wasn't feeling particularly inclined to confess another sin at the moment.

That was when Sylar made his addendum to the conversation. "What?" Peter said, surprised. "She's _dead__?_" _How__?_ He remembered the bullet that had slammed into the flooring a fraction of a second after she'd yanked Sylar out of the way. _Then? Wait,** four**__ years ago?_ His brow furrowed. _No, he must be counting three here. So one year ago._ He pondered, but couldn't place the news. Of course, he hadn't exactly kept up on the life and times of Elle Bishop; ever.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said in a quiet, sober voice. _Did he kill whoever did it? Was it just an accident? Was it whoever was shooting at them in that house? Was it Sylar?_

"She didn't rough me up … that much." _Of__ course, I had Claire's power, even if the pills were keeping it down._ "As for how I got out, there's a trick to swallowing pills and being able to retch them back up. I had plenty of opportunity to work on it. Once I figured it out, I just walked out. They couldn't stop me." Of course it helped a lot to have Adam's advice.

XXX

The walking did help in easing Sylar's worries. They were still irrelevant here and today. While he couldn't explain his need to know, at least, not in a way that wouldn't sound crazy to the psyche ward that walked behind him, it was what he felt. Sylar kept quiet as he walked; attempting to leave the subject behind as he they moved on, but he was almost relieved when Peter piped up again after a few moments. The silence had been strange, probably uncomfortable if he had to label it; the lack of sound had been filled only with the sound of their footsteps, echoing throughout the city.

He let out a shuddering breath, letting Peter come to terms with whatever he needed to. She didn't help Peter out and that made him feel a little better. _Yeah, you're jealous. She's dead; it's over. You're callous enough to make moves on him, too, so you're not so fucking righteous._ _God, what happens tonight when he sleeps? Does he get the night at the beach? How does it operate, is it based on what one or both of us are thinking when we sleep? Do we…meet up in dreams or something corny?_

XXX

Peter walked silently a little further, still unnerved by the lack of engagement. While Sylar was talking, venting and giving him reactions, Peter was fine. The silent act unsettled him, especially the 'going away mad' part. Even though Peter's overactive paranoia had calmed down, he still wanted to get things back to where they'd been before. He felt deflated. For a few minutes there, someone had been paying attention to him. Then he'd run his mouth without thinking first and now he was trailing along behind the other man like a lost puppy. _I'm not even sure where we're going_, he thought with a pout.

"What is it you really want to know here?" He didn't expect an answer, but he thought maybe he could toss that out there and see what response it garnered.

XXX

Sylar stopped then, not suddenly, but at a normal speed, almost hesitant, half-turning towards the other man, his hands long since returned to his pockets to walk. "Did you sleep with her?" his voice was pitched low and unhurried at a conversational volume, wavering only a little as an eyebrow quirking slightly, his face disguising hurt with _question_. He internally braced for the answer, determining himself that it didn't matter. _Of course it wouldn't matter if the closest, most real relationship, (which isn't saying much given the circumstances) I've ever had with someone has been ruined after/before the fact by_ him.

Peter Petrelli, the man who could have anything and the odds of him screwing something over for Sylar, unwittingly, for his own gain was…actually a long shot, but it might have happened_. __God, how ironic_. "I….I don't know what you saw, Peter, and what you've mentioned is a lot of private stuff you're getting into. I've never had my mind fucked over then had someone…question me about it like this." Nathan didn't count because that wasn't _Sylar's_ mind, in a sense; it wasn't his own consciousness. The overall point he was trying to get across was about how he wasn't sure at all how to handle this situation.

He'd also never been _able_ to talk to someone about _girls;_ or Elle; or sex; or why he didn't have someone to call his own (which should be fairly obvious) or what he could do about that. It felt like such a normal thing to do, something that happened all the time and should happen all the time, but for someone special and as power-hungry as Sylar it felt out of place and he had a feeling it wouldn't be taken well by his audience. A sort of 'So I'm supposed to feel sorry you screwed up your own 'best-shot' at a relationship when you killed my brother?' thing. Heck, even 'you have the right to have something private after what you've done? Go to hell!'

"I don't…appreciate mind-fuckery in any form and I'm not…I'm not accusing you of it. But it's still there and I can't change it," was the closest explanation he could make, a sort of apology in it as well. _I can't change much of anything in here, Peter, wish though I do._He knew the 'walk-away' trick worked when one was upset—it helped avoid damaging his only companion over a suspicion. _She wasn't ever really yours, either, you idiot._ _You've had years to think on this, don't let whatever he says deter your making peace with it._

XXX

"I'm not trying to fuck with you," Peter answered quietly and steadily. "I have absolutely no interest in that. I know some people think that sort of thing is funny – I never have." It didn't keep him from trying to get people to do what he wanted, but that was different. Peter tried to be careful about his goals there and let that guide his actions. Of course Peter also had a sense of humor, but this was not the sort of circumstance where he let it out.

He looked down for a little bit. _I ought to just tell him. He knows now and he's not doing anything. At least, I don't think he's going to do anything._Sylar's calmer demeanor was reassurance of that. _If I don't come clean, he'll always wonder. There's no reason to let the uncertainty tear him up. Hell, he should be **happy**__ with the answer. Am I not telling him because I'm **trying**__ to be cruel and make him think I did something I didn't?_ Peter frowned for a moment, brows furrowed. That last thought made up his mind for him.

He cleared his throat and smoothed his expression. "Okay. About Elle," he looked Sylar dead in the eye again. "No, I didn't sleep with her." Then he looked away, eyes darting uneasily. "We … we played around a lot though." He gave a quick, wary glance back at Sylar, then looked down, ducking his head in guilt. A little more quietly he added, "I tried to use her to get out. It didn't work." He sighed and muttered with disgust, "God, I sound like _Nathan_."

XXX

Sylar gave a snorted chuckle. _Yeah, 'some people' like me_. Peter still hesitated and the longer he took to 'answer' (if he even would), the worse Sylar dreaded anyway. He nodded, still facing partly away, slowly turning as Peter spoke. Peter was too honest to lie about fucking him over; he was, after all, a (rather) straightforward man. The medic had passed by multitudes of opportunities to fuck Sylar over and it was beginning to sink in that he wouldn't. Sylar looked Peter in the face as the other man did the same, his gaze merely searching this time and he found it odd that he wasn't missing his lie detection.

A muscle in his eye twitched without orders at the news, but the worst was unconfirmed and he could live with that. He would have had to in either case. His eyes tracked Peter's guilty movements before he nodded once. He knew the other man was paying attention to his response. _You just told him that she was something to you. Eventually he's gonna ask about it. Or see it in his dreams__._ He knew there was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well not worry about every single eventuality.

A copious eyebrow raised at a second (third?) confession. _Okay, not that you wouldn't have done the same to get out of there, even if it had been another girl, but from him…?_ Suddenly he found himself laughing aloud; yeah, kind of at Peter. "Nathan? You? Oh, Peter…" he shook his head, smiling to himself since Peter probably wouldn't see the humor.

XXX

Peter turned and walked away several strides, fussing with his hair compulsively. He swept it out of his face, then carded it back with his fingers, then tousled it a little, then carded it back again and made motions as if to push it off his forehead, but no stray hair was there to be pushed. He put his hands down to stop himself from fidgeting. It occurred to him that Sylar might not even understand why Peter was upset by the whole episode. He was upset by his own conduct and no amount of pointing out to himself that he thought he'd killed Nathan, thought his powers were out of control, thought maybe he'd gone crazy … none of it justified trying to play on the affections of a woman who appeared vulnerable and needy and twist that to his own ends. While he would have tried to get her out as well (and he believed she was trapped by the situation and her oppressive family much as he was), it didn't change the essential nature of what he'd been trying to do. He'd been trying to do something _wrong_.

He sighed and turned back towards Sylar. _Why do I end up confessing these things to** him**__? Is it because he's done worse and I feel like I won't be judged too harshly?_That was funny. Sylar struck him as nothing if not judgmental. _Of course, if you want to build a link with someone, if you want to build a bridge with them, you do it by sharing your weaknesses, not by flaunting your strengths. Maybe if he thinks I'm a fuck-up, he'll have a little more empathy with me_. He swallowed and fell back into step, mulling things over, mentally chipping away at his own pride and self-righteousness.

XXX

The empath then began pacing, nervous and guilt-ridden over something that really didn't matter anymore. _Very strange that you're the one who's brushing things off like this instead of guilting over them for a few years like you used to_.

Sylar thought on that for a second, but no more before mentally instructing himself—_with great growth comes great forgiveablility.__ Oh, if only that were true__. _"Relax, man. There's a reason I call you the Boy Scout. You said you tried, you failed. In the end, she's not your concern." _Or __mine_.

XXX

_It's not about **her**__!_ Peter wanted to snap, but he kept his mouth shut. '_It's about me_' sounded self-centered to say, even if the subject at hand - his adherence or not to moral behavior - _was_ all about him. He didn't expect Sylar to understand why that mattered so much, so Peter dropped it.

What he picked up loud and clear was that Sylar wasn't going to kill him over him being with Elle in some manner. The other man had been pretty heavily freaked out there at first. He'd calmed down and at least appeared to be dealing with it. Peter studied him, trying to get a feel for the other man's emotions. Was he genuinely calmed down, or was it an act?

XXX

"Now, we're gonna go get you a pick so you can mangle the hell out of that poor guitar, okay?" Sylar said by way of soothing Peter's feathers. "I'm not much of a shoulder to cry on, but if it helps…" giving a light shrug, Sylar's voice was miming sincerity, which in a sense it was, but it hid sarcasm designed to give Peter a moment of 'Ugh! You sicko!' to get back to himself. He didn't anticipate Peter having a breakdown in front of him (the phrase 'of all people' was kind of meaningless now), but if he did, Sylar would do his best to help. _Does he know about that scientific study about tears being a turn-off?_

Something in him felt the need to go over and grab Peter by his shoulders, get very close to him for the Petrelli shoulder squeeze. Sylar walked over with a purpose, extending his arms at the proper time and laid his big paws over Peter's admittedly buff shoulders, giving him a light squeeze and shake—it felt familiar and natural to him and he didn't question it. He gave the smaller man a serious 'get it together' look and hoped it didn't come across as giving him 'kid brother'. _Do_ _I remind him of his brother? And dear god, I am not coping a feel on him, I'm not…_ Because, oh, how easy it would have been to do that.

XXX

Peter nodded briefly to the comment about the guitar, giving a small smile. It chilled a bit with the next statement, trying to sift through fake sincerity and actual sarcasm to divine if that was a joke because Sylar was trying to make light of it; a joke because he genuinely didn't care (which would be creepy), or a calculated affectation because Sylar was boiling inside and was just sociopathic enough to hide his feelings behind a convincing mask.

Peter's doubting expression must have been clear on his face, because Sylar came over with intent. Peter stood straighter, eyes darting and hands raising just a bit when Sylar extended his. Peter canvassed the man's face and body language again - the set of his shoulders, angle of head, the way he was reaching, his posture and footwork - and by then Sylar's hands were closing over Peter's shoulders in a reassuringly firm, but not threatening, grip. Peter relaxed. Sylar gave him a shake and the empath even smiled a little, letting his too-alert eyes fall to half-lidded. "Yeah, okay," he said easily, not even completely sure what he was agreeing to. His empathy had informed him all was good, without giving him much of an intellectual explanation to go on. That was okay. He didn't need one.

Peter started to turn and Sylar removed his hands. Peter made a jerk of his head. "How about we stop over here and get some coffee?" He gestured at the diner. "You say the first place we're headed towards is the music store?" They walked along beside each other down the street, nearing the place Peter had indicated. "What kind of coffee do you drink, anyway? I don't think they have anything special in here. It's just kind of a greasy spoon."

XXX

Peter affirmed that he would let it drop and take it easy on himself, so Sylar nodded and moved back, falling into step beside the other man as they had before the whole incident began. _His shoulders sure felt- Eh-hem? Do you mind? No, I really don't mind. No wonder his family can't keep their lecherous hands off him. _Sylar couldn't help his hands, aching for more, but he ignored them.

The other man seemed at ease enough as they walked before he brought up coffee again. _Coffee?_ Had it been anything closer to a normal situation, Sylar would have gaped and thought something along the lines of '_Coffee? With_ me_?_ _You're crazy'_. But Peter was equally alone. It wasn't like it was a date or a get-to-know-you event.

"S-sure," he choked out, his surprise just a touch evident. _I can just go inside, let him get his coffee__. _"Yeah, that's right." The pair walked meanwhile in the middle of the road, something rebellious and uncaring and somehow resigned in the act. Taking up all the would-be used space here in New York and Peter seemed to be settling into that reality.

Peter wasn't nitpicking or demanding they walk in the sidewalk, he was marching down the centerline like it belonged to him. He found himself wondering if that was an ingrown Petrelli mindset (he doubted it, at least for Peter. To a degree)

The medic led him towards the diner and he followed gamely behind. "Um…not much of a coffee drinker, actually. I was…kind of raised with the idea that it would stunt your growth and rot your teeth. Kind of had to drink it four or five years ago…well, more like six is when it started. When you're on the run and all that." Sylar didn't add the part about living in _hotels_ and his victim's residencies, even whatever car he'd stolen on occasion.

XXX

"Yeah, I heard that stuff about it being bad for you, too." Peter paused to consider the thought of Sylar 'on the run.' Peter assumed he meant after getting his ability and roaming around looking for more. '_Why?_' '_How?_' and '_Did you have any control over yourself?_' came to him as questions. When he'd had Sylar's ability, everything lined up in his head as a neatly logical progression that _just happened_ to include picking up abilities from everyone he ran into _except_ for Sylar. He didn't really understand that - the one person responsible he didn't feel any hunger towards, although Peter's willingness to dish out violence to the man had gone through the roof.

XXX

Sylar continued, "I like it black; sometimes creamer and sugar if I'm not in the mood for the full kick," he gave a small chuckle as they passed through the door, "I like the smell and taste of coffee beans." Perhaps because they were a wholesome, ancient ingredient and it was generally considered to be something to look forward to in the mornings when all he usually had was a road trip by himself. And it wasn't something that was really found in Virginia's household when he grew up.

"And you?" _This is…surreal. I already know the answer, but still that I'm asking Peter Petrelli about his coffee…_Sylar managed to bite his tongue over spewing out Peter's response before he voiced it. It wouldn't do him any favors.

XXX

Peter walked behind the counter, heading right to the coffee machine. He shook his head, popping in a new filter and pulling out another coffee pack. "I _prefer_ a café mocha or a cocoa cappuccino, and most of the lattes are fine, too." He pressed the button to get the machine started. "But black's good. I suppose all I really want is the caffeine and sugar. I never got into all the different kinds of beans and roasts, but I've had truly fresh roast a few times and wow, I see why that's a big deal." He hadn't seen a coffee house around here, but he knew how to operate a cappuccino machine. Should they find one, he'd be set.

XXX

_Huh?_ Was Sylar's first reaction. Nathan filled him in on what they tasted or looked like respectively, but Sylar didn't have the first clue as to what the drinks (he assumed) actually were. Literally hundreds of coffee opportunities—outings, dates, meetings, casual hook ups, heck, just by himself; Nathan was a real coffee man, but Sylar suspected it was a tool like everything else in that Petrelli's arsenal.

Nathan liked it for the caffeine and the act of holding a mug or cup in his hand. "I've heard that about fresh roast, too," he nodded, "Supposedly better health benefits or something; I could be wrong. But the bean probably does make a difference."

Pausing in thought, he recalled something he'd read about once. "Dark roasts have less caffeine than a medium roast because the heat burns away the caffeine," Sylar frowned to himself a little. _That was informed of you_. "The human body can take in about three hundred milligrams of caffeine, about four cups before it stops having any effect. And coffee is made up one-thousand two-hundred chemical components, half of which make up the taste itself."

Sylar finally had to make an effort to stop jabbering Peter's ears off, rubbing at a deep scrape in the counter top, eyeing it intently for a moment as the other man worked around. Peter's preferences were good to know in any event.

It still struck Sylar as odd to watch someone else do what he did—waltz around and use the objects around like they belonged to him. Something about the etiquette of it perhaps. He sat on a stool and plopped his elbows onto the bar counter, watching Peter's hands mostly.

XXX

Peter turned around and stared at Sylar when he started spouting weird facts. _Encyclopedia, much?_ After a long beat, he grinned and shook his head. "Wow. You are _really_ smart." _Too bad you didn't use that brain to accomplish something. Actually, you did. You became probably the most powerful man in the world. How's that working for you, Sylar? Of course, even Einstein had socialization problems. Come to think of it, a lot of smart people do. Then again, so do a lot of dumb people._ He smiled again suddenly, an uncommonly warm and friendly expression even from Peter, like he had found or made some empathic connection, which he felt he had. "That's cool, man. Keep the facts coming. Maybe I'll learn something."

XXX

Sylar gratefully missed the stare; it would have made him shrink more. _Really smart. It's only gotten me into lots of trouble_. The words 'wow' and really smart' in the same sentence failed to read genuine. He supposed it was intended to be condescending or sarcastic; then again, that wasn't something Peter excelled at necessarily, so he let the statement lie. He blinked at the response he garnered verbally. Ducking his head he chuckled a little, "Coffee wasn't something I studied religiously, not being much of a coffee worshipper, but okay."

XXX

Peter set out two cups next to the coffee machine. He turned and found a canister of sugar on the counter. He set it out in front of Sylar. "Maybe I can teach you something, too." The words just slipped out and he _thought_ he'd meant them innocently. _God, that sounded almost flirty__. _He caught the other man's expression. _No, that sounded definitely flirty__. _Peter turned away and found something else to do immediately.

XXX

Then_, T-teach me something? Like what?_ Sylar raised his eyes from the bar's surface to give Peter's…back a rather heated look. _What did you have in mind, Peter Petrelli?_ By some small miracle he kept his gaze from wandering over the other man's body.

The other man disappeared for a few moments and Sylar ended up chuckling to himself behind his hand. Was Peter deliberately teasing him? Probably not…but he was still teasing and he could make use of that. When Peter returned with a pitcher, it was back to business and so was Sylar's face, although it hid his glee (some arousal) and humor behind it.

XXX

Peter left entirely, fleeing the scene. He went back into the kitchen on the excuse to himself of searching for cream or half and half. He found something that had to be either in one of the industrial/commercial refrigerators the place had. What he found was thick and cream-like, in a small pitcher covered with cellophane. He brought it out and set it in front of Sylar; eyes down, face straight, studiously minding his own business and not making eye contact.

Peter spoke nervously, "You want anything else while we're here? I think I'm going to have a piece of toast. What about you? You want one?" He dug out bread and put it in the toaster like he owned the place. That still felt weird to him. It did not feel weird to be offering to serve Sylar, even though he was picking up that the other man was put-off by it. At some point he figured their positions would flip. He recalled how put-off he'd been about Sylar's invitation to lunch the first day he'd been here. It wasn't that Peter was feeling friendly towards the other man, but simply getting resigned. As long as Sylar was polite … well …

Peter glanced over at him. Yeah, perverse and strange as it was, he didn't think 'friendly' was going to take too long to arrive. If he really was going to be trapped here for years, the idea of spending all of that time seething with anger just wasn't realistic. Peter knew how people worked; how emotions worked. The rage he felt inside, the ache, the hurt - it might last forever, but lashing out because of it wasn't going to.

XXX

"No thank you, Peter," he said quickly and quietly, "I already ate." It felt weird for Sylar to be asked if he wanted anything. By Peter Petrelli no less. Perhaps it was crossing his mental boundaries when it came to gifts and food and people and the like.

It sucked to know Peter's favorite foods already. That meant he would have to ask something Nathan did not or would not know. "You should probably eat more, Peter. I know you're not working any more, but still." Sylar still didn't eat as much as he should either, but that was different. "I didn't mean to make you nervous…you know, earlier," he said a little absentmindedly as he watched the ingredients Peter put on his toast.

XXX

"Nervous? Sylar, you make me nervous all the time." Peter said that perfectly matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "Why do you think I'm so jumpy around you?" _I keep over-reacting. Maybe that's it. It's just an over-reaction_. He tended to his toast. He took one of the little single serving jelly packs and peeled off the top. He spread the grape jelly over half the toast, then opened another and doubled it.

Peter said, "I ate some at my apartment. I'm fine." _Little weird that you'd worry about me though. Not sure what to make of that_. He licked the jelly off the knife. _Wait, did that just look suggestive? I'll bet that looked suggestive. What the hell am I doing here? Just stop it! _

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, "That bad, huh," he said in partial question, frowning slightly. _Oh, so…you're eating again…okay, makes perfect sense_. _Grape, too_, he thought. _Go figure. I guess he isn't completely like me then after all, he'll be thrilled to hear._

But Sylar let it pass. Food, healthy food at that, was good for Peter whether he'd bulked up or not. The hero-drive would be harder to kill and he kind of assumed and pieced together that Peter was rather lax in his eating habits. Which had…suddenly become Sylar's business overnight. _Fuck_. He knew who to blame for it.

Sylar's attention wasn't caught by the empty diner and its kitchen, surprise, surprise. It was too interesting watching Peter-_Uuh_. His mouth dropped open a little at the sight of the other man's tongue doing some very interesting things to the knife._ I think most people would suck that clean, but that wouldn't help his case any_. Sylar made it a point to swallow and shift on the stool, clearing his throat as Peter turned, a little embarrassed _(__so he knew!__), _towards the coffee. _Screw the coffee, Petrelli, do that again_.

Sylar bit his lip and prayed to whatever god of coffee not to get any physical reactions what would be visible to…uninterested and probably unsympathetic eyes, namely Peter's.

XXX

Peter didn't look at Sylar, turning to look back at the percolator. "Ah. Coffee's done." He poured up two cups and put one in front of his companion. He blew on his coffee a little and sipped at it, then grimaced, either from the heat or taste. "Gimme that cream when you're done with it, will you?" _Wait, is that suggestive too? God, Pete, quit it!_ He shook his head, his expression caught between frowning and smirking.


	17. Fallen Angels

Day 8

Peter turned with two cups and, before Sylar could gather his brain cells to protest, had poured into them both. _Huh, looks like you are drinking coffee with him today_. He didn't feel the need to reject the…gesture.

He grabbed up a pair of mini-straws (the kind you couldn't drink out of to save your life) and began to stir his coffee. Peter blurted his third come-on, to Sylar's ears, but in reality it was just that, something he'd blurted out that sounded sexual to a very deprived man. 'Gimme that cream' Thank God Peter wasn't paying a whit of attention to him because he gasped and quickly brought his coffee closer so it would look like he'd burned himself or something while regions below his belt experienced a flood _(__oh, who cares? Surely Peter will understand…?)._ _He-he wants what now?_

Keeping his eyes glued to the pitcher, he quickly poured out what he needed into his cup and slid it slowly towards Peter, just slow enough to get the other man to clue in. "It's all yours," he murmured then took his first drink to hide his absolutely delighted smirk in the cup._Note to self: Discussions about sex give him a loose mouth…and possibly turn him on._

XXX

Peter watched the gradual progress of the cream pitcher, waiting until Sylar's hands were entirely off it so as to avoid any possible touching. Not that the empath usually cared about that kind of thing, but he was sending all the wrong signals at the moment and obviously Sylar was picking them up. Given that the other man had made what might have been a pass at him the day before, this was starting to be very awkward. Peter set his teeth together and managed to say, "Thank you," mostly without opening them. He poured generously, feeling a heat across his nose and forehead. _Blushing. Awesome,_ he thought to himself sarcastically. _Fucking awesome. Why don't you just tell the guy you're interested in him while you're at it?_

XXX

And just like that Peter was done playing. Part of him was left to wonder—_Am I that toxic?_ Then another small voice spoke up from far back in his head, _Yeah, you are. You leave a bad taste in everyone's eyes when they look at you__._ He ducked his head and went back to stirring the coffee he hadn't intended on having at all. It took some self-control not to bite his lip, but he pulled it off. "No problem," he mumbled in reply.

Playing was all it was; that was all it could be, but he'd enjoyed even that for the brief moment he'd been given the falsehood. Sylar usually preferred some sugar in his coffee, but Peter had set it out of reach and he wasn't about to ask for it and make the poor, clearly shame-faced man push it over or look at him. And Peter was feeling awkward at the very least; it read in his body language and in the tight voice he'd used. _Nothing if not good at picking up those unsubtle hints_. It succeeded in making him feel awkward about it, perhaps even awkward about having enjoyed it.

XXX

Peter stirred, tasted, added some sugar, stirred and tasted again. He added a little extra and set the sugar canister aside. He picked up his toast gingerly, balancing it on his left hand and took a bite, keeping his eye line well off to the side of Sylar, trying to think about what he should say. _Ask if he has any siblings? No - Nathan. And if I think of that immediately, so will he and I don't want to invite that discussion. Yeah. So no. Other family? Does he even **have** any family? He can't, really. It wouldn't work. If he had family, he wouldn't have been so quick to accept Ma telling him he was a Petrelli. He has to be a foster kid, or adopted or something. There would have been **some** question otherwise. And that means he wouldn't have any siblings either - same reason - Ma would have said, 'You're a Petrelli' and he'd have been 'Oh really? Is my sister one, too?' But not a peep._

XXX

Lifting his head again Sylar stared straight ahead and neither of them addressed whatever it was that…might have happened. _So it's going to be like that. Pretending you don't exist while you sit right beside him__. _Idly, he sipped on the coffee to be polite, and not because of the lack of sugar, while he kept his own eyes focused straight ahead back into the kitchen. The medic had most obviously gotten Sylar's half-worded attempt at a sexual invitation otherwise the words wouldn't have bothered him.

_You Petrellis have a gift for making people feel less-than,_ he thought a little bitterly, _right after you give them at least a hint of something they want._ Frustration boiled in him but there was no help for it. Sylar wrapped his hand loosely around the rather warm cup, eyeing the mocha liquid inside as he thought to himself. _Yet his family isn't labeled psychopathic for having and knowing what a person wants and abusing it._ Wasn't that how it went?

XXX

Peter reached down and took up his coffee cup, blowing on the hot liquid and then sipping at it carefully. _Of course, maybe he had a long talk with Ma about the details, but I don't think so. I suppose that means Ma knew of his family situation, or lack of one. That would kind of suck, being alone like that._ He sighed, remembering telling Sylar on his first day here that the other man should have tried to find more help when he had trouble with his abilities. Nathan had been a huge help to Peter, more than once and even though his mother hadn't … helped, per se, she'd been there and provided a sort of stabilizing influence. _That, and she set me up to destroy New York, but that's not the point._

_How would things have been different though if I'd had no Ma to worry about, no Nathan to tell me it was all crazy talk, no Claire to tell me I was her hero? _He crunched through more of the toast. _I wouldn't have been out there killing people, but … _His eyes flicked to Sylar, then away. _It would have been different, all right._

It was an uncomfortable subject. He sought a new one. _How many blocks away is this music shop? Nah; pointless. I'll find out in a little while anyway. _He wanted to ask something that told him more about who he was dealing with, but he didn't want to be invading the man's privacy. He thought back to things Sylar had said he did around here and asked, "You said you liked to cook to pass the time. Do you have a restaurant or somewhere you go to do it, or is it always in your apartment?" He gestured at the diner. "I came down here a couple times and fixed breakfast. Seemed more convenient than doing it in my apartment." _Plus, of course, I didn't **have** the apartment the first time, but whatever._

XXX

The one time Sylar glanced at Peter he appeared to have something on his mind and that didn't bode well. He chose to pretend it was a comfortable silence (_yeah right_), until Peter spoke after a while of chewing on his toast, the crunch oddly satisfying from his standpoint. Then again, Peter eating had always deeply amused him (Peter doing any action that required contortion of his poor lip). Sylar deeply suspected that came from Nathan…at least he hoped it did. Even he wasn't that depraved as to think Peter eating for fuck's sake as '_cute_'.

_Oh, there it went. Wave bye-bye to your masculinity, please, because it just dumped you._

He exhaled an amused breath, one that failed to make it to chuckle status, "Yeah, I cook sometimes. I mean, I cook to eat, yes." Sylar made a face, considering the question. "I used random restaurants when I would wander too far from…home," his pause was brief. "But I usually just cook at home. There's less room and you still have to clean up, but hey, it's something to do, you know." He shrugged. "A restaurant would have more equipment if you're a gourmet." That drew a more amused sound from him at the thought.

_//"Do I like sushi?" He'd asked Ma after she caught him staring at the clumps of raw fish on a platter. "You're the one who had a craving for yellowtail. I wanted Italian," had been her succinct yet questioning reply/_ and before that he recalled her near threat of _/"Nah. I never kid about family brunch."/ That just shows you,_he thought.

"But I forgot, you can't clean dishes, can you, Peter?" was his gentle teasing in the other man's direction, chiding him lightly for not getting his hands dirty (perhaps not being able to grow up).

XXX

"I thought maybe you _were_ a gourmet?" Peter said half questioning, half teasing, finding himself suddenly trying to fall back into that same openness, same reaching out, poking and being friendly. Or rather, too friendly. He dialed it back. It would take a while to find a balance. A little more stiffly, he added, "You said when I first came here that you liked to cook and spent a lot of time doing it …?" _I was listening to you, you know?_ "I suppose at home you know where everything is at."

He chuckled at Sylar's light taunt about the dishes, taking it in the not-mean-spirited way he hoped it was meant. "I can, I just …" He shrugged, finishing the last of his toast. He washed it down with a larger sip of coffee. The drink was just starting to get to the top of the drinkability range of temperature. "Well, it's not my favorite thing to do unless someone's there doing it with me. Same for laundry. We always had scrub-" _He'd know that, from Nathan's memories. Actually, would Nathan have ever noticed what we had in the kitchen?_ "-brushes at home, and sponges. And those little bristly green scrubbing things. I'm sure they have a name." He looked up at Sylar, eyes making a quick circuit of the man's face, expecting that he'd know this sort of thing.

Peter took a larger drink of his coffee and frowned briefly at the toast crumbs on the counter. _I wonder if I leave them there, if they'll disappear like trash? First time I was in here, I didn't clean up and it was still messy when I came back._ He walked over to get a wet cloth, then cleaned up.

"If someone's helping though, dishes or laundry or whatever, it's a nice way to spend the time." He'd enjoyed working with most of the staff his parents employed. He remembered his mother being absolutely scandalized one evening when he'd been helping Sarah and carried out a tray of hors d'oeuvres she'd prepared. That Angela's guests saw him serving had struck most of them as charming. She'd tried to laugh it off as that, but Peter had been banned from gatherings in future if he couldn't 'control himself.' That wasn't much of a punishment, really, but Sarah had caught hell for it, too, which _was_. So after that, he left to hang out with his friends to late hours, or wherever. Sometimes he'd chase down Nathan and inflict his sixteen or seventeen year old self on his brother.

XXX

Sylar's face turned dubious and amused. "Sorry to disappoint," he chuckled before Peter seemed to shift again. _No more so than Nathan was a gourmet._ "I was…never really exposed to it." He just took the next half-question Peter posed him, letting it and the delivered tone slide past him. Those had not been his words and he wasn't sure where Peter had gotten the impression he was suddenly Miss Martha Stewart;HomeGarden and Cooking Channel. Like he'd said just before; he cooked to eat.

Peter went about cleaning up and Sylar thought he was just doing it because of the discussionary topic. Dish washing was next and his eyebrows rose. _Was that an invitation?_ He thought he'd clarify, "You wanna see my dirty laundry?" and laughed a little to show he was actually joking since Peter seemed to be having difficulty loosening up again. Then again, the instant it was out of his mouth he knew it probably wasn't the right kind of joke to accomplish that. It was adding to the problem. _Okay…no more flirting._

"You like the 'I'll wash, you dry' thing," he nodded with seriousness, trying to picture who Peter had ever done that with. "Laundry is just plain boring. There's only so much motion sickness one person can take, man."

XXX

Peter was thankful he wasn't drinking coffee at the moment Sylar suggested they do laundry together, or whatever he was implying. He choked anyway, half laughing, half scowling. "No!" Peter stared at Sylar apprehensively after that. _Did I say something suggestive again? Dammit. I don't think I did. I think he just has a dirty mind. Or is this the dirty-mind-version of the sarcasm/snark, and now that I've got him thinking that way he's going to keep at it? Well… if that's the case, then just calm down. No more reason to take offense at that than to the sarcasm, even if they're both annoying._ He relaxed and nodded in agreement to Sylar's 'you wash, I dry' line.

"I meant the folding part," Peter murmured around a careful drink after Sylar mentioned motion sickness. "Never mind," he added, considering the other man might take that too as an invitation to fold clothes together sometime.

XXX

Peter's face had been amusing when he protested togetherness and laundry. Sylar had given a quiet, "Oh," of response. _Folding, of course_. He didn't even notice the other man clearing up the 'invitation' in question. It appeared like he was adapting, like it or not.

On the heels of thinking about Peter's supposed inability to clean one damn dish, his lack of job skills (or so it seemed), the inability to socially flourish at the hands of his parents; Sylar finally looked up at the other man, having a good question to ask at last. "What made you get into medicine?"

XXX

"Why did I get into medicine?" Peter snorted. "I didn't want to be an attorney." He took a drink of coffee. "Or worse yet, join the military. I needed to do _something_. I was flunking out of pre-law." He looked at Sylar for a long moment, holding his cup halfway to the counter, assessing and judging with an intent gaze. He caught himself and looked away. _What to tell? What not to tell? _He felt defensive, but he forged ahead even as he shifted his weight uncomfortably and started glancing at Sylar more often while he talked, weighing his reaction.

"Tim talked to me about it - that's Uncle Tim. He told me to find my passion, do what I liked. He said that-" _there was no point to having money if you didn't spend your time wasting it._ _Entitled son of a bitch._ Peter eyed Sylar. Most people would not take Tim's philosophy well and he suspected Sylar would be no different in that regard. "He said that I should make the most of my opportunities and that I didn't have to be prelaw. Dad disagreed." There had been quite a few fights about it that summer, but ultimately although his father could force Peter to go to class and even pay attention, he couldn't make him like it and he couldn't (or at least didn't) invest the level of obsessiveness necessary to run his son's life to that degree.

Peter looked at Sylar briefly out of the corner of his eye. "Would you believe it was actually Linderman who suggested medicine?" It was kind of a faux-embarrassing secret, something he'd not told the rest of his family. Arthur had drug Peter along on their Fourth of July party and made something of an issue to his friends that his son needed career guidance. Arthur had clearly and explicitly encouraged his friends to steer Peter in the expected Petrelli course. Daniel Linderman had been coming to Petrelli events for years. He'd even been there when Peter brought out the hors d'oeuvres tray years before. He'd taken Peter aside, listened to him to a creepy/disturbing degree and advised him differently than Arthur had intended, ending with honeyed words about the shit Peter would catch if he shared their 'secret.' It had skeeved Peter out, but he hadn't told anyone. He had to get the money for nursing school somewhere.

XXX

Sylar's eyes then dulled over a little as Peter addressed his choice. _Boy, can I relate__._ It made him (and Nathan) sympathetic…to a degree.

Both (all three) had been shoved into a…'job', not necessarily a _career_, one that they hadn't (necessarily) wanted, whether they liked it or not. In two of the three cases it was my-way-or-the-highway 'choice'. Peter just…hadn't mattered much in /Dad's/ plans and Martin was disgusted with and perhaps envious of Gabriel. Yet Peter was the only one who was alive, out of the enforced occupation with prospects. _Lucky son of a bitch._ Clearly the trick was having an older brother.

"You'd make a horrible lawyer. It's a good thing you didn't go that route. I think I-" _shit!_ "Arthur would have had you put away for being a disgrace," Sylar said bluntly, neatly avoiding the potential landmine. _Maybe /Dad/ kind of did?_He snorted at the idea of Peter being in the military, the stint inHaiti notwithstanding.

Sylar kept his head down not to upset the medic with anything that might and probably would pass through his eyes (Mom had always hated that until he learned that little trick) trying to just listen as the other man spoke. Sylar's lips pursed, mostly for himself, but Nathan in him did the same. _Find your passion my ass. What a dreamer. He's lucky he fucking found it. And that's its legal._Peter had it so easy and he had no idea. At the mention of Linderman, someone, the name he only knew through Nathan, Sylar looked up at him.

"Is that so." A healer, who was probably aware to some degree of Peter's ability (as if it wasn't obvious), suggesting medicine to an empath. A literal perfect fit except for Peter's suicidal urges that he liked to disguise as his hero side-job. Gabriel had killed to get that kind of ear time, literally; Chandra hadn't listened, so he'd paid the price almost the same as his first kill, Brian. Nathan recalled that party, being particularly (politely) drunk and seeing Dad hanging onto Peter's shoulder for the night—poor Pete hadn't been able to move from his side. Poor Pete wishing he could be (possibly not-so-politely) drunk.

_Technically that's…a dirty little Peter secret, isn't it?_ Sylar concluded. _Really? What the hell do I care?_

"Full of secrets, you are. Your family," was his delicate phrasing for 'Nathan', "doesn't know about that one." The lawyer and intuitive in him connected the dots in Peter's lack of job and sudden funds for med school. Baby brother had never made a peep about his wallet or payments now had he. Nathan had always wondered distantly about that when he had time or when he was reminded of the fact. _Smart kid—man, smart man_. _Goddamn age gap._ But Peter would have gotten himself in deep had Linderman and/or Dad not died, been killed…whatever.

XXX

He nodded to Sylar's comment about Peter making a poor lawyer, thinking, _Yeah, I'd probably end up doing all pro bono work._ Sylar pointed out that Peter's family hadn't known about where he'd gotten his money for his education. Peter looked at him steadily, the right corner of his mouth twitching upward along with his left brow. He didn't blink. _Yes, you know a secret about me now. But the only person that you would mean anything to is Ma and not only would she not listen to you, I don't think she'd really care. But does it make you feel that I trust you a little that I told you that? Because I do. Just a little._

He went back to his drink silently, putting off the somewhat threatening demeanor he'd just shown.

XXX

"Couldn't just get a job, could you? That's not good enough for your kind," Sylar forced a grin and he didn't bother putting enough effort into it to make it appear real. He was insinuating plainly that a 'job, just a job' was too good for Peter. "Arthur probably wouldn't let you just travel and you would be bored or…be unfulfilled with that. It had to be a _career_." It was his turn to exhale and shake his head into his cup.

Sylar stood and had been about to pass by the medic when he'd gotten the stare of a lifetime. It read 'watch your next step, _buddy_.' Or more accurately in Sylar's case, 'watch the next evil words out of your mouth'. He met the stare and paused, letting Peter finish the coffee and unfortunately it gave him time to tense up about something.

XXX

He listened to Sylar's quip about a job and felt his hackles rise, along with his blood pressure. Peter took a bigger drink and looked away for a moment, hanging onto his emotion and working it out before he said something undeserved. Sylar's jibe was irritating, but Peter's sudden and intense surge of anger was out of proportion to the comment.

He set to cleaning up, sort of mindlessly while the semi-red haze over his mind started to lift. The other man took his cup and Peter flinched very slightly from the motion. "Sorry," he muttered and got out of the other man's way. He exited the kitchen as soon as Sylar went past him. He went to the door when he saw Sylar was coming out, and made a jerk of his head towards the street. When he saw a sign of assent on the other man's face, Peter went out.

XXX

The tension led to a flinch as Sylar took the cup, gently, brushing by the EMT uncomfortably in the tight aisle that was the waiter station to wash their cups. What was there to be done about the empath's aversion to Sylar doing…anything? _Nothing_, he knew the answer was. Sylar returned and they exited the diner, he caught Peter's gesture to continue on and nodded, relieved the man had calmed down, presumably from his fit about having 'a job'.

XXX

Once they were walking again, Peter felt some of the tension passing. He felt he needed to explain his sudden emotion, because it had probably been obvious - Sylar was no slouch on detecting such. "'_Arthur_' wouldn't let me work. I had a job freshman year. He got me fired from it." And he forbade Peter from getting another one while he was in college, or something to that effect. At the time Peter had been furious (he still was), but he followed orders like he always did when his father got in his face and was explicit about what he was to do. In retrospect, having had an ability that allowed him to push thoughts and deliver mental commands, he knew what had happened. It made him no less angry.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrow quirked at 'Arthur', an intentional use he didn't need as Sylar knew Arthur in many ways by now. "Owch. That's…almost- no, it is ridiculous." Sylar felt a wave of sympathy for Peter at that. That was like…being castrated or something, socially. A grown man that 'wasn't allowed' to hold a job for his father's fear of embarrassment was…jeez. He could seriously empathize with that sentiment.

XXX

Trying to change the subject, Peter looked over and asked, "So, can you tell me about your jobs, or career? From … before, you know?"

XXX

At the question, Sylar's hands found his pockets, "Oh, sure, I can tell you." _Question is—will I?_

"You kind of already saw it, so you say. I, um…" he hedged, still eager to avoid the subject. _Please don't blush_. Peter was someone who, had they met differently, Sylar, or Gabriel rather, would have looked up to. In a way he still did. Peter Petrelli was everything Sylar should be and he wasn't anywhere near close—he was off that rock by a few hundred miles. Normally it was an embarrassment to him, significant shame being his mindset about that time, mostly due to his social class (lack thereof) and family situation (same thing).

Normally he could say it to the average person and be able to get through it. Bennet made a mockery out of his name, tried to belittle him, set him back and that was the issue with it. He wanted Peter's approval on something that was really nothing. It was a nothing topic; it didn't contribute to him today, not really, but at the same time it was everything to him; it had_been_ him._Wait, I want Peter's approval? For what? It's come and gone before you ever knew him or knew what you could be. Still looking for that 'it's okay to be a normal goddamn watchmaker' line?_ With Peter he…it put him further away from his misguided attempts at heroism. But he'd learned his lessons well: there would be no hero acts on his part ever because he was tainted. He held back the question, _Why can't I be like him?_

XXX

When Sylar began to speak of his job history, it looked like he grew embarrassed. Peter gave him a small smile and for a moment, more attention. Then he looked forward with a general nod, trying to encourage without putting the man in a spotlight. Peter didn't ponder why he did that, except that it seemed right and he wanted to dispel the discomfort. He wasn't going to shame or mock Sylar about his job choices.

_What could the man have been doing that was embarrassing?_ Honest work was honest and Peter respected it a great deal, all the more for his own (historical) lack of contribution in that area. Peter drew a lot of identity from his work as a nurse and paramedic. Those were very important to him and to who he was. He knew that wasn't the case for everyone, but Sylar's bashfulness about it made Peter think that this past of Sylar's was equally important to _him_.

XXX

"I repaired time pieces—watches, clocks. I-i-it was my ability," Sylar tried to reason to the other man's understanding, "I can tell the time without a clock, keep track of it and…I can tell how and why the clock is broken." _That's right, yap it up. He'll think more of you if you elaborate and talk yourself up, I'm sure._ "I was kind of…dead locked."

He paused, inhaling while he considered diving into the increasingly pathetic story of his life to the last (or was it the first?) person he wanted to do that to. "It was just…complicated." _Ah, the Mom attribute_. It drove him insane with rage when he thought of his choice of killing that punk Trevor, the manipulation behind it, years of active manipulative work in the making. _Bennet just had to have his monster. If you'd just been stronger…_

XXX

"Dead-locked?" Peter repeated curiously, wondering what he meant by that. Did it mean Sylar was bored with his job? There was no career advancement? _Huh. He repaired watches; I repaired people._ He wanted to say that and point out the similarities, but people were so much more valuable than watches. The comparison might offend even though Peter didn't mean the value difference. He mulled over if there was another way to say it while Sylar paused and told him it was complicated.

XXX

Sylar watched his feet for a little while as they walked, Peter thought and he spoke. "Yeah," he said simply, but didn't expand on it immediately.

XXX

"You said it was your ability, but …" Peter's brow furrowed, trying to work out what Sylar meant by choosing to use that word, 'ability,' that so often meant more between them. He couldn't get out of his mind how a future version of Sylar had had Peter repair a watch in order to access Sylar's ability. Was he saying they were one and the same somehow, for him? Was it like how Peter had always felt that vague and sometimes not-so-vague yearning to help others, like Peter didn't _matter_ unless he was giving?

"I'm trying to think of how to say what I want to say here. I guess … did you do anything else, from … you know, high school on? Because if that was your 'passion' like my uncle was telling me - I know it was corny, kind of entitled advice," he looked aside with a brief frown, then back at Sylar with a clearer expression, "I don't know. I know that once I was in nursing I really felt like I was doing the right thing. Or at least - no, what I mean is I was doing the right thing for _me_ and I'm wondering if you felt like your work was the right thing for _you_, if you felt the same way?"

"What do you mean that you were dead-locked?" Peter tilted his head and furrowed his brow, acutely interested in the conversation and how Sylar's ability reflected on who he was as a person; especially who he was as a person _without _it, as he was now.

XXX

"My ability is…seeing how things work, seeing what's wrong or broken," he supplied, "Didn't you know that?" Sylar asked right back, confused if that was the case. Peter knew that, right? "I can look at your watch right now and tell you that it's been stopped since you've been here without seeing the face."

Sylar pointed to the man's wrist, "The battery is still good, too, and it always ran slow and made you run to catch work. The point is I was better than my d-…the owner because of it. It was a good fit despite anything else." This was probably just creating way more questions than Peter probably wanted. Definitely more than he himself wanted.

He watched Peter as he searched for words, interested in what the semi-wise younger man had to say on the subject. Once it was clear that the medic wouldn't be slamming him on it, of course. "No, nothing else." Sylar listened as Peter tried to, what, validate his occupation without knowing the particulars? He spoke quiet and slow next, still considering, "It…it was the same for me, yes," he found himself admitting slowly, almost in spite of himself. His opinion of it was…cloudy.

_/"You should call Mr. Bilger, that man from Smith and Barney. You fixed his Rolex." Mom bustled into the kitchen to make him the stupid sandwich he would be forced to choke down. _

_"Why would I call him?" he'd asked, distracted, barely, barely listening to her drone. _

_"Maybe he could get you a job!" He'd set down his tools, closing Dad's clock and pulling off his loupes. _

_As he stood he gave a contemptuous roll of his eyes, his body tense in annoyance and frustration. And he'd been home all of five minutes before she set in. "I_ have_ a job. I fix watches," he spat in his controlled way. _

_"That's a _hobby," _she put it down so quickly, "Investment banking is…a _very _lucrative field." _

_He turned from replacing the gorgeous clock back on the wall, "I can't be an investment banker!" his voice rose and his hands spread out in plea._

_"You can be anything you want!" she insisted. _

_"Mom, he wouldn't even remember who I am!" His final defense was adding 'Mom'…like that would help. _

_"Who could forget you?" she asked in her falsified innocence, completely genuine. _

_"Mom, you're not even listening to me!" he whined, all out begging. That got the attention he shouldn't have to beg for, but it wasn't real and he knew it. He stared at the floor, knowing he'd already lost. It was all over but the shouting._

_"I am listening," Mom's voice shook as she gave that protest of offense because, yes, he'd offended her by saying that. But really, she wasn't. _

_"No." Quietly he spoke again, dared to speak again, "You're making a tuna sandwich," he looked up and gestured at the damn thing, sneering at it. Oh, he was going to hell for speaking up, wasn't he? He'd spent too much time away, busy hurting people and being hurt to be special for Mom. Too much time spent away that he could no longer play his role and receive her…acceptance, her blessing. His reward._

_"So?" She was shrieking now. _

_"I asked you not to!"/_

Sylar closed his eyes. The memory spoke for itself. And, joy, one day Peter would probably end up seeing that one, too; unless they figured out what was going on and stopped it. That is…if Peter wanted it stopped at all… "It could have been, but there were…lots of…other factors." Peter reiterated his earlier question since Sylar had glossed over it. "My mom, okay? My life. Family…" he waved his hand, "shit, family issues, drama. The job wasn't…it was a responsibility," he whispered the last, "a hobby."

_She said it was a hobby. Why couldn't anyone just let me be about it?_ In his own way he was happier being special, unemployed, on the run and on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Was his life better one way or other? Not really—both were lonely and both had their perks. One was exciting and one was comfortable. And neither worked out the way he would have liked.

XXX

At Sylar's mention of Peter's watch, he looked at it, then held it to his ear. Not a single tick; not a single tock. Peter smiled happily. That pleased him to no end. He listened to the rest of Sylar's words and his expression sobered quickly.

_'It could have been … the right thing?' I think that's what he's saying - that watchmaking could have been as meaningful to him as nursing was to me, it's just that something else happened; something with his family, his mom?_ Again, Peter's thoughts went to the lack of mention of other family when Angela had introduced Sylar as his brother. It didn't fit, if Sylar's mother was still in the picture.

"My family didn't exactly react well to my ability either. My mother tried to make me a mass murderer." He snorted. "You know all that, though," he said with a liberal dash of resentment about Sylar's illegitimate knowledge. He didn't know what he was resentful about though - Sylar hadn't asked for Nathan's memories. Maybe he stole abilities, but the memories had been forced on him.

XXX

Sylar was immediately amused, even if he didn't show it, that Peter tested out his watch, going so far as to smile about it for a moment. It made him feel better even if he didn't understand the reasons behind it. Maybe Peter understood something of the significance of time and clocks. Sylar exhaled, "Yeah, you got the shaft on that, t-" He clapped his teeth shut quickly, suddenly aware at Peter's tone that he was treading on thin ice that didn't belong to him. It wasn't even his fault. He hadn't brought it up! _So it's my fault now for listening to him? This is unwinnable._

Thus far he'd contained himself and his curiosity (not an easy task); specifically avoiding the subject and not giving indications that he knew more than he did…even though both men knew what he knew. Now he was getting the ax because Peter felt he should which was equal parts unfair, expected and understood. _I don't know what he expects me to do about it, though._Was he back at the reevaluation stage? Was Peter?

_My mom called me damned and tried to throw me out then kill me. I already was a murderer and she didn't even know it. Or maybe she did…I know how veteran soldiers feel now; duty discharged and ready for some kind of homecom- welcome to get…that. Hey, another murder checkmark for your bed post._

XXX

Trying to change the subject, Peter asked in a voice that was somewhat clipped and too fast, "So, tell me about your mom. What happened there?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he'd used the wrong tone - too cavalier, too indifferent - and triply so if he really thought Sylar's mother had died sometime in the last five or six years. Sylar had been opening up a little here and Peter … Peter had just stepped in it.

XXX

There was a strained pause of silence as the pair turned a corner at Sylar's direction, pointing to the shop in the middle of the now-upcoming block. Peter's voice caught his attention before the words did and he turned, but the topic had changed, almost to his surprise. One, Peter had let it drop, lucky enough for him. Two, he was inquiring about something…personal. Very personal. _What?_

In that voice…_where did I go wrong here? I didn't say anything that was that god-awful bad…did I?_

Then it hit him. He'd been over-sharing. Sylar lacked any other social experience other than do what the person wanted, inquire and get to know them and keep his mouth shut in order to befriend someone. The other way was obviously not going to cut it—it rarely ever did. _Empathizing_, he realized it was, by sharing experiences, different though they be. _Go figure he doesn't want that. We've been through this before: he is not here for therapy._ It sucked all over again because from here Peter sure looked like an angel. _He's really lost his way if he's here, then. Snowball's chance in a basket._

He bit down hard on his lip. 'What happened there?' _Nothing that you'd care to hear, Peter Petrelli. I won't put my problems and my…feelings such as they are; I won't put_my mother _on trial to__you just so you have something to talk about__._ He swallowed and watched his feet eat up the ground. _He'll see what he sees in his dreams and you can't anticipate or prepare for that, so let it happen. And keep your fucking mouth shut. No one's ever asked me about that…_

"We're here," he croaked tightly, opening the door for Peter to lead them in, what with the broken hand and all. Politely giving Peter, and himself, an out. Sylar lingered in the doorway as Peter walked further into the store, seemingly not noticing that he hung back. As soon as the angle would allow, he sunk to pretzel his legs on the floor. _You won't find understanding with him__, _he thought; and on the heels of it came, _I miss you, Mom. I got sent to the wrong place just like you always said. /"You're damned."/ I hope that makes up for something._


	18. Braced For It

Day 8

"Thanks," Peter said to Sylar for getting the door for him. He headed inside the music store. Peter walked further in, looking around for … something he wasn't seeing. It struck him as odd for a moment, until he realized that he normally looked for _people_ when he went in a store. Not seeing anyone, the only thing left to see was the wares. He turned to look back. Sylar was out of sight. He blinked at that and walked back until he saw where Sylar had elected to sit on the ground. _Huh. O-kay__._ He was a little surprised the man hadn't come along with him. _Guess I pissed him off a lot._

_Oh well. It was Sylar._ Peter turned and ambled to the guitar section, mulling that over: 'It was Sylar.'_ Does that mean its okay to piss him off? To be rude to him? (To use a nail gun on him and try to obliterate him?) _He let out a deep breath and shot another look back at the entrance. He was still alone. He shook his head in negation, even if he couldn't yet bring himself to think it.

Instead, he moved on to looking at the guitars. There were a number of them – different styles, designs and sizes. He ran his fingers over a few of them, but none appealed to him much. He really liked the one they'd found, even though it was very basic – maybe _because_ it was basic. He didn't need anything fancy.

XXX

_Doing a great job of telegraphing your soft spots, aren't we?_ Sylar thought while he struggled with his anger; rage, actually, and grief as he thought of the woman he'd called 'Mom'. He sat inside the door, with legs crossed under him and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, staring down at them, trying to think straight. He did so hate being made to feel worthless even if Peter wasn't aware he'd done it. _Why would Peter ask that? At all or…in that way?_Was Peter trying to ask something of him or just be polite or…genuinely trying to rib and dig into the topic with that _tone_?

XXX

Peter looked at the picks next. They came in different colors, styles and materials; with skulls, Hello Kitty and flowers on them, or plain, or tortoise shell stone. He rifled through them casually, seeing nothing that grabbed his interest until he moved some aluminum picks aside and saw a set of five striated zebra wood. _Cool__._ He snagged them without wondering why they, of all he had to choose from, practically screamed '_Pick me!_' to him. He picked up some extra strings, too. On the way out, he pondered over sheet music. _I suppose if I can practice and get better at something, then I should be able to learn something new, eventually, if I work at it_. He picked some out, bagged his finds and turned to his companion.

XXX

Soon enough Peter returned with his finds—a wooden pick, strings and music from what he could tell. Sylar kept his face turned away, not glancing at Peter any more than the initial perfunctory evaluation. _Son of a bitch. How dare he ask about my mother? And like such a dick, too. Yeah, HIS mom is off limits._That didn't hide the fact that Sylar was glad his mother wasn't…around, not only not to see what he'd become, but so Peter and his kind couldn't use her.

Sylar stood and opened the door again.

XXX

Sylar had remained quiet. Peter considered what they might talk about on the walk to wherever – he supposed the hospital was next. _Talking. We're going to be doing a lot of that_. Restless and uncomfortable with the quiet, he asked, "Do you mind me asking about you - what you like, what you don't like, favorite color, whatever?" He glanced away, then back.

XXX

The pair began walking as the Peter blabbed on about something or other along Sylar's lines of thought. He kept his hands in his pockets and guided them towards the hospital. He exhaled a breath, nearly a snort of amusement to show the request was hardly a no-fly zone to him. "No, I don't mind that." In fact it was encouraged.

When he was sure Peter wasn't looking he rolled his eyes. "When you've been here for a year, I think you'll see that things like that won't matter, but in the interest of the here and now, that's fine by me."

XXX

"Okay. Are there certain questions I shouldn't be asking you? I know there's things if you asked me, I wouldn't answer - like I'm not going to tell you anything about other people with abilities." Peter chewed his lip a little._ I hope you understand that?_ "And I don't want to hear about ... what you've _done_ with your ability. So are there areas for you I need to stay away from, in the interests of, uh," he laughed a little nervously, trying to inject some levity into an otherwise very serious request, "not punching each other in the face?"

XXX

_Doesn't want to hear what you've done with your abilities? That_ was…a little offensive. _Surely Peter wants to know if I ate the goddamn brains? What is his problem? He's a medic but he can't handle one little special lobotomy or twenty? He is no fun at all._

Sylar's desired reply was an extremely juvenile '_oooh, whatcha gonna do if I don't, Petey?_' and his jaw ticked at the urge. _No duh, Peter. Like, how about every subject on the planet is off fucking limits?_His fingers itched to find the soft flesh of Peter's throat in frustration yet again—_What the hell does he want from me? There's a reason I don't or can't make friends; why can't he just see-?_

"I can just let you ask all the questions then. I'm sure the Geneva Convention won't arrest _you_." In typical Sylar fashion he was being (mostly) humorous—another thing Peter would have to learn. It also signaled that he would probably cough up whatever answer to whatever question Peter decided to ask. _Somewhere someone is laughing at me over this. Stunned he thinks I have or need verbal boundaries. No, I take that back…you did hit him for giving you…funny looks._

_XXX_

_Passive aggressive much?_ Peter thought. "There's no one around here to arrest either of us, man." _We can beat each other until we're broken and bloody. No one's going to punish us for it except each other - and ourselves__. _

XXX

Sylar muttered, "I hadn't noticed. You know, I've really turned into a crazed klepto these last few years and I was wondering when they'd catch on," unable to resist rolling his eyes at Peter's need to point out the obvious. If Peter kept putting himself out there like that, Sylar had no choice (no real desire to censor himself) but to inject his humor into it. _Snark the dumb out of that boy a bit._ _Expose the Boy Scout to some new cultu—no, you promised to see him as a fully consenting adult. Meaning he's getting what's coming._

XXX

Peter gave a brief half-smile in recognition of Sylar's humor, then went on, "It's a lot easier to be civil if we just don't discuss certain things. I don't want to talk about my family either - any of them. That includes Claire and Meredith." _Don't care so much about Tim and Cheryl and the rest__. _

XXX

"Really? Meredith?" His voice was a mix of things as was his face, screwing up in humor and disbelief, "She's not really related to you in any way." _And she's…dead, too; yeah, 'dead'__. _"How the hell do you even know her? I was looking forward to giving you dirt on-" _your brother_, he caught himself as the words were on their way out of his mouth, "something you didn't know." _Like, was she a moaner or a screamer, I'm sure he's asked himself this many times._ A mental growl of displeasure went up in his head.

Barely, just barely Sylar managed to stave off that little…interlude because gold diggers just weren't his thing. _Next you'll be speaking Nathan's filthy memories, popping boners in front of his baby brother from lack of stimulation; no thank you._ And there were way too many people with a Texan accent around for it ever to be vaguely appealing to his libido…such as it was now. Then again…if Peter did it…

XXX

He glanced over, noting there was no mention of a similar list of topics from Sylar. _Fine_. _Probably afraid I'd use it against him_. He declined to answer about Meredith for the moment, not wanting to get derailed from setting boundaries in the conversation. "If you want to think of it that way, I'm giving you a list of how to push my buttons. I'd appreciate it if you _wouldn't_." These weren't great secrets, from Peter's point of view. Anyone with a shred of empathy and Nathan's memories would know exactly how to torque Peter off - the stunt with the teddy bear proved Sylar was not without that shred. Such an emotion worked both ways - it gave Sylar insight, but it also gave Peter a lever.

XXX

Sylar sniggered lightly, quietly, "I don't need a list, man. You telegraph yourself just fine." And Peter did. The looks he would get were priceless and half the reason for Sylar's button-pushing. Messing with people was always fun and Peter made it oh-so easy and even more tempting. He didn't need lists, Nathan's files, or Peter's face to tell him what would have Peter looking like a Universal Pantone book.

He felt the other man's gaze on him and turned to meet it, quirking an eyebrow in classic 'duh'.

XXX

Peter studied Sylar yet again, trying to figure out what he was dealing with here, attempting to figure out how best to use that lever, because life here was going to be pretty awful if he didn't. This was his worst enemy he was hanging out with, struggling to make nice with and set up some rules that didn't include Sylar getting pissy about Peter blundering into a personal trigger for him and taking that hammer in his apartment to Peter's head. _No lying, no manipulating__._ Peter was making an effort, but he had no idea where he was supposed to draw the line between 'no manipulating' and trying to get Sylar to act right towards him.

"So, okay. Enough of that." He grinned easily, changing the subject to something less emotionally charged. "What _is_ your favorite color? Inquiring minds want to know."

XXX

Peter's seamless switch had him chuckling, mildly at first, but as the man continued, he was left laughing as the chuckle reached a crescendo. As if it wasn't obvious? Sylar eyed Peter on the sly, enjoying the view a little as it were. "Black. Contains all the colors and covers-" _well, blood_, "all the colors."_It's really all I wear. Black is conservative, serious, conventional, mysterious, sexy, sophisticated, rebellious. Black is for bad guys._

_/He recalled Peter replying when asked what his favorite color was, after some additional thought, "Wainbow. It has all the colors." Nathan had laughed and ruffled his hair at the silliness his brother presented, "Rainbow, eh? Not just one color in the rainbow for ya?" Pete had shaken his head, first to right his hair and as an answer, "Nope!"/ _

_Yikes…that's…not intentional, I liked black long before I knew…any of that, in my defense__. _"I'm here to satisfy your curiosity," Sylar smirked to himself before inquiring, "And yours?"

XXX

"Hm." Peter nodded at Sylar's response and looked ahead, seeing the hospital in the distance. The structures had a characteristic look no matter where they were, but he recognized this one specifically. He'd been to it before, in New York. It wasn't Mercy Heights, but EMTs defaulted to delivering patients to the closest facility. His mind pulled up the faces of those who had worked there - but it would be empty today. _Oh, the question. Yeah. Color._

He gave it more thought than such a query probably deserved. Kids asked each other favorite colors all the time, considering the virtues of different crayons or markers. Adults only really brought such a consideration up when discussing clothes or cars. Or wall color, or house paint. But in those cases it was the purpose of the coloring that mattered. An eye-catching green was good as a shirt, but gauche for your house. So without going back to ask what application Sylar meant, and taking the question like he would if he were a kid considering Crayolas, what would he pick?

"Red, I think," Peter said. "It's had a lot of significance for me … lately."

XXX

_Red?_ Sylar made a face at first, automatically assuming blood. He hadn't been expecting baby blue or dinosaur purple or anything, but still. He would pick…one of those middle colors, between warm and cool for Peter. A 'just right' color that went with everything and blended in but stood out uniquely. _Enough about that_…he'd managed to embarrass himself to _himself_.

Red; it made sense as he thought on it; Peter was a medic and he dealt with blood, maybe to his mind it was a heroic color for courage or something. He failed to see how that would make a hero's favorites list since blood was universally '_bad'_, this he knew well. Sylar tilted his head in question at 'lately', but it went unanswered, sort of. _Nathan bled out…_

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over briefly, then himself, inspecting for the color. Neither of them were wearing it. His mind flashed next to blood - as a paramedic, and the amount of it he'd come across in recent years, his own and that of others. "It's not the blood. It's more like paint, or a kind of weird highlighter. Ever since I had Isa-" He hesitated and his eyes darted uneasily to Sylar. _Did he have Isaac's power back then? Yes, he did. He killed him. So he had it. _"Isaac Mendez's power, I started noticing … I don't know. The color just stood out to me more. It's vivid, like it's emphasizing things for me. Even after I lost the ability, I still look for the color."

_\'What do you think?' Nathan asked him. 'Red or blue?' Peter glanced between the two ties, put off to be asked such a trivial thing when he was bursting with the need to talk about what was happening to them. Peter knew he'd changed inside. He was elated. He had to tell someone about it. Nathan understood - he could tell he did. But he kept denying. What did Nathan want him to pick? 'I don't know, blue?' Nathan looked at them soberly, as if this was the most serious question of the day, far more critical of it than if he or Peter could defy gravity and fly. 'I'm gonna go red. The president wears red.'_\ The color had meant something even then, Peter suspected, but he hadn't been able to see it at the time. He hadn't met Isaac yet. He wondered if he would have picked differently if he had?

XXX

Red is Cupid and the Devil. Red is Power. Red is anger and eroticism and war.

Isaac Mendez…that horrible ability. He'd painted himself in the White House; Peter Petrelli; then the two of them at Kirby. Red. The color of Mom's blood. Why hadn't he painted _that?_ The color of Mom's blood as he'd painted out what he now saw was the final masterpiece of their—

_Oh god__…_ Sylar swallowed and paled; images of red scrubbed hands, raw and chafed from hot water and soap and a furiously dirtied hand towel in the bathroom…_Forget about that, there's….nothing you can do about it now. He doesn't know and didn't mean anything by it._In a strained voice he replied, honestly "I…know the feeling," Oh, that gut-turning, empty feeling. He didn't realize he'd probably broken the rule Peter had just laid down: No ability talk.

"Huh," he grunted with muted interest in the back of his throat. _Have to think on that later and maybe ask- no, can't ask him about it. He said not to. Urgh._ "That's interesting," and his tone conveyed his intrigue, but the lust and power-hungry sound was no longer present in his voice. Sylar had already replayed all Nathan's memories, feelings and recollections on the color; cars, advertisements, photos, lipstick, dresses, lingerie, shoes, ties most importantly for him, or rather to him. Nathan himself preferred blues, always had.

XXX

Peter circled back to Sylar's earlier question. "I never met Meredith. But …" He chewed his lip and looked away. "She was important to … my brother." _Of course, he never mentioned her, in all those years. Or actually, there were times when he did but I didn't know enough to understand that's what he was saying. How important **was**__ she to him? Sylar would know. He'd know, the bastard, and I won't. I should have talked to Nathan about it when I had the chance._ He swallowed. "At least for a little while." _She should have been. I hope she was__._ "I don't want to hear you talking about her. Or any of my family. I'm … getting wound up right now just thinking about it." _And it's not actually your fault__. _Peter put on a gentle, if forced smile. _I don't want to fight with you. That's the point._

XXX

Sylar glanced away as Peter mentioned some words that were painful to both of them, more so to Peter, '_my brother'_. No, he wasn't pained because of guilt or because Nathan left everything but his body and his will in Sylar's head. He was pained with jealousy. He instantly wished to have what Nathan did with Meredith, whatever that was, whatever was behind it because whatever it was…it had been real enough for the couple.

Only distantly was he aware of what it was like to become a father, to have a baby, to be married. Nathan was never really into that, not until it was too late. He didn't own the feelings, the memories. _Guess that means we'll both die childless and happy_. Peter would say 'good riddance and serves you right, that's what you get', but he was sure Peter would make a good father (if only he could restrain his hero-wanderings).

XXX

"So let's change the subject, okay?" Peter said.

XXX

"Okay," was Sylar's bare hint of a whisper, for once wholly in agreement because his own emotions were strung up in the conversation for the same or similar reasons. _Goddamn empathy, jealousy, whatever the fuck_. He was still frowning as Peter miraculously dragged a smile from somewhere and somehow he felt relieved, almost a little forgiven. "Yeah," Sylar cleared his tight throat, straightening his shoulders as they approached the building.

XXX

Peter offered something else to discuss. "What's your favorite food and what do you like about it?" _And please, please, **please**__ do not say 'brains'_.

XXX

"Food…" Sylar exhaled. "I wasn't raised to be…big on food," that was putting a few things mildly; being force-fed as a freaking adult and made to clean his plate as a child amongst a…strict diet. "But, um…spaghetti," he finally decided, "Fun to eat and gross to watch." He shrugged, cheered up once again, "Its _pasta_!"

XXX

Sylar's exuberant delivery for the phrase made Peter laugh a little - a much desired bit of levity. "Pasta, huh? My favorite, too, but I prefer linguini or angel hair." He glanced over at Sylar and added, "Spaghettini or capellini." He was looking for recognition of the words. They weren't mainstream unless someone was Italian or a determined pasta aficionado. "And I like white sauce more than red, even though it's a heart attack on a plate. I don't eat it very often, which is probably why I like it so much. Just about everything I really like to eat isn't good for me."

XXX

He chuckled. He'd made Peter laugh, just a bit and he didn't know how he'd done it. "_Capellini d'angelo, il mio veru del uno amore_," he replied seriously. Sylar laughed himself about the health factor, nodding, "'Don't dig your grave with your knife and fork'….and that coming from an Englishman." He smiled, "That's why we eat it—_because_ it's bad for us. If it wasn't we wouldn't get nearly so much, if any, pleasure from the act."

XXX

Peter pondered for a moment. "No, I take that back, there's a vegetable stir fry I get … used to get down on Larson Street that uses really fresh vegetables and has this incredible peanut sauce." Peter waved his arms a little in emphasis, relaxing a bit in the pleasant memory. "It is out of this world fantastic. You-" _ought to try it sometime_. He caught himself on the verge of pseudo-inviting Sylar to go … out. Somewhere. With him. _Weird_.

He dispelled the momentary letting down of defenses and managed to salvage it with, "-wouldn't believe how good it is." He puzzled over his lapse. _It's really good food_, he rationalized._ Even a serial killer has to eat. Maybe if he had more good experiences in his life he wouldn't be out there causing such misery._ Peter pushed out a larger breath and gave his head a little shake. _Yeah, that's gotta be it._

_\'What's for dinner? I'm **starved**__.' 'I remember … wanting my life to change.'\_

Peter huffed. He wanted to believe. He didn't, but he wanted to. Actually, no - he believed that Sylar _wanted_ his life to change. Peter just didn't believe it had. He'd seen little in the way of proof (not that it was all that easy to prove you weren't a serial killer in a world with only one other person in it and no abilities - but hey, he hadn't killed Peter yet; that was saying something, wasn't it?)

XXX

"Hmm," was all Sylar had to say to that. He was connecting dots with (some assistance from Nathan) regards to Peter's preferences. Nuts seemed prevalent, almonds and peanuts. He stored that away for future use and possible research.

XXX

Peter went back to learning more about his companion and making conversation. "You said you read a lot. I used to read for fun when I was a kid. I liked adventure stories, a lot of action, heroes-saving-the-day sort of stuff." He chuckled a little at how stupid that sounded. He remembered blathering on to Nathan so earnestly about how he thought he'd been charged with saving the world. He wondered if he had. He sure hoped so, but really … he had no idea. A cheerleader was dead and Claire wouldn't have died anyway, so how was he to tell? And it wasn't exactly a divine prophecy either - it was just what a future version of Hiro said and Hiro was good-hearted, but no wiser than anyone else. The whole time travel paradox thing hurt Peter's head.

'_All we can do is take what we have been given and do the best we can with it._' He took comfort in the quote and looked ahead. They were nearly to the hospital. "The stories were always kind of black and white. Life isn't really that way." _Even if I keep wanting it to be__._ He looked over at Sylar for a long moment, then shifted his shoulders uneasily.

XXX

Sylar thought,_ Black and white…ironic my last name is Gray? Is that saying I don't fit in his world? Rather that he doesn't want me to. Am….am I always in the wrong by nature then? Or does he somehow….have to learn to see the gray? Understand and accep- Oh, please._

His lip quirked into a nano-second acknowledgment; otherwise busy in his own thoughts. "Be great if life was that way." _I could fit into your world then and all this world would just be…some kind of hero test. Or villain's graveyard_.

XXX

Peter reached up with his left hand and rubbed his neck, ducking his head a little. In a slightly softer voice, he offered up something more personal. "I went into nursing partly because I was trying to find a place in life where things _were_black and white - where people needed help, and I could help them. It was simple. I felt like I was making a difference and doing right. Seeing a patient … get better … it made me feel good about myself."

He stopped and looked up at the empty hospital. _No patients here to help__._ He supposed that was good in a way - no suffering for him to avert, but it left him feeling a little purposeless. Peter turned to Sylar and resumed his strides. "What kind of books do you like to read?"

XXX

When Peter paused, Sylar stopped after a step further, staring at Peter, probably looking like he was seeing the medic for the first time. The insight was wonderful and haunting at the same time.

Sylar tilted his head as he watched the man, a small grin on his face even as his thoughts were elsewhere—_And I'm the exact opposite. I feel good by killing, at least…something to that effect. I'm driven, I'm not happy; yeah, a little at first, but…_

Sylar realized he'd been caught staring (it was a nice day and Peter looking happy in sunshine was…c'mon) so he smiled and walked again, "I draw the line at Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King. If I had to choose topics…astronomy, science, history, literature, biology, but that gets boring. Some medicine, anatomy, cause/effect and cure that kind of thing."

"Horology, but that's pretty limited, um…Art to a degree. I'm kind of in a Stephen Hawking phase—he's the guy who said basically that black holes have temperature and they can emit radiation, which is Hawking Radiation now. His stuff wasn't new, but I'm getting into detail on it. I might get into some stuff on string theory because it's not like I don't have time on my hands. I've always been curious on quantum—Higg's Boson? I've been studying that."

He nodded and concluded that he needed to shut up. He amused himself with looking around the hospital a little, asking "What catches your eye in the library?"

XXX

"You do realize you lost me in there, right?" Peter said with something of a smile. He took his eyes from Sylar to glance at the signs giving directions to the various parts of the hospital. He wasn't familiar with the main entrance of this place, but the layout was standard enough. "That way," he said, gesturing to his left and heading off that direction.

"I'm not sure if it was the Italian earlier - you really speak that?"

XXX

"Sorry," Sylar muttered and considered adding, '_Only happens all the damn time. Not just about what I like either, but about what I want and what I nee-__' _"Hmm. No, not really. Always wanted to learn but never got around to it. I should do that now, I guess."

XXX

"Or maybe it was the whore-ology - you really study that?" Peter grinned a little wider now, because he knew perfectly well what horology meant, just as Peter himself spoke Italian, albeit brokenly. Sylar was being such an insufferable know-it-all show-off though with Hawking-this and Higg's-that that Peter couldn't help but go to the opposite extreme and pretend to be ignorant. "I didn't know they had a whole field of science on how to make time." He tried to keep a straight face, but failed.

XXX

Peter's next words had him gaping. And blushing. Sylar had no idea how to take that or handle it_. __He just called me a whore?_ Somehow that was slightly flattering to the social outcast that he was, perhaps surprisingly to people like Peter, he wasn't actually the most sexual man on the planet. He still had urges, plenty of those, but… The ego boost (that he could purposefully go out and bag someone, although not for pay) was unexpected and nice.

Sylar ducked his head and tried to walk in a straight line and reduce the color in his cheeks. Sputtering quietly for a moment, he ended up barking with laughter at Peter's pun. "No, that's just the IA," joking back as well as he could manage at the moment around his humor and embarrassment. Implying he knew all there was to know about sex because of his ability? Yup, and quite shameless about it. To be fair his experience, such as it was, and his knowledge was limited to one sex.

XXX

As for Sylar's earlier question, Peter snorted a little and said, "I already said what caught my eye in the library, in case you didn't notice." _You're so smart, you figure that one out__._ He did spare an eye for Sylar's reaction. It wouldn't do to find out the man reacted violently to being the object of fun. He did note the emphasis on medical training and filed that away for future reference. _Is there anything this guy doesn't know how to do? Tie knots. I'll bet I can tie better knots than he can. Yeah, way to go there, Peter. That'll be useful if I ever need to tie him up__._ His mind tried to offer up a few suggestions. He tried to ignore it.

It wasn't hard to ignore as they had arrived at the emergency area.

XXX

They walked around in the hospital and he looked around briefly, cataloguing in case he (or more likely Peter) ever had an 'accident' or had an emergency. Sylar knew Peter had some of those 'what haven't you stuck up your ass' patient stories logged away somewhere and he was _not_ asking about them.

"I have a lot of time on my hands-" he broke himself off as it occurred to him that the words were suggestive in light of Peter's jibes. He tried again, trying to 'clear his name' even though he knew Peter wasn't serious. (If he was, the medic would have swabbed and prodded him to make sure he was 'clean' to inhabit the same space as Peter). "Three years is long time, it's natural to try to fill it up with- Oh my god…" he trailed off in light exasperation. Sylar then pursed his lips_. __You only read black and white fiction? Comic books? Alright. That's your lack of options not mine. _

XXX

Peter looked over at Sylar and arched a brow. It was not as prodigious or expressive a gesture as when Sylar did it, but it conveyed his 'oh really?' thoughts nonetheless. So Sylar was intimating he'd spent some time here jerking it. _Hardly surprising, or shameful. Man's gotta do something to pass the time. _Not that Peter didn't feel a twist of uncertainty about whether it was alright for _himself_ to do that here, in Sylar's head, but that was an issue for another time. He appreciated looking at Sylar's form, but that was as far as it went (aside from having explicit memories and sensations inflicted on him, entirely unasked for). _What else was that he said? IA? IA … I-A … what the hell is that? Damn, that's familiar._ It tickled at the back of his mind, then finally clicked. _Wait … that's his ability! Intuitive Aptitude. Yeah. But … what does that have to do with it? His ability, studying time … nothing to be embarrassed about … I don't get it._

Peter completely missed the reason for Sylar's shame-faced, exasperated reaction and so he filed it away as another mystery about his companion to be revealed or puzzled out or simply forgotten. More immediate was his goal where they were, at the hospital. Here Peter was on more familiar ground, passing immediately back into the treatment area, ignoring the 'authorized personnel only' and 'no unescorted patients' sign. He opened a few cabinets at random, then shut them again. Everything seemed to be where it belonged.

Much more serious now, Peter said, "The storeroom should be back here off a side corridor. What I'm looking for is …" He pointed at a room that clearly said X-Ray on the door and finished, "that right there. I want to be sure of what's broken. And then they'll have a better splint here than this ergonomic, orthopedic thing." He raised his right hand demonstratively and then paused, looking at it. He looked past it at Sylar, his face even more serious for a moment, penetrating eyes trying to read the other man's character, because what he was about to propose might affect his mobility with his right hand for what would seem like years, even if it was only imaginary. "You offered to help me the other day, with this." He sighed a little. "I'll need help putting a proper splint on and getting it right." He opened his mouth to ask, then shut it. He couldn't quite do it. His meaning was clear anyway. Sylar would figure it out. Suddenly Peter regretted making fun of him a handful of minutes before.

_If he says no, that's fine. It will probably heal okay with whatever I can rig myself._

XXX

Peter's attention was back on task and Sylar focused in as well. "That's an X-Ray machine, Peter. It uses radiation to look at bones," he teased right back. If Peter was going to open himself to pretending to be 'stupid' he'd happily oblige. "Where would those be do you think?" he asked, trying to be (seriously) helpful. It eased the blush. Peter gave him some directions and he was about to move when he caught Peter's intent eyes on his face.

That made him stop in his tracks and look back. _Oh, that's what you're 'asking'_. He stood still to accept the look and hope Peter saw what he wanted on his face because there was nothing else he could do about it. "Okay," he said simply after debating whether or not to force Peter to say his request aloud using his own silence. In the end, he saved them the trouble. Peter still needed the good faith and a boatload more of trust.

XXX

_'Okay'? He said okay_. Peter felt oddly grateful. He nodded and turned back to the x-ray machine. There hadn't even been a sneer or an uppity look. Sylar was being … well, nice. For the most part, Peter reflected, other than moments of anger, Sylar **had** been pretty okay since the fight. Neither one of them were trying to kill the other and that seemed to be something that was sinking in._ I said that when I showed up - that I needed his help - but I can't blame him for not trusting me. Not after … everything that's happened between us._ His mind skipped quickly over some of the more bloody incidents between Sylar and himself. Trust would be hard-won, he knew.

XXX

Peter got that glazed look and Sylar rolled his eyes, allowing whatever moment to pass (whatever thought to be processed into Peter's brain) by going off in search of the storeroom. He found it where Peter said and went inside, almost expecting to be avalanched with equipment (and possibly a bowling ball if Peter worked here). He remained safe and whole as he passed through.

XXX

Peter looked up from his momentary reverie to see Sylar leaving without explanation after agreeing to help. He poked his head out of the x-ray room to see Sylar heading further in, towards the back of the emergency ward. For a moment Peter was perplexed, then remembered mentioning the storeroom was back that way. _Maybe he's getting me a splint? Or maybe he's just exploring. The splint seems more likely. He doesn't seem all that interested in exploring, really. It's all in his head anyway, so there's not much point for him, I suppose._

Peter stared until the other man was out of sight, which didn't take long. _Serial killers have no right to look that__ fine._ He gave himself a shake. _And I have no business looking at him like that either_. He rubbed his face vigorously with his left hand. _Focus_.

XXX

Sylar began narrowing the medical stuffs down by category, which was easy enough.

Passing over cardio, allergy/poison, diabetic care, first aid, a few things for maternity, ER and OR supplies, the usual needles and heart pressure pump, blankets, pillows, bed pans, all sorts of monitors…He finally came to the 'bone' section. There were plenty of braces, tapes, gauze, bandages, cements, splints and the like. There had to be a billion different kinds for every bone and joint that was possible to break and be held in place.

It didn't take him long to locate the 'hand' division. _His_ _right hand. Got to get one for mobility or…easy access or…easy adjustability__._ Most of the equipment was in plastic bags, individually wrapped in little plastic tubs with a label and some medical jargon or other, some of which he understood. He understood enough, clearly. _Really, what's not to miss about 'phalanges- finger stabilizer' And...bingo_.

Drawing one out, he looked around for a secondary piece for compressing and protecting the hand and wrist itself.

XXX

Peter moved over to the machine, trying to recall how to use this thing from the times they'd used a similar model during his medical training. It had an adjustable bed with a telescoping arm holding the projector above it, so it could be moved to whatever portion of the body they needed a picture of. Peter took off his messenger bag and put it on the bed for the moment.

He made sure the machine was on. It hummed slightly, but the touch screen stayed blank. That was his first sign something was wrong. "Crap." He toggled the power switch again, but other than seeing the green light of the 'on' setting light up and go out, there was no response. He sighed in exasperation, already knowing how this was going to turn out. Regardless, he went through the standard checklist of unplugging and replugging everything. _This is just like the freaking stereo, and televisions, and radios, and whatever the hell else doesn't work around here. Dammit!_

_No cars, no way out, nowhere to go, no one here …!_ He straightened from attempting the last bit of wiring-fu he knew. The screen was still blank. He kicked the machine angrily, which, of course, did no good at all. Made his foot hurt a little.

XXX

There were several types of braces with various straps, openings, padding and support so he grabbed three of the most obvious choices and meandered back to the X-ray room in time to see a dazzling display Cro-Magnon man. He sighed at Peter, making his presence known as he entered, "To think that geneticists would call you evolved," and shook his head at him good-naturedly, half tossing, half setting the medical paraphernalia on the bed. He then stepped back so he could view the selection. _So powerful, yet he breaks his own hand using my skull._

"Though, I think that's even funnier given that the Petrelli clan is upper crust," he chuckled, leaning against the wall. Never mind his own displays of testosterone-frustration filled violence because he'd never thrown a crow bar, bashed a map, smacked a table or even thrown a chair, no sir. Maybe he just made it look better. _And I'm more evolved anyway._

The lack of function in the X-ray machine, or so he assumed given Peter's reaction, didn't bother him. He was going to go the arrogant route and say that he didn't need an X-ray machine, even if the other man (thought he) did; therefore it was useless and attempts to fix or use it were a waste of time. It was really just that simple.

"Didn't know which finger/fingers are busted, but I know it's in the metacarpals," he waved a hand generally over the bed and the braces and splints, "judging by the swelling and continued use of the fingers themselves. I figured a hand/wrist brace is better long term," Sylar stated simply about the options, watching Peter's pent-up face quietly after that.

XXX

Peter sighed, looking at the pieces Sylar had brought. He reached up and rubbed at his face with his left hand, gripping his chin with it. "Yeah. Yeah," he said a little vacantly. Nothing at all was running through his head at the moment - at least not in any sense he could express. He shook his head sharply to get back on track and reached out to pick them up, one after another, and to examine his options. "Thank you," he said quietly, not vacant this time. He settled on two designs right away and glanced up at the ceiling. He scooped those two up and said, "I'm going to go find a light. I haven't really taken a good look," he sighed a little. This was going to hurt. "And I need to." He walked out into the main emergency area.

XXX

This whole thing managed to be exciting for Sylar and he knew that was incredibly pathetic, but it was a fact nonetheless. "Yeah," he replied to the thanks, taking it in stride. He actually…feared when the time would come when Peter wouldn't have anything to be grateful for. The medical man didn't understand that soon even the exchange of words would become unnecessary in its own way. Of course, that would be around the year 5224…

"M'kay," Sylar tagged along behind him at an acceptable distance.

XXX

"I haven't been all that impressed by the one geneticist I've met." Peter grinned suddenly and glanced back at Sylar. "And I am too evolved! I was kicking an _x-ray machine_. Human beings have made some pretty cool stuff, even if it doesn't work all the time." _Or here__._ He considered responding to the dig at his family, but decided to leave it alone. He'd said he didn't want to talk about them, which meant not to talk about them, although Sylar's comment was impersonal enough that it, by itself, didn't bother Peter. It didn't mean he wanted to invite more discussion that way though, so he'd changed the subject.

He went to an infant examination area and drew up a stool. It was a narrow, waist-high table with rails, in the middle of its own space. He'd picked it because of the lights over it. He flicked those on and sat down. _At least the lights work_.

XXX

A bark of laughter was his response about Mohinder; it had to be about Mohinder. Peter had no idea. Road trips with the Indian were…really something and it was NOT on his do-to _or_wish lists. Peter had been decent enough to stick to fists (granted he'd landed a few nastier hits) instead of resorting to foot long needles. The more he thought on it, the less he knew which he preferred of the two; weapons, not men. He knew which of the latter he would choose again if he had a choice.

"I would argue that with the invention of the internet, while people," he didn't say 'we', "have progressed technologically, they are devolving socially and biologically." It was one of his prized pet theories, more of a fact, actually, one he would get to bore Peter with soon. "Whatever makes you feel special, Peter," he chuckled lightly, trying to keep levity and help Peter along—he seemed to be having brain-mouth, brain-hand coordination communication issues. _It's this world we live in now, Peter. It will sap almost everything in time, I think. Fear that day__._ He felt a little uncomfortable to be in the infant station, old habits making him uneasy and out of place in such an environment, no matter how dead.

XXX

Peter grunted and frowned in response to Sylar's theory. He disagreed with it pretty strongly, but this wasn't the time to discuss it. Instead, he put his right forearm on the table and stared at it a moment, focusing his attention on what he needed to do. _Yeah, this is going to hurt. There are painkillers here. … No__._ Or rather, he wasn't going to take anything stronger than the ibuprofen he was on already. At least, not yet, and mostly that was because of Sylar and Peter's lack of desire to be impaired worse than he was. Besides, he needed to actually feel what he was doing here.

He unstrapped the brace he was wearing and set it off to the side, looking up to see what Sylar was up to. "I don't know what's broken either. That's why I wanted an x-ray. Since I can't do that, it's back to a manual examination." He started unwrapping the compression bandage, grimacing a little as each unwinding jogged his hand. He stopped. "Could you find me some trauma shears?" He waved in a general way towards the front bank of the nurse's station. "Just check the drawers. If you can't find any, I've got those little scissors on my pocketknife." He dug out his knife anyway, in case there was nothing better.

XXX

Sylar lingered in the door, considering asking Peter if he needed something to bite on for the pain that was coming, but decided against it. He didn't want to imply that Peter was weak or required an aid somehow. _Then again, he does scream like a girl…_The memory of cutting open the man's head in Mohinder's apartment flashing past him quickly and he didn't stop it for closer examination. He was interrupted by the man's request, nodding, "Yeah. Ooh, they even get their own name…special shears," he chuckled to himself as he ambled back out, aware that his own watch repair kit had instruments with their own specialized names. 'Trauma' and 'shears' in the same sentence brought up bad memories and he focused behind the counter, opening drawers rather carelessly until a pair slid towards him.

Returning with it, he held the blades in his hand so it wasn't a weapon other than blunt 'trauma' shears, waiting for directions. Peter was going to need help cutting the bandage as painlessly as possible which meant minimal contact with the hand and wrist itself. Slowly stepping into the man's bubble, he kept enough inches between them for the other man's comfort, but not his own, particularly. Sylar placed the protected tip at the beginning of the bandage at the forearm. "I regret your arm hair loss in advance," he murmured and snipped in long, upward strokes. He maneuvered the scissors over towards the thumb to avoid putting pressure directly on the top of Peter's hand where the fingers were damaged. In minutes the bandage fell away and he set the scissors aside.

XXX

_My arm hair? Ha._ Peter appreciated the distraction of humor and watched Sylar work without comment. There was nothing to say - Sylar did a good job and Peter didn't mind the proximity, given the context. His brain coded it as necessary and normal for medical care, without considering that Sylar might not be similarly inured to it. With the last of the wrapping set aside, he stretched his hand slightly, eyes narrowing and lips thinning. With his left, he felt up his right forefinger, testing each section for tenderness or misshapenness, skipping over the still-bandaged knuckles. He moved on to the index finger, then finally … the ring finger. He tensed, drew his knees up and made a slight sound even as he felt each section. He stopped to breathe, shut his eyes briefly, and then stare blankly at his hand. _Oh yeah, that hurt like a bitch._ He swallowed and repeated, very gingerly, on his little finger. Voice tight and a little forced, he said, "Fingers are fine. Not broken."

He rested his left elbow on the table and put his forehead on his hand. He looked at his right. "I don't see any angulation. It's probably just the one that's broken. Or I can do a manual examination of the metacarpals and be sure, but that doesn't change that I need that splint there," he pointed to the one that didn't immobilize the fingers as firmly as the other. That had really hurt and he hadn't even been directly touching the bone that was broken. "I … this is where I need your help. I need this on and I need it wrapped and fastened securely. I can't do that very well with one hand."

XXX

Sylar winced a little in sympathetic reaction as the medic's body tensed all over in very obvious pain. "That's good news. I think." Maybe it was his turn to allow Peter his ego-stroking points. Something Sylar didn't know would surely be of use or of interest to Peter. "Hmm, sure." Taking up the package, puncturing and tearing off the plastic to be tossed away, he drew out the brace itself, eyeing it for all of two seconds before opening the straps and laying it flat for the arm in question. "Not sure if you know how to work one of these; it's pretty simple," was his (he thought) unneeded intro, but it was to ensure that Peter didn't get a Nathan vibe from Sylar and assume he was just trying to kid/son/baby/brother him.

_I don't think I am, but…who knows how he feels. Better to be safe than sorry in this case.__ "_Fingers go in there," he pointed, allowing the man to place the indicated fingers into the strap, pushing down the bottom tab for Peter to tighten as needed. When that was accomplished, he did the same for the middle palm strap; letting Peter fasten it himself after they'd lifted the brace and hand to allow the fastening strap to pass underneath. Last was the largest wrist strap that also had to be lifted.

He didn't step away, mostly to see if Peter would notice or do or say anything about it. The entire exchange was kept light and professional, but he had brushed Peter's hands a few times and the contact was wonderful. _You should provoke him to hit you more often so you can take ca- fix him and have an excuse to touch him up. He's only making me wonder how soft his skin is everywhere with this…_

XXX

When Sylar said, 'fingers go in there', Peter snorted and just barely caught himself from replying with Zorro's corny line about 'the pointy end goes in the other man.' While it made sense in context - in both cases someone giving tutelage to one who didn't need it - it was far, far too easily misconstrued as something else entirely. He kept his mouth shut and put his hand where it needed to go. Getting the shorter strap between his ring and index finger hurt like hell, again. He shifted uneasily and breathed a little harder, ducking his head. _Done, done, that part's done__,_ he told himself. _That's the worst. Don't know why I have him over here really except for moral support._

His hand was throbbing and a slight chill went over him. For a very long moment, he sat and did nothing but stare at his hand, his brain dulled by pain. But he knew that if he didn't do something pretty soon, Sylar would, so Peter pulled in a deep breath and started adjusting the straps to fit. _Moral support's nice. Sylar: moral support. Very strange to have those in the same sentence__._ He let out his breath and blinked. It was done.

He lifted his hand. The splint stopped immediately below his wrist, rather than going halfway down his forearm. It also left his thumb, forefinger and index finger free. Experimentally he made a pincher motion. "Ow," he said blandly. Now that it didn't hurt as bad, he didn't feel like such a sissy for saying anything. Also, he thought he needed to say something to communicate, 'yeah, that still hurts.' It wasn't terrible though. "This needs to be a little tighter though. Here, along the bottom." Peter held the upper part of the brace to keep it immobile and let Sylar change the fit where he'd pointed it out.

Sylar's adjustment of the wrist strap involved a little more touching than was strictly necessary. Peter didn't mind. "Okay," he said a little louder after that was done, with a tone of finality. He glanced up at the man who was still right there next to him. "I was thinking of putting together a first aid kit while I'm here, maybe a trauma bag." He stood up, thinking about Sylar's response at Mercy Heights to the drugs Peter had taken with the intent of sedating him. (\_"Is this all for me? You shouldn't have. No, seriously. You really, really shouldn't have"\ )._Well, a trauma kit included nothing injective - no needles at all - even though there were some Peter would like to add to such a kit if he were assembling it.

XXX

When he finished, Peter's voice said 'you're done' and he took the hint. No more touching despite the legitimate excuse. _Or is that because I have a legitimate excuse?_ Sylar tilted his head just slightly at the thought of a first aid kit. While he knew it wasn't a threat of any kind, and he knew that this was the man's calling in life, it still struck him slightly odd.

The question sat on the edge of his tongue, '_Why do you think you're doing to need one?' He won't renege on the deal, but what could he possibly be expecting here? Rabid rats? Just…accidents, right?_ Sylar almost let out a sigh at that. _Every time I think I make progress it's…always reinforced in the opposite direction._

XXX

Peter started around the table, talking as he went. "I ought to be able to lift one already assembled from one of the ambu- oh. No cars; no ambulances. Huh. Well, maybe they have one already together in the supply room?" He glanced at Sylar, trying to read if Peter's intended acquisition was setting off alarm bells for the man or making him wary. It wouldn't really change what Peter was going to do, but he would make more of a point of what exactly was in such a kit if it was. He glanced down at the shears, electing to put the most weapon-like thing in it in Sylar's hands. "Bring the shears, would you? An extra pair of those is always useful."

XXX

Sylar blinked once, "No…no cars. I would imagine the supply room, yeah." His face was pensive and mostly introverted at the moment, thinking. Sylar was snapped out of it by the mention of the scissors again and he snatched them up by the handles first before cluing in that he shouldn't hold them that way. He stared at the instrument again, turning absentmindedly to track Peter's movements. _I hate these things. The one goddamn murder weapon that was an accident and not my fault had to be a normal household item__._ Not trauma shears, of course, but scissors.

"I suppose that's fine, sure," he said as if giving permission to the search and rescue of the first aid kit. At the same time he was positive that Peter didn't need or want it, yet he'd given it anyway. They began walking in the direction of the supply room and he'd broken his staring match with the scissors as he thought, finally switching his grip to 'blunt' instead of 'sharp' just in case. _Don't run with scissors…and all that bullshit._

Clearing his throat, Sylar asked of the other man, "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?" While it wasn't on a common 'get to know ya' questionnaire, and it wasn't relevant and he didn't want to seem too random in the inquiry department (which he had a tendency to do; randomly speaking his mind), he knew it was a kind of ice breaker. But he was also assuming that it wasn't too personal or dangerous territory. Sylar supposed he'd be finding out either way.


	19. Of Favorites and Storefronts

Day 8

"My favorite ice cream flavor?" Peter asked with a little bit of a smile as he walked into the general emergency area. He gestured towards the x-ray room. "Let me grab my bag from in here before I forget it." He had things he wanted in his messenger bag; a couple pieces of raisin bread, more pain pills, a few bandages and the antibiotic ointment. Of course there were the guitar picks and music sheets, too. He snagged it before heading off towards the storeroom.

"I dunno. I like a lot of different flavors. I probably get something different every time I buy it. I like Neapolitan. And Rocky Road. I don't like anything with fudge in it. Or bananas, for some reason. I mean, I like bananas, but not fond of it in ice cream, you know? I had cookie dough ice cream once. Didn't care for it much. And I don't like really dark chocolate."

XXX

Sylar stayed in the hall as the other man grabbed his bag. "I agree; there's too much that goes into ice cream that shouldn't. But fudge isn't one of those things, Peter," he declared seriously, intending to be humorous with the mimed threat. "Fruit is all too easy to get wrong because it's all fake in products. Even juice is partly fake and you'd think that would be one of the things you don't screw up." _But, boy, they have the wool pulled over our eyes, haven't they?_

XXX

"There's something about fudge I don't like," Peter answered, "It kind of has a plastic taste to it. I like chocolate fine. Maybe, like you say, there's something fake about it. I never thought about that with the banana – probably fake, yeah. I like strawberry fine. Though I prefer it with actual strawberries, now that you mention it." Peter liked food with little bits you could pick out and savor – just a weird preference.

XXX

"More fudge for me, then, you poor misled fool," Sylar stated firmly with a slight nod forward.

XXX

Peter snorted as he pushed open the door to the storeroom and looked around, walking in a little to clear the way for Sylar. "I guess that sounds like there's all kinds of things I don't like." He looked at Sylar for a moment instead of the shelves of medicines and supplies. "You know, I don't think _anyone's_ ever asked me what my favorite kind of ice cream is." He shook his head, muttering to himself, "I never even thought about it."

XXX

"No one's…ever?" Sylar asked or stated slowly, coming to terms with that idea. His head tilted as he thought on it and felt a thrill of satisfaction; delighted to be the first of something to Peter, in a good way. A very good way, he decided. While he heard Peter's mutterings, he let the man have his moment of self-conversationalism, thinking, _Someone should have, Pete._

XXX

"Ah, there," Peter said, going to where there were prepacked trauma and first responder kits. He pulled one out in its canvas bag, dropping to his knees with it on the floor. He opened it and sorted through the contents. He knew exactly what was in such a kit. He went through it wordlessly, mostly for the benefit of his companion - and it had been drilled into the medic over and over to always check medical supplies, especially if you weren't the one who had packed them.

"I'd like to add a few things, as long as we're here. I want another pen-light, some quik-clot, and some extra analgesics. See if they have some burn relief gel, too." Peter stood and, instead of scanning the shelves for what he'd listed, walked down to the closed metal cabinet at the end. He reached out and checked it - unlocked, just like most things. He opened the door and looked in at the restricted materials, usually kept under lock and key even in a storeroom restricted to authorized personnel. He shut the door without comment and turned to find the additions he wanted.

XXX

Once in the storeroom and Peter found the area he was looking for and knelt down; Sylar moved over to get a good view of what was inside. Habit, potential threat and need, but mostly his driving, killed-the-cat curiosity drew him to watch, intently, the items Peter pawed through. "Quik-clot?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. _What's he planning to get into- a fight with a pack of razors? Does he expect me to throw nitrogen on him?_

XXX

"Good question." Peter turned and rummaged through the shelves. "Here, this is quik-clot." He handed Sylar a packet. "Anything that bleeds a lot and looks like a simple compress won't stop it, we put that on it. I had a call once where a guy nearly bled to death from cutting himself opening a toy for his grandson." He shook his head. "Of course, it wasn't helping that he got upset and lost his head about it." Peter glanced at Sylar, thinking immediately of the practice of removing the tops of people's heads. _Poor choice of words_.

XXX

Giving first the packet, then Peter a bland look, he controlled his annoyance enough to reply in barely contained tone, "I know what quik-clot is," some defensiveness and derision creeping in regardless. He assumed Peter would be clever enough to follow the string of logic to the actual meaning behind his (blurted) question, once Peter ruled out ignorance; but he didn't press it. "Damn," he said about the story, however brief. His lips quirked into a smirk, catching the pun. _Definitely unintended._

Sylar then asked, "You ever broken bones before, Peter?"

XXX

Peter swung to face him, a series of expressions crossing his face one after the other: surprise and outrage (_what the hell are you implying? I'm some sort of psycho who fucks up his patients? Why would you even **think**__ that?_), then mystified (_that doesn't make any sense at all. You **wouldn't**__ think that_) and finally, realization. "Oh! You mean have **_I_** ever broken **_my_** bones …" He laughed a little nervously. Peter might have adopted a friendly, open demeanor, but he had **not** forgotten who he was dealing with here, or what Sylar was. "If I've had any broken bones other than this, then?" He lifted his right hand demonstratively.

XXX

Sylar leaned back as Peter gave him a sudden look_. __It was something I said, yeah?_ He watched; standing rather still as the medico's face shifted around through his thinking process before his expression loosened as he came to an understanding. "Yeah," he said in a way that conveyed 'duh, what else?' He nodded, _of course other than your hand, silly Peter_.

XXX

"Aside from, you know, being thrown off stadiums, out of seven story buildings and hit with parking meters you mean?" Peter smiled a little to convey he wasn't harboring grudges for any of that. He was upset about a lot of things Sylar had done, but the violence wasn't one of them. "I broke a finger skateboarding when I was thirteen. That's all, far as I remember, until I had abilities." He reached up without thinking and rubbed the left side of his chin, under his lip and over the nerve-deadened area. His mind shied away from whatever connection his subconscious made. "What about you? Favorite ice cream, ever had any broken bones, that sort of thing?"

XXX

"Yes, aside from those," Sylar admitted with an amused sort of annoyance, giving Peter that point almost with a grin that failed to be sadistic. "Ah. So this is nothing new for you then." _Just a new way to do it in._

Something ticked in his head at Peter's reply, but more so from the man's gesture—rubbing his insensate lip. Nathan knew about it, of course. Sylar knew it was a cover story, the typical Petrelli lines:

_/Nathan walked through the front door, calling out "Ma? Pete?" Dad walked past the hall between the stairs in the solar, reading glasses on his nose and papers in hand, looking up at the sound of his voice to greet him, "Nathan, you're back." Loud thuds and thumps of lumber and hammers, some metal clangs in the mix that sounded out through the house; Nathan winced and Dad sighed. "What's…goin' on?" he asked and his father began to answer him, "Ah, your mother has been harping on me to fix those rotten boards on the back porch, so I-"_

_"Nathan?" he heard his brother's whispery voice, quiet, suddenly so quiet._

_"Pete? Hey, buddy, what's-" Then he caught sight of his brother's lip and knew something was wrong with it, but not necessarily with the situation. Kneeling, he frowned in concern at the nine year old who seemed very withdrawn and shy, words not used to describe Pete. "What happened to your lip, Pete?" he asked gently._

_Poor Peter had just blinked, licked his lip and Nathan saw that the left side didn't move as it used to, as it should. "I…fell. Off the bike. That's what Mom said." _

_Dad sighed again in the background, "He was fooling around the construction. You know how young boys are, Nathan." And looking back, he knew it had been some sort of dodge. Peter suddenly hugged him and shuddered a little and it only served to amp up his worry. "Shh, I got ya, Pete."/_

Until the day he died, Nathan never got the full story out of Peter, if there was one to be had or if Peter himself even knew it.

The other man inquired about his favorites and he paused, thinking back_.__/Mom had taken him out to ice cream, a few months after Dad left. She'd muttered something about 'going against God's will' but he knew that was just Mom-speak for 'make him jealous', how he didn't know. In the end it meant a whole lot of nothing because Dad was gone, not…dead or whatever Mom liked to fool herself into thinking. _

_He'd stopped asking about Dad, didn't really care; he didn't want to deal with the 'why' (Mom had made it abundantly clear _why_ he'd left) or the fallouts Mom would have at the mention of Dad. He didn't want to hear the blame. Sure, Mom was hurting and now she had no one else to turn to (or blame), but…somehow he was just expected to deal with it. He hadn't realized it yet, but he was the man of the house now. And that was really scary. It terrified an already quiet boy into irreparable silence when faced with his needy mother and absent ("He's not gone, Gabriel. He's coming back.") father._

_"Gabriel, quit your twitching," she'd hissed at him when he shifted, "Behave, we're in public." As if he didn't know that? He was too self-conscious to go out with her anymore, no, at all now. It wasn't he that embarrassed her; it was the other way around. When did shifting his weight qualify as 'twitching'? Since Mom wanted control of a situation, a person, she couldn't._

_He stared blankly down at the treats in their round buckets in the display, tuning out his mother's crazy-voice next, "Ooh, which of the pretty flavors do you want?" The server didn't miss the switch his mother made, oh no. No such luck. The teenaged server just shook his head at the pair, mostly (he hoped) at his mother and went about scooping the ice cream into bowls, not cones – "You'd ruin your clothes, Gabriel."_

_Vanilla had been the answer because everything else would have a fault in it somewhere. /_

"Vanilla, actually," he said softly, not entirely returned from the memory. _I could have anything in the world and I pick…that. That's really messed up, even now, especially now._

Sylar didn't give himself time to think that over, didn't want to. "Broke my wrist, hairline fracture to my forearms, some knuckles and my foot. I can't actually remember if I've broken my nose or not, same goes for my collarbone, but I assume you don't mean having my neck snapped or-" _pushing you to drop me off Mercy Height's roof_, "things that have happened here, which I've already told you about." His delivery was, again, that of reading off a list with some bitterness.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar got lost in memory and then gradually pulled free of it. He didn't think it was the question about broken bones. Sylar's face was smooth and distant; his breathing regular; his stance the same as it had been before. Questions about past injuries made people tense up and give tells. EMTs were trained to watch for those abortive indications of past trauma. Someone who spoke of an affliction without the right body language was probably lying or exaggerating. And sometimes people's words became confused when they were in pain or agitated - they might say they broke their hip and point at their knee, or tell him the pain was on the right side of their chest and lay their hand over the left.

So it was the ice cream. Too much the empath, Peter made a deliberate attempt to pull the other man out of it. "Vanilla, huh?" he said as Sylar finally came back, mostly, from his reverie and spoke. "That's weird. I would have pegged you more a 'chunky monkey' kind of guy myself," he lied easily. He exaggerated it to make it clear he was ribbing the other man. "You know the type - drowning your sorrows in a tub of ice cream, every time you had setback or things didn't go your way." He laughed. "Nah, you've accomplished a lot with yourself. I don't think either one of us are the sort to spend a lot of time sampling ice cream flavors." _Even if most of what you've accomplished has been pretty awful, it's … undeniably an accomplishment._

XXX

Sylar blinked and turned to face Peter, unaware how of how much time (he assumed some) had passed. He blinked again, this time in surprise before he chuckled, almost a laugh as he shook his head, muttering, "Chunky monkey…" _Oh, that's totally me. Wind up in a cell block? 'Can I get a bucket of chunky monkey, HRG? Pretty please?' Get stabbed through with a samurai sword, wake up in Mexico? 'Where's the goddamn chunky monkey in this god-forsaken country?' _

Sylar raised an eyebrow at the other man. _Accomplished sounded like a compliment of sorts, in its own weird way to me, Pete. Go easy or you'll break my ego__._ Of course the hero medic disapproved and hated Sylar because he was on the receiving end of some of the intuitive's…accomplishments.

XXX

Peter zipped up the trauma kit and stood with it. He shifted it around uneasily, trying to figure out how to carry it and keep his hands free. It was fairly light, but bulky. He considered the other things Sylar had said. "For the injuries, I wasn't counting what's happened to … us … since getting abilities." He opened his mouth for a moment, not sure what he wanted to say, but it had something to do with Claire, getting hurt a lot, and getting numb to it. "I suppose I've …" he looked off to the side for a moment, then smirked at the floor. "I suppose I've gotten kind of heedless of getting hurt. I didn't used to be like that."

He gave himself a shake. "So, this was everything I wanted here." He patted the trauma kit. "On with the tour, huh? I think you were going to show me a hotel or … wasn't there somewhere else we were going, too? Any big tourist sites around here we could go look at?" He grinned at the idea.

XXX

Sylar still held the shears in his hand he realized rather late (hopefully not too late); it had him shifting and sliding the sharp-ish ends into a back pocket of his jeans. It wasn't a holster; it was just to keep his hands free.

"Of course not," Sylar shook his head at the idea of post-ability wounds, looking towards Peter as he cut himself off. He wanted to think on that fact before he voiced anything about it. Because it was the same for him as well—the numb, carelessness of regeneration.

"The show must go on," he delivered, inhaling then exhaling the breath, turning to leave the store room and head for the exit, the same way they'd come before, finding his direction with ease.

Laughing genuinely this time at the idea of a tourist attraction, he answered with, "You've already seen the biggest one—my apartment," voicing it with a certain arrogance that was partly true. Being the only inhabitant made him pretty darn special alright. Yay him.

XXX

_Does everyone around here end up in your apartment, Sylar?_ Peter itched to quip back. He wasn't always slow on his feet verbally – usually it was more that his mind just didn't work that way. He couldn't entirely suppress the smirk at his thought. Sylar's tone of voice just begged for a response. Peter chewed on his upper lip and fidgeted as they walked out. He looked back at the hospital as they left it behind them. He managed to keep it all inside – the words at least. He didn't want a repeat of the flirtiness that had marred the diner experience earlier in the day.

XXX

After they'd walked a bit, discussing random, inconsequential things intermittently, Sylar noticed something up ahead as they approached. Glass strewn on the concrete, almost anything in the store that was breakable was destroyed, warped and bent or shattered and crushed. A chunk of…a parking meter lay amidst the glass on the sidewalk and he frowned. "Peter…" he slowly pointed to it, as it he'd seen a ghost.

Was…someone here? Was it Claire finally? Or…He looked to the other man. He'd had plenty of opportunities alone to do the damage and he didn't know why its existence irked him, but it did. Sylar found himself annoyed at the medic for his temper.

XXX

"Uh … em … yeah." Peter looked at Sylar's face. Clearly, at first Sylar had no idea how this had come to pass. Just as clearly, he figured out the obvious suspect. In a world where there was just one other person in it, it was pretty easy to determine the guilty party for these things. "I did that," Peter confessed, trying to look at something other than Sylar. He was _not_ proud of himself at the moment.

XXX

"No, really. I thought the glass fairy was responsible," was the dull, sarcastic reply. _Quit now, while you're ahead_, his subconscious warned him because he was a second way from placing his hands on his hips and giving Peter a purely Nathan look while probably sounding like Arthur or the former senator. Something about the 'you know what you've done, now fess up this instant' vibe that was Sylar's own for a start but was being overrun by the 'other person' in his head. Maybe it was the 'it's my town, don't fuck with it' male possessive trait was acting up which really made zero sense. Well, maybe it did if he counted that there might be a chance Peter would lie to him for some reason.

XXX

Peter looked at the scattered glass, broken out window frame and where even a few chunks of masonry were missing. _Yeah, kind of made a mess. Why didn't this disappear like trash does?_ It had certainly stuck in his memory more firmly than whatever he'd last thrown in a trashcan - which he couldn't even remember, now that he thought of it.

He felt compelled to make some explanation, nonsensical as it was. He didn't want Sylar thinking he'd just snuck out here one night and attacked a random storefront. "I was … angry. I couldn't get out. My … my ability wasn't working." _Well, Matt's ability. Whatever._ He swallowed, looking at the surrounding buildings. What he'd said made it sound like he'd done this after the first day, when he'd failed to get Sylar out. He hadn't intended that implication, but it had more of a ring of dignity to it than the truth: that he'd been petulant he couldn't find Sylar easily enough for his tastes and had lashed out with malice and impatience.

He looked back at the ruin. The head of the parking meter lay conspicuously in the middle. It was possible, he supposed, that Sylar hadn't gotten a good look at that pipe Peter had been carrying when they first met. It seemed probable even that if Peter put on his game face, that he could bluff his way out of the worst of this. But that was lying. He'd promised not to, hadn't he? Or, no. He hadn't. He'd just promised not to treat Sylar like he was insane. It was Sylar who had offered, stated, that he hated liars and manipulators above all.

XXX

Sylar blinked once, slowly, listening and just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching the other man's face as he paced. The sequence of events as Peter painted it was not lost on him_. __You saw him trying to get out right in front of you in your apartment, it's no surprise that he goes out nights to beat the shit out of something (surprisingly enough, it's not you) because he can't "get out"_. "I'm sure," he said stiffly, voice arch as his lips pursed. _Not that I expected better…I just hoped._

XXX

Peter sighed and reached up to push his hair out of his face. He paced away from the mess, from Sylar, perpendicular to their previous course. "This was … it was before. Before I found you. I thought I wouldn't be able to find you and I … I'd be stuck here. I got mad and," he waved vaguely in the direction of his rampage, "did that."

_I should have just lied to him. I could have. It's insignificant! It doesn't matter whether I convince him that I was angry I couldn't get out or that I was upset that I couldn't find him. They're both the same … except that I'd rather be cast as angry than desperate. I'd rather him think I was frustrated and enraged I couldn't get out than throwing a juvenile temper tantrum because I couldn't find him right away__._ He huffed. _Why didn't I just lie to him?_

His question, even to himself, was rhetorical. He knew the answer. It was because it **did** matter. He looked around for the address and tried to fix the place in his mind. He had an intention of cleaning it up, but at the moment he said nothing. He was wondering if there was any way to fix this. He knew nothing of setting glass. It occurred to him, belatedly, that his original intent in smashing the storefront may well have come true - maybe he'd managed to damage some small corner of Sylar's mind, and now he had to live in that mind and deal with the consequences.

_Thank God it didn't occur to me to try to set fire to the place._

XXX

Peter was acting very strangely today; flirting and inviting him to coffee, allowing him to help with his hand, asking (semi) personal questions, and now acting upset as near as he could tell over this. Sylar chalked it up to Peter adjusting_. __Five stages was it? He must be getting panicky_. But no. The medic elaborated on the sequence and Sylar tilted his head, eyes narrowed, already fishing for the lie. _I miss that ability. Don't lie to me, man._

He knew misinformation, while probably not very effective against Sylar (who held Petrelli's dead brother's memories), would probably be and feel worse than no information at all. A lie meant motive and in such a limited space both men were likely to get very edgy. Were still edgy. A mystery would be fun, sure, but when it was something that was…teetering on the important scale, he would not find it amusing, never mind how many years or beatings or other underhanded attempts he might make to find out the truth. He'd do it, too; just to find out if Peter really did prefer strawberry ice cream over pistachio. _Boxers or briefs._

He frowned, mostly in momentary confusion as Peter claimed it was…Was he hearing this right? A glorified temper tantrum over Sylar? "Huh," was all he said aloud, chuckling to himself, completely pleased that he'd caused such a reaction for several reasons. First that it was Peter, which was self-explanatory. Second that Peter the empath had lashed out in rage. And thirdly that he'd done so out of a desire (okay, _drive_) to find Sylar himself. He grinned but as he thought further, it slowly slid away, his expression sobering.

Walking up at an angle where he would walk past Peter rather than stand in front of him and play the aggressive dick, he paused about a step diagonally from him and stared at Peter. "You must really care about her." Sylar kept his expression at (somewhat falsely) understanding…hoping to understand, something along those lines. _That you would do something like that for someone like me? Well, just me period. She sounds like a nice lady. No wonder he's worried sick. He thinks she's still around and he doesn't actually want you close to her._ Sylar stood there, pausing long enough to ideally wring an answer from Peter before he moved on, casual as could be, but for now he waited.

XXX

_Danger. Danger, danger, danger._ Peter realized he'd painted himself into a corner. All the blather about favorite whatevers - in and amongst all of that, somewhere he'd decided Sylar was worthy of trust and Peter had exposed what really mattered to him to Sylar's penetrating, judgmental gaze. Fear passed over him like a deluge of icy water. His whole point in being here hinged on whether Sylar would help Emma, among others.

There was a right answer, and a wrong one, to Sylar's question. Sure, it didn't sound like a question, but there was a question in there anyway. Very slowly, Peter said, "I've told you, from the beginning, that I wanted your help in saving her. And it's not just her, but thousands of others." _More people than you've ever killed__._ "So yeah, I care about that." He swallowed. "I care about the people _I can still save_, Sylar. The people _you_ can save." _Unlike Nathan, who's dead. And gone. If I can prevent one other person from losing their brother, son or father, sister, daughter or mother, then it was worth it._ His throat was tightening with emotion. Voice earnest, he tried to make it a plea. "That's why I'm here. I saw that you would … do something good. You'd save her and all of those others. I couldn't … not … try to save them." _No matter what's between us._

He looked past Sylar at the wrecked shop. "I'm sorry about that over there. I'll clean it up tomorrow. I was … angry." _At you. Trying to hurt you. Still wanting to torture you. Still do, to be honest._

He had no idea if he'd given the right answer or not. He didn't know if it would make sense or not to the likes of Sylar, but the other man now knew, if he hadn't before, that he held ultimate control and power in this situation. His consent was what Peter was begging for, his assistance, his willingness to reach out his hand to help others. It was a stupid request, Peter knew. '_I'm not the savior kind_,' Sylar had said. More likely, now that he knew what mattered, he'd taunt Peter mercilessly and dangle it just out of his reach. Peter sighed. He didn't expect things to be easy, but it would be nice for a change.

He looked off down the street in the direction they'd been heading. _Can we just go?_ He wanted nothing more than to put this behind them and go on acting like nothing important had been seen or said. Because really, hadn't Sylar realized this before? Why would Peter come here if not to help others? If he hadn't cared he'd have taken his mother's advice and stayed in New York! Maybe Sylar just hadn't understood how Peter was willing to put aside _everything_ that had happened, everything bad that Sylar had ever done, in order to give him a chance to do something good. In Peter's scale of morality, saving a few thousand lives vs. refusing to let Sylar help out of spite? No contest, as much as it stung.

XXX

The other man went still as Sylar's eyes bored into him, standing unmoving himself. Sylar had specifically not phrased his words into a question since he felt they would be better answered as a statement that was clearly a question. Peter seemed to get the message, or part of it, because his 'answer' was…wandering and repetitive. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. Again.

Licking his lips, he exhaled, glancing away briefly and rolled his eyes_. I wasn't asking about all those 'other schmucks', I was asking about _her. _Tell me about_ her. Perhaps it was because he wanted to know about the one person he could and Peter knew her. Right?

Bitterness passed through him like a flash flood. He noticed the other man's wording '_I care about the people _I can still save_, __Sylar_.' It served as a good reminder, again, that Sylar wasn't the desired target rather the tool. He was instantly segregated in that one sentence; it did not escape him. It hinted that Sylar himself was past saving; he didn't or couldn't even register for it. He was already counted among the lost.

Yet he would be expected to save people and…what? _Want me to pretend to be your other brother again? Get my mind wiped again? Be your wet works man? Disappear? Die? Be imprisoned? There is no pay off here, Pete; can't you see that? God, I'd rescue two thousand people and guess what? I'd still get the psychopathic monster label. It won't change anything. He'd still drop me like a hot potato._

He wanted to smack Peter upside the head and shake him around, make him listen—_I'm not a good guy! Why are you here? Why do you persist in thinking that I'm going to save boatloads of people? What if there are specials there? I'm just going to repeat the cycle. And why in god's name now? He said he dreamt it with his mother's ability and nothing good ever comes from that._

"I'm no Balboa, but I didn't think I hit you that hard at Mercy," Sylar said succinctly, walking by the man and the mess he'd made towards the hotel. _Besides, I was the one who got smacked around and dumped off a building_. Peter would doubtlessly follow him, so he continued.

"I know you have difficulty controlling your powers, man, but picking up a rerun of Sixth Sense was probably not a great career move. If there were people who needed saving, I would be able to see them." He was meanwhile thinking, _Oh, shit…he's sucking up. He's handing himself over for my help. It's not human to be that…caring for the world and its problems. I would know. It drove me crazy. _

_Does he feel the need to heal everyone and fix their problems because he's guilty about something he did or what? People do not get fires lit under their asses for this kind of shit, especially not when they're not getting paid enough for it. Is someone paying him to care? No. Is his bitch of a mother in on this? Possibly. Is this an illusion?...Possible. Is someone using him? Possible. _

_Son of a bitch. This is like some fucked up game show. Why ask me to do something I can't do anyway? Peter, listen to me. It does. not. matter. here. No people, no saving, no heroics. Even I can let go of my Hunger because there is a personal benefit to doing so._

"I do not understand you, Petrelli," he said over his shoulder as they walked, "And that's why I'll ask you about your dream vacation. What activities, who you'd take and where you'd go," he glanced back genially.

XXX

Peter mulled over what Sylar had said. _He thinks I'm deluded. Well, at least he doesn't think I'm lying. Or if he does, he's not mentioning it. And he doesn't think I'm trying to manipulate him. If I was, I wouldn't be telling him what I just did, that's for sure._

He remembered a day in his father's study in the summer of his eleventh year. He'd been too big for the chair and the cool leather stuck to the backs of his legs where they weren't covered by his shorts. In his lap he'd held one of the books that had been required reading: How to Win Friends and Influence People. It was a nice book, about being nice to people and paying attention to them, but it had struck Peter as just so _calculated_. Of course, that was the point.

_\His father came out from behind his desk, changing his tone from the usual stern pattern to something more friendly and warmer. Peter had already had the speech about tone of voice, so he caught the shift. He had also had coaching on position and body language. Behind a desk was distant and authoritarian. Now his father was pulling over a chair to be chummy and close. Peter swallowed nervously. It was tough to keep all of these things in mind. Arthur had told him that with repetition and practice it would eventually come naturally._

_"Now then, let me tell you a secret," his father said, leaning in conspiratorially. "The way to get people to do what you want them to do is to tell them they'll be important if they do. Everyone wants to be special, Pete. If you want to sell them something, tell them you'll offer them a bluebird special."_

_"What's a bluebird special?"_

_"You see a bluebird fly by and you tell them what you're selling is on special. Limited time offer. Be special! Buy it now!" He leaned back a little. "They all want their moment in the spotlight and you tell them the one sure way to get it is to buy what you're selling, because we're **all**__ selling. You have to find their emotional levers and **pull them**__. The payoff is guaranteed. That's how people work. It's all coded in our genes."_

_He studied the uncomfortable boy for a moment, then dug in his pockets. "Here. I'll show you." He produced some coins and fished through them. He pushed a nickel out of his hand onto the end table next to Peter's chair. "See, that's just some old, nasty-looking nickel. I don't want that. Ah-hah! Here's what I'm looking for. See this penny?" He put the rest of his change away and held up a fairly new looking coin. "It's bright, it's shiny, it's in spectacular shape." He leaned forward, his eyes mostly on the penny but occasionally going to Peter's. It drew his son's eyes to it._

_Arthur smiled a little and spoke softly, in awe. "There's no other penny like this. It's special. See how new it is? Yeah?" Peter nodded, brows drawn together a little with a serious expression that was almost comical. "See this 'D' here? That's for the Denver mint. They don't make many of these. It's a very, very limited run."_

_"It's got a scratch on it," Peter pointed out._

_"Oh no! That's not a scratch! That's a milling mark. That's why I'm carrying this one around. It's very valuable. The person who owned this would be the envy of the numismatic world!" Peter perked up. He wanted people to think he was … wait. Wasn't that his father's point? And why would he be carrying this collector's item in his pocket with all his other change?_

_Arthur smiled as he saw the realization on his son's face. He set the penny down next to the nickel. "Those nickels - everyone has a nickel like that. Now which coin do you want to put in your pocket?"_

_"Neither," Peter said sullenly._

_"That's my boy," Arthur said, and his approval made Peter feel ill_.\

So. No, Peter wasn't trying to manipulate Sylar. If he were, he'd be telling Sylar this was his chance to be a hero, to be a good person, that it wasn't too late, he could be special, revered, appreciated, adored; that Peter would be thankful, that people would be convinced he was a new man, trustworthy and strong. Peter had said none of that. He'd spoken to his own feelings, his own motivations, and left it at that.

Now Sylar thought he was seeing dead people; that he'd been touched; that he'd been hit too hard. _Great__._ But … well, it was better than Sylar thinking Peter was selling to him. "I don't think you'd want to understand me," Peter murmured. More loudly, he said, "How about you go first with your dream vacation, then I'll tell you about mine."

XXX

_This isn't my idea of sharing…This isn't what I want to be sharing (so why'd you ask him?),_ Sylar thought to himself when the question was turned back on him. "Heh. Honestly…I've never thought on it. I mean…I may be action oriented, but the location never seemed important to me." _Besides 'away from goddamn Queens'_. "Um...somewhere with nice weather, obviously. Somewhere with some nature and some sights. Maybe Venice. I always wanted to just…take pictures there. I know everyone always says Paris, but that gets cliché. If everyone is going there, you've got to head somewhere else, you know?" He asked, slowing his pace to allow them to walk evenly alongside each other, turning to look at Peter.

"Maybe some water activities; boating, fishing, scuba diving, jet skiing, wave riding. I like museums oddly enough, maybe some original art galleries. I like science, so maybe seeing the LHC in Switzerland…there's Swiss watches, too. European watches in general," he shrugged, aware that he was babbling, but he didn't actually have a goal in mind, no ideal vacation. _European women general__,_ he didn't add. _Because let's face it, the only way I'm going on vacation is without the Hunger, when I have a sex drive._

XXX

Peter nodded once as Sylar slowed enough that they were walking abreast. It was an acknowledgment of sorts. Peter still felt embarrassed about the storefront, but Sylar was giving him what Peter had wanted - moving on. Peter listened to Sylar's idea of a good vacation. It was more of a list of what he liked to do, without caring about where, but Sylar was right - the physical location wasn't the important part.

XXX

"Always kind of wanted to go camping," Sylar added. "Something about…seeing what you're made of in that setting. The total guy thing." _I know Nathan's been with him so it's nothing new to him. He probably thinks that's stupid. 'Ooh, camping. Big bad killer wants to go camping,' god…that's so …so…Peter of me._

XXX

"Testing your limits," Peter said quietly of camping. As an activity itself, Peter could take it or leave it. He didn't adore the Great Outdoors like many did, but he understood the appeal as a lens with which to see your own character.

XXX

Sylar paused for a significant moment to think of the other part of the question. "Once I wrangle up someone who's into super-powered killers, I'll write you about what my 'type' is," was his succinct reply. All that to say, were there people around (and he wasn't too sure Switzerland or Italy were still around to be honest) he lacked any kind of (_goddamn_) connection to take a friend or lover anywhere. Relatives, those who still lived, were, frankly, on his little black list of hits. The only way he'd get anywhere was by pretending to be harmless and fucking 'normal' until he fucked it up somehow.

"Your turn," he handed the ball back into Peter's court. They were within sight of the hotel, just a few blocks away.

XXX

Sylar finished. Now it was Peter's turn. He sighed and said, "Yeah, that's certainly an issue - finding someone who's into … well, not 'into' into, but is safe with, able to deal with, that sort of thing … abilities." He frowned, not sure that statement had made any sense. Peter grimaced and scratched at the new brace on his hand. His hand was twingeing. He suspected the painkillers he'd taken early this morning had worn off.

XXX

As for testing himself in the wild as he'd mentioned—Sylar wanted to know, but he was afraid to look. And no one went camping by themselves which made the entire argument/activity a large circular problem. Peter addressed it from a different angle. "Um, not much of an issue. You find someone who has an ability," he said simply, stating it how he saw it at least. Normals weren't….they were sheep, plain and simple. To spook them with something 'supernatural' or 'divine' or 'paranormal' would send them running to authorities or to check their prescriptions.

It would land them in a mental institution or get bills passed that would make the existence of specials a known fact, not too dissimilar to what Nathan tried to accomplish. _That stupid bastard. Your dad does a bad deed and you take it out on all of us? Your own daughter? Your own brother? Mother? What about those brats of yours? 'Simon and Monty'?_

XXX

Peter went on with "My answer five years ago would have been totally different than it is now. Then it would have been tourist sites, clubs maybe, never been to Rio and always wanted to go, went to Mardi Gras once and that was an absolute blast … Totally different now. Now I just want to be left alone. Or get some answers. Or both." He frowned and looked away again. _I want to be alone; I can't stand to be alone. I can't be me when everyone else is around; when I'm alone I don't know who I am._

"I'd like to go visit the Dalai Lama," he said, looking back to Sylar. "I've never been over there - to Nepal, Tibet, the Himalayas. I'd like to go. And I wonder - if there's people like us in the world, and there's been people like-" _Does he know about Adam?_ "Like Claire, but born earlier, back in history, then I wonder if maybe, if I were to look in the right places, maybe I'd find answers. Answers to the bigger questions of existence and meaning, that sort of junk." He opened his mouth briefly to say more, then shut it. He'd never been one for talking about religion with people. It was a resolutely personal topic.

XXX

Sylar raised a brow_. _"Mardi Gras, huh?_" __Dalai Lama? Interesting choice__._ He'd been about to open his mouth and correct Peter that the Dalai Lama was from Tibet when he cleared it up himself. "I think they'd just love you over there. I doubt you'd be able to get back and your-" _brother__,_ "family would have to bail your ass out," he chuckled, amused by the image. Then "There are other immortals? Like that…Adam guy?" _That I haven't heard about?_

_Poor Peter wants to be left alone? Find some answers? Well, boo hoo._

XXX

_Well, that settles whether he knows about Adam_. "Yeah, like him."

Peter chewed his lip briefly. "So I just wonder if some of the stories in history about people who had special abilities might be true - saints, religious figures, heroes? If the story of the Dalai Lama's power is true, then maybe he'd know something." Something more than Adam, who had known a great deal, but it was like pulling teeth to get any of it out of him. Peter looked ahead at the hotel rising above them in superfluous splendor. "Even if he didn't, it would at least be an interesting place to visit."

XXX

"I've wondered that, too. Abilities in different countries. I met a girl from South America, well…" Sylar exhaled a sigh, "her twin brother, too. They both had powers of a sort." _Guh, next topic please!_ _There's Mohinder and Hiro and Linderman and that Haitian guy that aren't just 'American'. _

"I mean…I know super strength seems to be common, but…that's interesting," he murmured the last, genuinely curious from an intellectual point of view, keeping the desire from his voice this time. It wasn't hard, actually. He no longer possessed the Hunger and it showed. Whether he liked it or not. It was very pleasant to be able to just…talk about being 'different', about having powers with someone else and not having them. Also not having to worry, honestly, about having damage done to him or inflicting damage himself. It was a huge relief to him even though he knew it made Peter uncomfortable.

XXX

Peter looked down at his feet briefly. "Really - South America, huh? But you're right. There's not really anyone I could take with me on that sort of trip." Claire maybe - actually, he thought she might be a really good choice were it not for his already not-entirely-pure feelings about her. Being on the road for weeks together might be too much. There had been way too much chemistry there for him to pretend that wouldn't be an issue.

He looked at the hotel as they approached it. It actually took him a second to remember why he'd wanted to come here. He made a soft grunt as he recalled it. "This is a nice place." He debated trying to conceal why he was here, but no good excuse came to mind. "They'll have a pool."

XXX

He tilted his head a little in surprise. _No__one for Petrelli? The world really has come to an end then__._ "Yup." Sylar actually spared the hotel a glance before moving his eyes over to the over man. _That's__ it? A pool?_ "Wait, that's all you wanted to do?" _No root of all evil towards yours truly? What is this world coming to?_


	20. Pools and Pelicans

Day 8

Peter sighed a little. "Yeah, that's all I wanted to do, really. Me and my great subterfuge, hidden agenda and all that." He tried to smile a little and make a joke of it. "What did you think? I was tired of that apartment already and was looking for new digs?" He snorted.

XXX

_What did I think? Nothing decent, Peter, that's for sure__._ "No, not that," Sylar said and left it at that.

XXX

Peter went on, "No, I just thought I might want to go swimming eventually. And after all that walking I did the first couple of days here, a hot tub would have been heaven, but I was too busted up to go looking for one. Next time I'll know where to go." _Not so much a next time of walking, but hot tubs are nice__. _"I'm sure there's a regulation pool around somewhere, but I figured a hotel would be easier to find. Let's go look inside. I want to be sure of what's in there." He started inside.

XXX

"Oh, I see." Peter and pools? Worse, hot tubs. _Oh, god__…_Sylar swallowed. The idea of seeing that much foreign flesh exposed…while wet…"Totally," he ended up squeaking, "The hotel's the place to be," voice rasping as he cleared his throat.

XXX

At Sylar's strangled tone in regards to the pool and hot tub, Peter thought, _Oh my God, he's into me. He's … whoa, **really**__ into me_. It wasn't a complete surprise - Sylar had telegraphed his interest already, but this wasn't just interest. It was a _reaction_. And Peter, instinctively maybe, wanted to make Sylar react again and again. It was very flattering, after all. It was an effort not to follow up on that. _He's probably just lonely and it has nothing to do with **me**__. Get over yourself._ That thought calmed Peter down a lot.

He walked into the extravagant lobby, looking around for placards that directed him to the pool and fitness area. He started that way, then detoured unexpectedly into the food service area. "Hang on. Something else I want to do." He put down the trauma kit and fished through his messenger bag, producing a pill bottle (and this one with a normal cap). He poured out four pills into the lid and went to get himself a cup of water.

XXX

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the pair passed into the building_. __Something else? I knew it_. The other man set down his bags and left for a minute and returned with water after removing some pills. Sylar was still a little confused because he was sure Peter wasn't just here for the pool, but…okay, whatever.

XXX

Taking up the conversation from before, Peter said, "Yeah, there are other immortals, like Adam." He watched the water fill the cup, thinking over how much he should share with Sylar about Adam. _Is he safe from Sylar because Sylar already has Claire's ability? I suppose I could ask …_ "So what happens if you get more than one copy of the same ability? Is every ability different, just a little? That was the way it felt to me - every ability seemed unique." He picked up the pills and knocked them back, following with a long drink.

"I'm not going to tell you about people if there's a good chance you're just going to track them down later and kill them." It was incredibly blunt, but Peter didn't see any point to being indirect about this one. _Though, come to think of it, Adam would probably be safe from him just because of his ability. Claire survived. Though it still wouldn't really be right to point Sylar at him and set him up for assault. Adam was a bigger villain than Sylar, but that doesn't mean … does it? No, it doesn't. No more than Sylar deserves to be hurt._

XXX

Peter mentioned Adam and Nathan's memories corroborated. _Aha_. He blinked and pulled his head back, insulted even though he understood the need Peter had to cover for his buddies. His face reflected it with a clenched jaw and tight mouth, but his eyes were kept blank as he took the (over)precautionary measures from the medic. That was like throwing the three years of forced/enforced chastity back in his face. _And really. No one here, Pete. No. One! Your worry is totally freaking irrelevant._

"Yes, they're all different. Genetics. I've never had any repeats, even after I lost them all and…well, you know." _Went on a rather bloody trip all fucking over again_. "I imagine they would layer if the person's brain can adapt and handle the addition which is pretty much a exercise in futility to even say because to gain another ability as far as I know you have to already be able to access that part of your brain. We both can. If you can't, say you're born a special," because he was aware of that…vague line about Nathan being a tube baby, "and you're only born with one, the odds of you genetically mutating to be able to use an additional ability are…astronomical assuming the original ability isn't genetic mutation itself." He shrugged slightly. _I hope that didn't sound as Mohinder as I think it did…I know when to shut up and he doesn't, so there._

While he wasn't a big pill-popper, he was pretty sure Peter was abusing the dosage on the painkillers. He said nothing, just watched. "Does it look like it matters now, Peter?" he gestured loosely around the hotel. "I'm not interested in immortality again. I shouldn't have taken the first one. There's no one here to track down so your 'buddies' are safe."_ Because, yeah. Healing is sooo much better than fucking regen__. _"I'm not a liar," he seriously added, his voice dropping in octave to display his sincerity.

Sylar turned away after he was sure Peter got the point, licking his lip as he visually explored the large entry foyer, all glass and gold and faux marble. After that he wasn't expecting Peter to fill him in on immortals. Anyone with abilities, actually. Ever. _Big deal. Just think up another question._

XXX

Peter listened to Sylar's answer about abilities. Peter was feeling the emotions and … goddammit he wasn't following the words. Peter stood there, very focused and a little tense, trying to decipher what the hell Sylar was trying to get across with … all of that. "No, I don't think you're a liar," Peter said quietly, looking down a few times so he wasn't staring so fixedly. Now that Sylar was turned away though, his eyes came back up. _You're not lying. I just don't understand._

"So," he started slowly, thinking maybe it would be smarter just to dismiss the whole topic but … well, he actually wanted to know and this was something Sylar might very well be able to answer. If Sylar had an area of expertise, the gaining of abilities was it, and the other man was managing to discuss it without even mentioning murdering anyone. "So, what you're saying is that yes, you and I and anyone suited to have … anyone who is … well, you and I, could gain multiple copies of the same power, but for anyone else, it would be astronomical odds for them to just happen to manifest more than one power, and even more astronomical," _is there a word for that? I'll bet there is. Bet he knows it, too. Bet he also thinks I'm an idiot._He sighed and went on, "even more unlikely to get the same power all over again. That's … that's what you're saying, right?"

XXX

Sylar was forced to cover his mouth when Peter reworded Sylar's own dialogue back at him. _Oh, Peter__… _It took a lot not to at the very least chuckle at the uncomprehending medico. He nodded, serious. "Exactly. You got it," he encouraged rather helpfully, if he did say so himself. Which he kind of had, but whatever.

XXX

He gathered up the trauma bag, contemplating what Sylar had said. _So you're saying that you wouldn't go after Adam and you think that should be enough for me to trust you? No, you're not saying that. You're saying you wouldn't bother … you **can't**__ right now because you don't have your ability. But if you got it back, and you didn't think you were trapped in here forever, then … you really aren't saying what you'd do then. So I can't test his sincerity here, because he's not going to run off to find Adam any more than he's after **my**__ head, because he's missing his power. It's no good._

Peter pushed his hair out of his face, feeling frustrated and like he was back to square one. _I want to talk to him, but how the hell do I figure out how to trust him? This is all false! All of this conversation isn't about what matters! What I really need to know is what he's going to do when he gets out of here. How the hell can he be so human and yet I can't rely on him to **act**__ human? I know he **can**__. He did in that future. I know he wants to. I can almost feel it._

XXX

Peter started making his 'I'm thinking' face as he took up his bags again and Sylar followed him around until they found the pool area. _That's what I'm talking about! I wonder what the odds are of…either stalking him here or just waiting here for him to catch him._"It's been a long time since I've be-" he began before Peter swung around and asked him a rather random question, from his standpoint at least.

XXX

Peter pushed open the door to the pool area, looking at the clear blue waters and catching the scent of chlorine. He looked it over for a moment, then turned to Sylar and asked, "How much can I trust you?"

XXX

_How do I answer that?_ He thought a little helplessly. _Does he mean with the pool or in general or…the other specials he thinks still roams this earth…?_ "I would say as much as you want. That's not….exactly something I can control, now is it? I mean, I'll help you blow up your water wings, but I'm not going to drown you or anything." Sylar gestured at the water, trying to make a light analogy. "Peter, whether you like it or not, we're the only people here. It's in my best interest not to…" _what? Not to what?_ "screw things up beyond measure." _Further, that is, of course_.

'I like trust' he wanted to add, 'trust is good!' but it would mean little to the wronged Petrelli. His hands found his pockets again as his body decided to hunch itself to be smaller. It was a real uphill battle. _Yesss, trust me! I killed your brother and your dad and tried for your mom and niece. I'm a known killer and you're here all alone with me. Are you afraid yet?_

"You used to swim, right, Peter? What's your favorite stroke?" _And don't give me that swimmer's joke, please. Just my luck he'll say 'breasts!' and leer. Does he even have swim trunks? Who needs swim trunks…Or better yet, fuck it, strip and get in the water!_

"Doggy paddle?" he guessed, teasing with a minor grin to show it.

XXX

"Yeah, okay, it wasn't a fair question and I knew that when I asked it. I don't know what's wrong with me." Peter stared at the water, thinking about how relaxing a swim would be, if he were alone, just him and the water. His eyes snapped back to Sylar. "Don't tell me, thanks," he said with a smile to soften it.

"I like the backstroke - just being propelled along, looking up, watching the ceiling or the sky go by. It's kind of like flying. Really slow flying, I guess." He tried very hard to purge thoughts of Nathan, and borrowing West's ability after the funeral, from his mind. It was tough. "Before I had my ability …" _But you know this. Damnit. I get to say it anyway. Fuck losing half of every conversation because you already know my life story. I want to actually say things and be listened to!_ "Before I knew I had my ability, I was having these dreams of flying. It was like swimming through the air."

XXX

Sylar nodded and let it pass, allowing Peter to take what he would from his response to it. He swallowed his laughter, but some escaped as a highly amused chuckle. The other man answered and Sylar tilted his head to eye him in curiosity. Part of him answered 'really?' while the other half said 'I know' at Peter's…strangely precognizant dreams. Sylar tagged it that Peter in fact possessed Angela's ability before he knew of flying, which made sense. Nathan of course…had his head up his own ass, busy pretending he was your average card-shark, double-dealing lawyer running for senator.

"I always liked the butterfly," he stated a little randomly, "Something about…the power behind it, using lots of muscles to propel yourself out of the water. I mean, everyone loves the freestyle, because of the glide and the water rushing past you so easily. Maybe it's because the fly takes timing." He thought about his preference from Peter's point of view: _He's power-hungry and he's a watchmaker—what a freak. Yup that about sums it up._

XXX

Peter gestured at the far end of the pool. "I think there's a kiddy section over there. They always have them at hotels. I think I'll be safe if I just stick to the shallow end, don't you think?" He looked at Sylar with a fairly straight expression. "Thanks for the offer on the water wings though. That's very thoughtful of you." He knew he was teasing back and getting dangerously close to those mixed signals he'd been giving earlier in the day. _Fuck it._

XXX

A confused frown twisted over Sylar's face. _Kiddy__ pool?_ It only grew as the younger man, while no giant, was no child (even if he sometimes played pretend more than Sylar (and Nathan) thought he should). Peter's face gave him nothing, but he continued on about water wi- _ooh!_ His own expression eased as he chuckled. "No problem. It's the least I can do for a midget with three limbs." Raising a brow, he gave a slight smirk and stepped towards the pool, crouching down, his back to the medic, to insert a hand into the aquamarine liquid that reeked of chemicals for a temp test.

It didn't really occur to him that he might be exposing himself to being _pushed in_; he was confident he wouldn't be attacked, however. "Hmm," was his voiced approval of the temperature. "It's not bathwater, but it's over-chemicalized. If you want to swim in a good pool, I'll come fool around with the chemicals—using less, I mean." In case Peter worried that he would try something sinister, he quickly clarified, "Otherwise it's actually unhealthy."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar crouch down to test the water, admiring the way his body curved and bent. He was flexible, a part of Peter's brain noted. The empath walked a few paces away, saying, "You are just begging to be kicked in there, you know that?"

XXX

With his back still turned, rubbing his fingers together wetly, Sylar allowed a genuine, full-bodied smirk to himself. "I'll touch up the kiddy pool for you, too."

XXX

Peter turned back, seeing Sylar had not reacted defensively. The other man seemed very certain he was safe. The back of Peter's mind was telling him that a good dunking was physically harmless and Sylar deserved it for being such a smug bastard. That was why Peter had immediately removed himself to a safe distance, where he couldn't do it without telegraphing his approach. And why he'd said something about it. So, yes, Sylar's read of the situation, and Peter, was spot-on. Peter itched to do it though.

"I'm not worried about the chemicals. You can do what you want to it, as long as it's still swimmable." _This is all in Sylar's head anyway. I suppose if he thinks the pool is unhealthy, then maybe it is. Whatever. Knock yourself out, dude._

Sylar stood with his back fully turned to Peter, still poised, almost balanced, at the edge of the pool. A muscle in Peter's jaw jumped. _He's gotta be doing this on purpose, just to test me. Dick. I ought to go push him in just because__._ Instead Peter turned and walked back to the doors out. He waited there until Sylar finally joined him, which seemed to take abnormally long. Peter was feeling a bit cranky, thwarted and put upon by then.

XXX

As Sylar had expected, Peter did nothing. Now, he wasn't assuming it was an easy move to avoid making, not at all. Nor did he actually do it on purpose. It had been a long time since he'd swam and he was eager to swim once in a while, too. Not with Peter, obviously; he didn't think the poor man could relax if he was around. No such luck.

Sylar genuinely desired to test the temperature and he'd been satisfied.

XXX

Peter adjusted the straps on his bags and said, "Well, that's all I wanted to see here." He turned to head out. "Was there anywhere else we were going today, or just heading back? I've got some stuff I've been wanting to do in that apartment anyway." _I need to get some of that crap out of there. And then see if I can actually strum the guitar with this splint on. That might be pushing it a little too fast. I should probably give it a few more days. But I could just try … just a little. That wouldn't hurt anything, would it?_ Peter almost smiled. He'd heard the same justifications from plenty of patients to recognize it. _And then, _Peter wondered,_ what will I do after that?_

XXX

Sylar then stood, utterly serious and turned back to the other man. "I can show you the library if you want," he shrugged, "I've got no agenda." Peter's potential rearranging, which may or may not involve power tools, piqued his interest.

XXX

Peter gave him a quick nod and said, "Library's fine. Let's go. You mentioned board games the other day. What did you find? What do you like to play?"

XXX

"Games? Oh, mostly the basics—Life, Clue, Monopoly, Scrabble, Pictionary, Yahtzee. But my favorites…I always really liked Scotland Yard and Stratego. And Clue, Scrabble and….Tripoly," Sylar eventually finished. He didn't dwell much on the why, and he certainly didn't linger on the memories surrounding them. "What about you?" Sure, he knew what ones Peter preferred over others, but his favorites? Those he didn't know.

XXX

Peter shouldered the door open and headed out, letting Sylar catch up with him for once. He slowed down though when Sylar started talking about the games. He calmed and tried to pay attention, rather than being awash in an unfulfilled desire to assert his dominance with a swift shove to Sylar's exceptionally well-formed posterior.

XXX

The medic was moving away, deeming the library an acceptable destination and he shrugged at Peter's back as he hurried behind the man, catching and slipping through the door before it shut.

XXX

"I take it you really like Clue. I think its okay. I liked Scrabble a lot. Battleship. For kid's games I had loads of fun with Sorry - but that was more because of the way we ended up playing than anything else. Nate and Ma would end up 'sorrying' each other all the time and me and Maggie - she was one of the maids who used to play with us - would work together and one of us would win. Civilization was cool, when Dad didn't play. I hated playing games with him. He's the reason why I hate chess."

XXX

"Scrabble's good," Sylar chuckled. Peter had no idea how sunk he was with that game, "I've only played Battleship a few times, but I know how it goes."

_Kid's games?_ he thought then. For some reason that struck him as a very odd turn of phrase. All the games he could think of easily off the top of his head were all for children and adults alike. They could be played by nearly any age (provided a player wasn't in diapers and didn't try to eat the pieces or snack on the board or something), played and enjoyed equally. The only games Sylar considered childish, rather, for children were things like playing dolls and house_. __And Candyland_. 'Match' was another, only due to its tediousness as a rather ingenious adult, but he had great memories of wearing that game out. Again, he had to choke back a snigger_. __Oh, god…what if I'd said Operation?_

Sylar soaked in the information, of course some of it was actually new to him since it came from the present Petrelli (not the dead ones). He chuckled at the pleasant images, nodding at the ones that weren't. He couldn't picture Arthur as a real team player; that much he knew as fact.

XXX

Peter added, "Monopoly is okay. So's Yahtzee. Never played Scotland Yard or Stratego."

XXX

"No? They're lots of fun," Sylar chuckled, recalling how '_into'_ the games he could get. He took them rather seriously and he suspected he still would. Sylar's challenging nature was sure to wave its flags at the nearest opportunity and he made mental notes that if he ever managed to lure Peter into a game of…well, anything, to rein in his current, rather aggressive playing tactics. Surprisingly enough, he'd never once thrown a game board away or at someone, so it wasn't that he was violent with it.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a wondering look. _What kind of a loser is he? What kind of a winner? Does he cheat? Does he spend the whole game trying to tell other people how to play? Or does he play like Ma and I always did when it was just the two of us, messing with the game while we talked?_ Nathan had been a poor loser, but an okay winner. His father didn't seem to notice whether he won or lost, too wrapped up in pointing out how everyone else needed to play. Nathan sucked it up, followed instructions and won; Peter would play contrary just because.

_I'll bet I could learn a lot about him by playing a few games._ With deceptive mildness, Peter said, "You'll have to show me how to play a few of those. It'll pass the time, I guess."

XXX

Grinning at Peter's hint at interest in the games, Sylar nodded, happy as a clam. "Sure," he replied, trying to keep his enthusiasm from his voice, the satisfaction and desire to play a freaking board game with Peter Petrelli. '_You'll like it'_ sat on the tip of his tongue.

XXX

Another question came to Peter's mind that might indirectly give him some information he'd been wanting. "Did you mainly play with your family, or with friends?"

XXX

Sylar found the last question to be an odd one, but he assumed it was because of his own upbringing. Nathan wouldn't have batted an eye at it—that's just how he'd been raised, basically with other people around, exposure.

"Family. I did play a few games of various things at school sometimes." _But really I can't figure what he's gaining with my answer__… _"And you? Family or friends?" _Because it will totally make sense if he answers it. Right._

XXX

"Both," Peter said. "We used to play on Sundays after church if we didn't have anything planned and the weather wasn't good for going out. Or sometimes one of Dad or Ma's friends would drop by and Nathan would set up a game with me to keep me busy." That had been mainly while Nathan was in college and would meet them at church in the morning, go to lunch with them and then drop by the house for the early afternoon before taking off again.

"When I was older I'd have friends over and we'd play." He paused for a moment, then said, "Those games were different though. When it was just a bunch of us, all the same age, friends playing, we had a different style to playing. When it's family and really different ages, people play differently. Like when my parents played cards with their friends, my dad didn't tell anyone else how to play and Ma sure didn't go light on anyone."

XXX

_Angela going light? Okay, maybe on Peter, but… /"She warms up…sorta."/_ _Different games? Oh, I'm sure_. The Petrelli virus had had killings committed in their own pool. Sylar purposefully avoided thinking of another house murder that hit him closer to the heart, whatever heart existed. Kelly was just a girlfriend, but Virginia…Both were accidents, he knew. As a lawyer and a morally ambiguous killer, he was aware that none of the actions on his or Nathan's part had been premeditated.

XXX

'Family' though wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. _Fine. I'll get to the point__:_ "Did you have brothers or sisters?"

XXX

_Ooh, so that's what he wanted to know._ "No. At least…none that I know of," Sylar winced at how that sounded, especially to someone of upper class like Peter. "I hope not," he muttered_. __I'm too old to play nice any more, yet here I am. I couldn't…couldn't do it for family. Not again. Clearly Peter isn't family so we're all good._

Honestly there was a time when he suspected a kid by the name of Luke Campbell might have been his half-brother at one point on a road trip to find Samson. The kid was a pain in the ass, unlearnable and more than a little crazy and that all added up that the boy hadn't, _hadn't_ been related to him. He had to pause his own thoughts; what if it had been a sister?

Somehow he pictured something between Lydia, closer to him in age and temperament. Or Claire, young enough to be his daughter—ha! And perfectly annoying, whiny and bratty as could be. Or maybe that girl Molly. That was disturbing to him on many levels and he dropped the thoughts immediately. So what if his eyes had lingered on Peter when he'd thought he'd been a Petrelli the same as the medic? Peter was the only one who almost gave a shit, but didn't give him an ounce either_. __Such odd…family dynamics__._ "I didn't grow up with any," was his clarification.

"Sorry, you struck out on that count," he droned_. __I found my father and almost wished I hadn't, but Peter doesn't know anything about that, neither does he care. It probably shows, too. Sibling interactions show up in how the person, me, handles social dealings. Peter's probably all over that._ He was tempted to blurt '_your mom hasn't found anyone to replace me?_' intending it as a slightly suggestive comment, but he didn't voice it because it would only get himself smacked.

"No, I just played with my mom or with myself." _Again, with the wonderful imagery Peter's getting here. Should I add that I don't 'play with myself' in any form at this current day and age? Well, I do, but….ugh!_

XXX

"So, uh, library. We already, I guess, kind of talked about books. You got a lot in your apartment. Not that it's a crime or anything, what with," Peter waved vaguely at their surroundings, knowing that he meant the imaginary aspect of the place and that Sylar would probably think he meant the absence of people, "everything, but do you just take the books you like back your apartment?" _Stupid__ ass question. What the hell am I supposed to say here?_ He studiously avoided looking at Sylar's face for the moment. It seemed safest.

XXX

Sylar glanced at the other man out of the corner of his eye, noting that the other man was ignoring his presence for the moment. It only amused him more. "No, actually, I eat the books and hold them in my throat," he gestured to his Adam's apple, looking towards the other man, "like a pelican, just because it's easier to keep your hands free for more books and opening doors and things like that. Then when I get home, I just reach in and pull them out. It's a really neat trick." It was complete, glaringly pure sarcasm and he'd come up with a shitty reply to a rather- no, it was a dumb question. His tone was informative, which worked in his favor because it wouldn't piss Peter off tremendously and would reinforce the sarcasm via seriousness.

XXX

Peter reached out without thinking and shoved Sylar on the shoulder with his left. "Like a _pelican?_" He laughed and rolled his eyes. _You are seriously messing me up. What the hell am I supposed to do here?_ It was tough to stay angry at the other man when they were both so determinedly avoiding the reasons why Peter might be angry. And so he avoided them now, too, focusing instead on how funny Sylar's comments were.

XXX

Sylar was sent stumbling, but not tripping, away in an elongated step before he caught his balance solidly. Eyes wide and shocked, he looked at Peter, wary, but more so surprised by the shove that had been, for him, completely out of the blue. They were both New York boys, they knew that drill. Sylar had been away from any form of civilization beyond Frito-Lay chips and skyscrapers for three years, so any touch was like a blowtorch. That was probably also accurate given the other man's affinity for power tools.

XXX

Peter looked over at him and grinned, seeing uncertainty on Sylar's face. The empath let his grin fade to a mere smile, nodding slowly and looking away. There was nothing in Peter's demeanor that was threatening or bullying. "That would be a really neat trick, yeah," Peter said. _Give a whole new meaning to 'deep throat.__'_ Peter started snickering to himself. _There is something wrong with me. Seriously, something is wrong with me. I've been trapped in here too long. Matt's ability is making me nuts. Sylar's brain is making me nuts. I think I'm going crazy._

Peter let the chuckles subside. He actually _was_ worried about his sanity. He wasn't unaware that he'd been having mood swings all freaking day, but he didn't know what to do about them. He didn't want to be friendly with this man, but the other choice was being a rude asshole and sabotaging the very mission that had brought him here. Things were very much not helped by Sylar expressing an interest in him and then backing off, leaving Peter unthreatened and wanting more, but not getting it. It left Peter kicking himself for liking the attention. It was almost enough for Peter to think it was calculated._ Maybe it is. Maybe he's trying to pull a mind-fuck on me_. That sobered him.

His mood did not swing to the opposite side this time. "You could have a pouch in there like a kangaroo," he offered, finding a non-sexual take on it to mention.

XXX

Peter was grinning and it was genuine so Sylar immediately relaxed what little guard he'd raised, several steps brought him back to his previous distance from the medic, grinning back a little himself. _Hey, I made him bust a gut__._ His own chuckle rumbled from his chest, getting louder as Peter's did, following it down into eventual silence. "Yeah, a pelican. Kangaroo crossed my mind, too," he admitted, feeling warmed from something good-natured. "What can I say, I'm a regular Reed Richards," Sylar gave half an effort to appear modest, but it was another joke of course. _I hope he doesn't take that one…funny, either. Why is everything out of your mouth suddenly all about…that?_

"I never really fell into video games, but I can ask about any of your favorites," he asked after he allowed his pelican-snark to sink in a moment.

XXX

Moving along to the next subject, Peter said, "I didn't hang around arcade halls a whole lot. No one in my family liked them for some reason, but there was a game next to the band room - actually, there were a couple of them - but the Mortal Kombat game was different. Someone had pried the back off and someone small, flexible and not afraid of getting electrocuted could crawl in there and manually trigger the credit counter by toggling this switch. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say I ended up doing it most of the time. I didn't play very often, but I'd fit back there and I spent a lot of time in the band room goofing off, so …" He shrugged. Free games for everyone - not very honorable (which was why he always paid for his own games), but even as a kid he couldn't turn down the opportunity to be everyone's hero.

XXX

_The Petrelli clan looking down on arcades? This surprises him? Then Peter being a sneaky little cheat? I have some new respect for him._Somehow Sylar, and the man's brother, weren't all that surprised by the admission. The empath would risk electrocution and even go against his morals, sacrificing for others despite any consequences. _What a weirdo_, he thought, but at the same time he was left wondering how effective that…lifestyle plan was.

"Okay, so…what was your most exciting day at work? And by exciting I mean…doing plenty of good deeds_," __or whatever the hell it is you consider to be an 'exciting' day. C'mon, it beats asking about his worst day…because I think I know what that one is._

XXX

Sylar's question put Peter off a little. The empath briefly gave him another of those piercing looks, with just a hint of '_are you fucking with me?_' before Peter blinked and decided Sylar was being completely sincere. It wasn't like Peter hadn't been asked similar questions before. 'Have you ever saved a life?' was neck and neck with 'what was your roughest day' as common questions, though both paled behind 'what's the worst thing you've ever seen?' Those were asked equally innocently he suspected after a second, more observational look at his companion, but it struck him as weird to be coming from _Sylar_.

_Why would he ask that? Good deeds? … Sylar?_Peter's mind flashed to the wall of clippings he'd kept for so long, trying to remind himself that he really did make a difference, trying to dig himself out of the pit of depression he'd found himself in after the debacle of losing his ability and Nathan selling out everyone who had powers. _Why does he want to know what I've done that's worthwhile? Does he think … I've done good things? As opposed to being an annoying pain in the ass to him? What does he see me as - 'Nathan's kid brother, the one with the ability I want'?_

Peter cleared his throat and pulled his thoughts away from that. "Um, uh." He reached up and scratched at his forehead with his right. The rest of his hand gave him a mild, dull ache just for flexing his fingers. He ignored it and went on to push his bangs off to the side. "Well … I guess it would be that train derailment they had a few mon- um, yeah, a few months ago. Years ago, to you, I suppose," Peter conceded with an apologetic look.

XXX

Sylar stared right back, unfazed by Peter's disbelieving look, but why he was given it, he didn't know. The men's mutual gaze was broken and he wondered why Peter seemed so stunned or…offended, maybe? by the question. _Or was that one of those things I have no right to be asking?_He let go another one of Peter's mistakes—months in "Peter's time", based on what he'd said earlier, weeks having passed since Mercy, would equate to people still roaming the earth, Sylar amongst them, supposedly.

XXX

"It was in New York. I was on shift. We made seven different runs to the accident site. At the time …" Peter paused, doing a quick mental check of whether to mention his ability du jour, but Jeremy was dead, gruesomely. Peter risked no one by mentioning him or his power. "At the time I had an ability that let me heal people." He paused to chew on his upper lip. "I've run into limits with abilities before of course, but that one I ran into time after time. It seemed to work okay for one or two people a day, but … uh … I was trying to use it a lot more than that."

XXX

_Ooh_. See, now, that was a much better ability than regeneration. Sure that came in handy when one would have otherwise died instantly—pencils, glass, knives to the head or by bleeding out or being charred like a burnt steak even, but it spelled immortality. It had sounded a wonderful idea at the time—he'd wanted to avoid his sins, hell, permanent death, retribution. It was highly useful for that sort of avoidance behavior, but it (he chose not to notice what people had told him was 'guilt') was proving to be inhibiting to living his life. Yes, he could wait until everyone he knew died off (minus the obvious few), but he feared then that there would be no one to help him, like he'd been told he needed help. No one to run from…no aid to be given and still connection-less.

XXX

Peter was quiet for a bit, thinking about his patients that day. His expression was introspective and somber. He could still remember them, as he'd always had an excellent memory for people, especially his patients - Patrick, with the broken spine; Scott, the young man who died of cardiac arrest; Patricia, who had had the broken ribs; even Megan, though Peter didn't credit her save to himself, but rather to Emma.

He spoke up finally, getting back to what Sylar had asked, specifically. "It was exciting. A train had derailed and hit another. There were four or five hundred people affected." Peter's memory for numbers wasn't as good as for names. "Nearly two hundred were transported and treated, I remember them saying. A lot of people died. I overused healing until I blacked out a little. It wasn't enough." _It's so fucking easy to hurt people. So fucking hard to help them__._ He sighed, thinking about how easy it had been to wreck that storefront and how the damage might be basically irreparable.

XXX

But a train accident would have been something to see, even in ruins, a real crash and burn. He opened his mouth to add something about how he thought the person's own limits would be reflected in how they used their abilities. Peter wasn't a great thinker so cerebral abilities weren't his forte, but healing….Sylar would have thought Peter would be able to go all day. _Unless…but of course…something in him is still broken; he should be able to use it day-in-day-out._

XXX

Quietly enough that Sylar probably had to strain to hear, Peter said, "I think I did some good deeds that day." He cleared his throat again. In a slightly more normal voice, he added in a tone that was half-joking, "After it was all over, Hesam asked me, 'Can't you even go to the bathroom without saving somebody's life?'" He laughed just a little. "That's because when I went to the supply room to restock, I found a little girl in a pink outfit, passed out. The next time we needed stuff Hesam went to the supply room. He told me that with his luck, he'd find someone in there passed out, too, but it would be a big, fat, ugly guy - but still in a frilly pink outfit." Peter grinned.

XXX

Two hundred people, wow. Sylar tried to wrap his mind around the possibility of saving so many, but of course the medic informed him that there had been heavy casualties. He stopped breathing to listen to the other man's whisper and somehow it made him feel better. _/"Tell me something, anything; just make me believe you're not the same as me!"/_That Peter could believe he'd done some good, in spite of all the damage Sylar had done in contrast made him feel a little less…hopeless. Peter blacking out to do it was worrisome, but he ignored that for now as it was irrelevant.

_Hesam….oh, yeah, his partner._ Sylar laughed the same because Nathan knew Peter wouldn't break to use the urinal until he knew everyone was safe and happy. _What was a little girl doing in a store room in a hospital? Don't they code-lock those things?_ Sylar would have suspected an illusion had he been the one to come across that. He broke down and sniggered, "He sounds like a nice guy, Hesam." _Funny at least._

XXX

Peter tried to think of what to ask Sylar in turn, but he sort of doubted the opportunity for 'good deeds' came up much in watch repair. And he certainly wasn't going to ask about Sylar's most exciting day. It probably involved killing people. He grunted, something occurring to him that struck Peter as neutral, yet interesting. "What's the most expensive, complicated or unusual watch you've ever worked on? Or clock, if you did those, too."

XXX

Sylar's reverie was disturbed by the man's next question. _What….does that have to do with anything?_ _And why does he wanna know?_It was his turn to give Peter a calculating look for a moment before he gave a decided 'what the hell?' "Um, I've had an IWC Grande Complication that's worth about two-hundred eighty-thousand. Six-hundred fifty-nine parts with seventeen functions like chronograph, perpetual moon phase, small seconds with a stop function, four-digit year display, perpetual calendar, minute repeater… parts of it are gold, yellow gold or platinum. The one I fixed was self-winding and the band was alligator." He shrugged. "Something as simple as a tourbillion that needed to be fixed, but it was a very nice watch."

XXX

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You … need to repeat that. Two-hundred and eighty-thousand … dollars? Was it covered with diamonds or something?" He'd seen expensive watches, but the priciest he'd ever seen anyone wear on a regular basis was a high-end Rolex Linderman had worn. It was something like thirty grand - the subject having come up after Peter criticized Nathan for wearing a five thousand dollar watch their father had given him for his birthday. Nathan had laughed and pointed out that it was hardly expensive as watches went. Peter was happier with something that didn't ostentatiously proclaim his wealth to all and sundry. If he was going to be differentiated from the crowd, he wanted it to be based on what he _did_, not what he owned, or wore.

"Are there people who actually wear those regularly, or are they just stage pieces? Or … what's the word I'm looking for … like the jewelry actors and actresses wear to promote a brand? Maybe that's it - promotional pieces. People do not-" He caught himself. Sylar worked on watches. Sylar knew a lot about watches. Sylar, despite having listened attentively earlier, probably did not want to hear Peter talk about how the cutting edge of his profession was a form of conspicuous consumption that Peter disapproved of. He immediately changed what he had been about to say.

"People do not take the sort of care with the things they wear day to day, to justify putting something that valuable on regularly. It must be like a work of art." Art, Peter was more forgiving of. It could inspire and uplift, give meaning and show depth. No one argued that a bunch of tinted petroleum on a canvas had much in the way of practical value. People paid for it what they thought it was worth, either in the regard others would give them for owning the piece, or insomuch as they thought they would enjoy looking at it personally.

He smiled suddenly, head jerking back towards Sylar as he realized something. "So, does that make you an artist?" Segueing smoothly into a similar question, he asked, "Can you draw, or paint? I'm pretty lousy at both, myself. Unless I have an ability that grants it. It was all stick figures for me until I got Isaac's power, then suddenly I was _good_ at it." That was one that hadn't entirely faded, Peter had been pleased to note. There remained some residual sense in his mind of how to frame a subject, shade a scene and draw the eye; much like how even without flight he remembered the sensations and experience.

He listened to Sylar's answers with an active, engaged interest, his own words punctuated by loose gestures. Peter was getting more relaxed with his companion.


	21. Swordplay

Day 8

"Hmm hmm. Oh, that's nothing," Sylar intoned, "The most expensive one ever made was a thirty-three Patek Phillipe, twenty-four complications, sold for eleven million at auction. No diamonds," Sylar chuckled. "Complications are…basically its how many functions the watch can perform. The most expensive clock I ever fixed was probably… an eighteenth century grandfather clock made in England worth probably a hundred thousand." That kind of piece coming into his store for repair was pretty rare, but he did have some of the more high-end pieces come in—it was New York, after all.

"I'm sure there are the people who do have fifteen different and equally expensive watches that they interchange, but I imagine for most it's just for show." _He asks like you know something about it?_ Sure Nathan was into expensive anything—women, clothes, cars, life style choices…and kids, but Sylar knew nothing about that kind of living. 'Before,' he'd had anything money could buy at a fingertip and it was kind of ironic it came at a time when it was barely useful.

He supposed it helped his lack of anxiety that he didn't have a wife and kids, family, mortgages and loans and a job, house and car to worry about, but his monetary needs were few. And honestly he liked it that way. When he'd had everything but the wife, kids, car and his 'house' was an apartment and he was trying to buy back his store he'd learned that it wasn't fun and games. Someone like Peter probably would have limited knowledge about things like that.

"People don't what?" Sylar left off the other man's name. He's been sensing an aborted attempt at shoving the medic's foot deep into his own throat—his Nathan-sense was tingling. Of course Peter would think it was a gaudy waste, a trinket token of wealth. Well, Peter could think whatever he damn well pleased because his opinion affected neither Nathan nor Sylar beyond annoying them for different reasons.

"That's true," he agreed congenially as Peter finished his sentence. _Art?_ Sylar frowned at Peter. He snapped his teeth over a rather threatening reply and moved on with the additional questions after that since they were more to his taste. "I can do both passably, yes. Except watercolor—that's a tricky one. Art wasn't a big…deal."

Not to mention nothing good came of that damn Mendez ability. It was a good thing he hadn't wanted to go into art because it had been a swiftly closed door in the Gray household. Virginia pretended to enjoy his art when he'd brought it home from class for all of a second before asking what the heck it was or why he hadn't listened; mostly why he hadn't done better. _What an art critic_, he thought.

"I'm left handed primarily," he held up his bandaged wrist which still throbbed on occasion, "and we generally don't make the best artists, give or take Michelangelo and da Vinci. I mean…I can do it and I think I do it pretty well and all that, but it's no Thomas Kincaid," Sylar explained. "Always preferred just…pencil or pen and oil paints." In the end he just shrugged. 'I totally buy that you can't draw' he wanted to say to Peter.

XXX

Peter listened, but this time there was no question in return for him to answer and so they walked along together in silence for a while, their strides eating up the distance. Thoughts stirred in his mind as the quiet gave him a chance to contemplate something that had been bothering him all day. It was the root of his mood swings. He saw the library up ahead and strangely, he didn't want to go there. He didn't even want to be _going_ there. _What the hell am I doing, wandering around with **Sylar**__, of all people, discussing … what? Art styles? My favorite ice cream flavor? What the hell are we doing?_

XXX

Sylar didn't pay the silence any mind; instead they just kept walking towards the large library building. Out of the blue, Peter stopped and faced him dead on and that stopped Sylar.

XXX

Peter turned to his companion and asked, "What's going on here, with all of this … questioning? All this discussion, this talking?"

XXX

"Well, what else are we gonna-" Sylar began.

XXX

Peter cut him off, saying, "You used to _kill_ people for a living." _And you were still doing that, as little as a few months ago. I doubt Nathan was your last. You almost got Matt shot to death._

XXX

The 'you're a murderer' place-card stopped Sylar for a moment. _Ah. That's how it's gonna be, is it_. That was no surprise, really, he'd been shocked he'd gotten this far. He'd been so sure Peter was relaxing… _What went wrong? I just answered the question he asked…_

XXX

"Or a _hobby_. You said you wanted to change your life." Peter waved vaguely at the city around them.

XXX

"Yes, I do want to change," Sylar said in a tone that combined anger, determination, and 'so there!' _Hobby? He thinks I do this for_- Sylar's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at the man. He was being mocked at the very least.

XXX

"Is this the change?" Peter asked. "Are you all trustworthy now and if we somehow got out of here you'd go help stop that atrocity at the carnival out of the brand new goodness of your heart, or maybe some sort of common decency you've discovered?" _Since getting Nathan's memories maybe? Since obviously you couldn't find it on your own._

XXX

Sylar's voice was rising in indignation, "Oh, yeah! Because this is totally what I think of when I think of change! It's a total beach resort plan!" he left of the 'you moron!' part.

Sylar pointed an impotent finger at Peter and stepped closer, standing taller, "And what the hell do you know about anything, Peter? I've saved your life out of common decency, but in hindsight that was probably a bad move." Of course he was completely avoiding his own selfish ends that naturally went unfulfilled by saving Peter. It wasn't even out of the duty he claimed it to be at the time. But if Peter wanted to fucking nitpick, he would fucking nitpick right back. "God, does it really fucking matter why I do a good deed? Are you some motivational police?"

XXX

Peter railed right back, "Seriously, what do you think's going to happen here? Is it that you think that one of these days I'll forget you killed my brother and tell you it's all okay, because a few hundred discussions about 'favorite this' or 'worst that' have ground me down to where I don't care anymore?"

XXX

Sylar faltered, but covered it quickly, hoping Captain Motivational didn't notice because that would be bad, very bad. "I- no!" the fib was quick out of his mouth before he could stop it and he wasn't big on lying, either. He hoped it hadn't sounded too quick or too high-pitched to read as an obvious denial or lie.

XXX

Peter continued on, "You're a smart guy - really smart. Do you really think that's going to happen?" _Or are you just taking what civility you can get while you don't have your ability eating you up?_

XXX

Then Peter went about claiming that if Sylar believed that, then he was just stupid, rather, choosing to be stupid. That kind of accusation had him shoving Peter back, lightly enough, both hands to his chest, but the action read as 'stay back' and ideally, 'shut your mouth'. It was a warning and it also covered his lack of answer.

XXX

Peter seemed unfazed by the shove. "You're going to get out of here one of these days and I have no guarantee that you won't go right back to how you were. I'll probably be victim number one and I know that because I've **_had_** your ability. It's not like Nathan ever went light on me either." _Just make a clean sweep of us. Go after Ma next (again!) and you'll have wiped out the whole family. Probably better for the world, really._

XXX

"Again, Peter, what the fuck do you know? You had it for, what? A day? I'd be interested to know how you got rid of it. There's no way you're still controlling it, and, oh yeah, your ability is fucking broken! You get to trade off abilities, I don't!" Sylar was glaring and looming over the shorter man_. __He's right—Nathan loved him as his precious baby brother, but I'm not so inclined_. "And that's my fault? What do you want, a fucking Hare test?" he spat about his 'recovery' or whatever Peter chose to label it as.

XXX

Peter glared up at him, unmoved by Sylar's height. "I have no indication here that you've gotten 'better.' You talked about getting control, last year. I know it's possible. What happened to all of that? Did you just give up?"

XXX

Every movement in Sylar stopped as the annoying medic touched on something closer to home. Head tilting, a sure sign he'd just stepped up to the plate, he stared down at the man. "No, Peter, I didn't give up. I got screwed by all of you," Sylar delivered, voice low and calm, not a hint of psychosis to be found in it before he roared, "_AGAIN!_ Each and every one of you—Matt, Bennet, Angela, you, Sam and Claire. I _went_ for _help__._ _Again_! _That's_ what happened!" _And now I'm here…I'm the most powerful man in the world, now one of two men period and I'm just as trapped. I'm always so trapped__… _

Sylar walked past his companion, smacking shoulders with him on purpose as he went, snarling and baring his teeth. "Don't fucking preach to me about help. Fuck help! The only help I get comes at a price and that's not including your entry fees. It's not just 'sell my soul again', its humiliation, degradation, lies and manipulation when I'm not being locked up, drugged up and killed on a daily basis while you plot my demise or my usefulness. So tell me, why the hell would I go back to that?" It hardly mattered if he could do it on his own, he had no reason to. The whole 'my life is my business' thing. It was a horrible Catch-Twenty-Two, being unable to get help period, being unable to get help without being screwed and being unable to help himself, hell, being unable to really care much about it otherwise. Tears pricked at his eyes at the horror of the choices he might someday have to face again.

Something bothered Sylar that he hesitated to ask about 'I know it's possible'. "It doesn't matter if it's possible any more, you've got one ability in your head right now and even if I held you down and cut in to get it, I wouldn't get it because my head is clear! My head is clear!" He'd turned back to give Peter some kind of look, but what it said, he didn't know. Sylar just knew how it felt—relief. He could feel and think and…attempt to interact without drooling and manipulating and jumping a target, or even someone who stood in his way. Perhaps he was begging to stay this way, but…he did want people around_. __I'm fucking clean! I can feel it! I know it! I can't hear the Hunger here…why….why, oh why would he drag me somewhere for therapy for no reason?_

XXX

Peter growled in frustration. All of this talking and being chummy, letting Sylar help him with the brace, an injury that stemmed from a fight Sylar had provoked, sharing stories and facts that Sylar almost certainly already knew from his unearned memories - was this some mind-game Sylar was playing? It was no better, really, to think that the more likely answer was just that Sylar was lonely and planning on using Peter to while away eternity. Peter didn't intend to stay here forever and he wasn't all that interested in being some sort of interactive television for the other man.

"That's part of my problem, Sylar. Your head … How do I know, that when we get out of here, that your mind will be any different than it was a few months ago when you were all set to make yourself _President of the United States_?" _Other than, you know, having Nathan's memories in your head now, and Nathan wasn't all that trustworthy either, really. So, great - not only might you still want to be president, but with Nathan's background you might be able to actually pull it off! _

_XXX_

Sylar was a little surprised Peter didn't react physically, but then again he had a gimp hand. As the man spoke, he stopped his vulture-like circling, standing beside the man, staring at him as Sylar's own attitude shifted. _Ooh, your problem now, is it?_ "People…told me things that…changed the game plan. I'm not interested in being President. You can't know and obviously you don't know." _I understand that. So help me, but I do._

XXX

Peter exhaled forcefully and took a different tact. "Maybe you had trouble finding help," he admitted grudgingly. "It's not like," Peter frowned and looked off to the side, "like there's much in the way of resources for … people like you. Or me."

XXX

"Well, you'd think for the worst man of all, he'd get some help at different stages from people who claim to be in the business of helping. Unless of course you needed your 'bad guy'," here Sylar pointed to himself, "to keep your damn jobs." _Think, just think, won't he, of all the good I could do if-_"I think you like having power to lord over who gets your accepted/pass stamp and who gets the 'shoot on sight' label." _So sue me if I wanted some 'political change', too. Maybe set the hunt on the Heroes, see them run from agents._

Licking his lips quickly, he went on, "I know for a fact that you had options, Peter, they were just difficult ones. This is totally different." _So Nathan was hunting Peter's ass. He'd go to a nice cushy penthouse cell. He still could've gone to Angela. Or Heidi. Or Uncle Tim__._

XXX

Peter looked back, his gaze implacable, unblinking, because on this next subject, he did not forgive Sylar. "But by the third time, you should have _done_ something. The first maybe was an accident. I can buy that. I've felt your ability. Maybe you didn't understand it. The second time, maybe you thought you could _control it_. The second time could have been a mistake. Those _happen_," he said, voice clipped. He paused, still without blinking. "But before that third time, you should have **_done_** something. Their lives were worth no more, or less, than yours. Two-to-one. You should have _stopped_ it." Finally, Peter blinked. He looked away and took a deep breath.

XXX

The medic began jumbling up his thoughts and it was difficult for Sylar to follow with all the number jumping, but he managed to keep up. Sylar's eyebrows went up. "I don't understand my ability? So you're saying three-strikes-you're-out. Just up and stop, huh?" He burst out again, "I'm not interested in their lives! I'm interested in mine!" _Oops, did that change Peter's outlook? Will he still help now that you're 'selfish'? Again, what does it fucking matter why I do it? _"I can't…." he took a calming breath so he didn't freak himself out or work himself up. "It ends…badly for me and I'm trying to…stop," he concluded lamely. Surely a little honestly would get him somewhere, right?

Sylar sighed and glanced aside as well, finally speaking a low voice that said he was imparting a secret, "I…I was at Parkman's house to get him to…" he waved loosely at his head, "take them away." _So I attacked his wife, she snuck up on me! I never harmed a hair on her head and I really fucking could have._

XXX

Not looking at Sylar, Peter said, "Degradation, humiliation, get killed a few times, drugged daily - yeah, sounds familiar. Lies and manipulation by people you thought you could trust?" Peter looked back at Sylar, feeling rage boiling up, but he knew the emotion had little to do with Sylar this time. "Being used as a tool to advance other people's corrupt power plays, then trapped and locked away when you're inconvenient? Yeah, _real_ familiar."

XXX

Suddenly Peter was making a lot more sense than Sylar had thought possible and he really didn't want to consider it, but there it was, in his face. "That just shows that I shouldn't trust you people and I'm back at square one. I should have added torture to the list," there he gave Peter a pointed look to indicate how lightly he surely got it, a little Elle amusement notwithstanding. "Because what they did was against a hell of a lot of human rights, broke the fucking Geneva Convention in half."

XXX

Peter shook his head. "None of that justifies being a **_murderer_**. Not on the scale you are." _And it's probably kind of stupid to be standing here provoking him. What have I got to lose though, really?_ Peter snorted a little, feeling his momentary wrath ebb. Sylar wasn't the cause of it, so he put that portion away for now. Other emotions were vying for the moment anyway.

XXX

Sylar then gaped that Peter thought he was looking for an excuse or justification for his own deeds. That was simply not true. His eyes read of shock and surprise as he stared back at the empath, "Justification was not my point. Nothing justifies what I've done. I'm…" he hesitated for only a second, just to ensure that his voice didn't betray him, but it probably did waver and dip roughly anyway, "very aware of that." _Shit, now this is all going downhill. My 'scale', like he thinks I'm too stupid or too- that's it, psychopathic to understand just how deep in I am._

XXX

Peter's voice took on a slightly less hostile tone. "Maybe your head **_is_** clear if you realize what you did was wrong. But," he paused, brows drawing together in genuine question, "is it going to _stay_ that way? Or is it that, all by yourself, here in this fucking prison, is the only way you can be someone who isn't a menace to society?"

XXX

To himself now as he turned away enough, Sylar whispered, "Peter, I've always known," before other man hit him with a freight train of reason. He curled in on himself, shoulders dropping fractionally in a way he prayed Peter missed. _Oh, god, no, not that…_ And it hurt. Sylar pulled an inhalation-sniff to cover his emotional reaction and straightened from his slump, clearing his throat. "It's not like my future was looking too bright anyway. Lucky you, you're pretty safe." _By default_, he didn't add.

XXX

"Am I? _Am I _**_really?_**" Peter hesitated for a moment, trying to study Sylar's features, what of them he could see. The man's body language at least was apparent. As he had been doing for the entire argument, Peter stayed exactly where he was, not moving a step. "I kind of have the feeling here that I'm only safe because you have a use for me, which is keeping you from being bored all the damn time. What would happen if I _wasn't_ interesting to you anymore? Or if one of these days you decide that having someone around isn't worth all the trouble?"

XXX

"Well, what the hell would you do, Peter, were you in my place?" He genuinely wanted to know. Peter, the empath, the people person—if he was somehow left in a wasteland and Sylar appeared…he would do the same exact thing. "I've been here three years alone and…that long is too much. I've already proven I won't kill you," Sylar referred to the fight with a raised brow, regaining some footing on his reactions and his grasp of the conversation. _And I'm not getting what I want right now._

XXX

"You're so pissed off about people manipulating you, you seem to have overlooked that it's what people _do_. The only ones who don't are _helpless_, and they would if they could. _Everyone_ is trying to get something from everyone else. That's life. That's humanity. I'm trying to get something from you. You're trying to get something from me." He bit back the urge to be completely brutal and add 'entertainment.' "The difference is if I don't get what I want, I'm not going to kill you over it. I am seriously worried about what you'd do. _What will you do_, Sylar?"

XXX

"And you've clearly made your peace with that fact of life," Sylar sneered in a display of doubt; Peter just claimed to know the manipulation drill that specials like them received on a daily, hourly basis. He was drawing lines between Peter's hero-ing and empathy and his supposed, completely false acceptance of it as human nature. The empath was human and he felt, possibly more deeply than Sylar. "I don't understand why I, and you, Peter, would be manipulated to explode a city; to become a monster; a danger to others when we would otherwise find our own way of…of…healing, of compromise," _suicide_, he didn't add. "There is no reason for that except causing chaos and pain." Sylar hoped he wasn't sounding…stupid by basically asking an elaborate 'why?' Peter probably didn't know or he'd be off healing the problem.

Sylar pursed his lips, "I'm not so sure you wouldn't kill me if you don't get what you want. You'd never let me walk away in one piece, not after what I've done," he shook his head, almost back to his amused, Hungry self. "I've grown a lot more patience, Peter," here he stared the man down with a slow-burning heat in his eyes. It was claiming that it would wear Peter down to get what he wanted and more. After debating whether to remind the EMT about _'I like my partners willing'_, he murmured confidently, "You have no other choice, so you'll come around eventually and give me what I want." Promising another eternity filled with…all things companionable? Quite possibly.

XXX

Peter looked off in the direction of the library, then back at his companion. His gaze was pitiless. His anger had largely defused, but what was left was an unflagging disgust with the choices Sylar had made in his life. He had a strong urge to put Sylar to the test and just walk away. He teetered tensely on the verge of doing just that, looking briefly off in the direction he imagined their apartments to be, shifting his weight without moving his feet. He didn't know the best route back, but it wasn't a real city. He was confident he couldn't really get lost. And even if he did, so what? The worst that could happen was he might get stuck for years alone, like Sylar. He tried to tell himself that was better than being the man's captive audience. Peter strongly suspected he, himself, wouldn't be able to tolerate that, but stubborn wasn't something Peter was short on.

He decided against leaving, for the moment. There were still a few bones he wanted to pick. The concession that Sylar knew he'd done wrong had taken most of the wind out of Peter's sails. "If you knew the killing was wrong, then why did you keep doing it? So we agree there's no justification. What's the _explanation_, at least?" He was honestly asking and listened to the answer carefully.

XXX

Sylar noticed the other man glancing around, his intentions were quite clear, but he stood still himself. Sylar shrugged, simply, "I couldn't." But then he struggled to put his hazy realizations into words, "That…portion of my ability…affects my brain and I lose touch with….a lot of things, out of necessity." Things like emotions and reactions, pain tolerances. _So many things…It's an addiction; how many people does he know that can face one without so much as a self-help book?_

"I should not have to explain myself to you; you've had it. Who did you kill while you had it?" He raised his head to look down at the slighter man. _Peter has less control that I do, there's no way he didn't lose it at someone_.

XXX

Peter was following Sylar's words, mind busying itself with them. _He couldn't? He couldn't what?_ And yes, Peter could remember the complete lack of connection between the person he used to be, with sense and reason and compassion, and the person he was with Sylar's ability. _Why did it work that way?_ It was almost worth it to borrow the damn power to turn it on Sylar and figure it out, but Peter suspected that was just an echo of the Hunger still buried in his own psyche.

Sylar went on about not needing to explain himself. Peter grimaced slightly. It was an unpleasant memory and Sylar was right, there was- He flinched hard like he'd been slapped as Sylar's next question broke over him: 'Who did you kill while you had it?' Peter tensed all over before dispelling it. _It was just a question!_ He shot Sylar a quick angry glance, then looked away - again, much like he'd been hit and had elected to weather it rather than retaliate. Because the wrong-doing there wasn't Sylar's, not even in bringing it up, much as Peter didn't like the subject. The blame was Peter's, and even if it was a future reality that wouldn't come to pass and so would never have any consequences, it had still been Peter's hands that did it. He did not let himself off the hook any easier than he did Sylar.

XXX

Sylar thought, _Oh, that just got interesting_. Peter practically jerked away from that line of questioning which meant…it was someone close to him. Again, Sylar raised an eyebrow, mostly to be a dick, as he received a much-less-than-friendly look. _Who could it be? A lover? A friend?_ _Certainly not family_, Sylar crossed that off the list immediately. Although, he had to wonder if Peter sliced into Claire's skull…well, would the girl mind for a start, at least, would she be so hell-fire bent on hating the man? His main question was that if Peter had hurt one of his kin, would he still carry the weight? But everyone was accounted for, more or less.

Sylar asked, "What stopped you from killing me? Just take the radiator pipe and shank my head, easy enough. You didn't want another brother, so what was there to lose?" He'd easily switched into interrogation mode himself.

XXX

Peter stared at the rough surface of the asphalt, trying not to see Nathan's face, while Sylar asked his next questions, just as insightful as the last. Peter looked up at him with slightly narrowed eyes, his trademark brow furrow in place. His eyes slid a little out of focus at the rest of the man's words, then he looked up at him again. "Radiator pipe? What do you mean?" He wasn't placing it. All that came to mind was a car radiator and cars had never featured in their fights. Sylar had fallen on one after Mercy Heights, but surely he wasn't implying Peter should have … what? Taken flight before he fell so he could fly down after him and …? _Maybe there was a radiator in the construction area there and I should have immobilized him to deal with later?_

XXX

"Pinehearst; the hallway? I tried to stop you from doing something stupid," _no __comment from you, lost-conscience_, "You, uh, found your way around me, to phrase it lightly. There was a radiator you could cut apart and used for a stake," he put it simply. Peter wasn't particularly violent, true, but the highly-motivated would be looking around for ways to end the all-evil Sylar once and for all. "I didn't have shape shifting then," Sylar clarified for the other man who still wasn't following him well and he followed it up by making a jerking, shoving motion towards the back of his own head. "I couldn't have moved the spot yet. I know you know about the spot." He was making intentional and potentially dangerous use of Nathan's memory to the medic_—_

_/Remembering his baby brother's death, seeing his face pale gray, sallow and blood streaked. The worst was the eyes. Sure Nathan had seen corpses before, but it was usually immediately after they'd died or been killed. This was hours after death and those beautiful, lively, sparking irises had filmed over as a cold, haunting display of death. All he could think was 'God, not like this, not him, not like this…it wasn't supposed to be like this…' His baby brother snuffed out in the prime of his life doing God knew what…He was barely able to begin grieving at all, let alone properly with his iceberg of a mother present. The familiar form in his arms not hugging back, but limp and lacking human warmth. 'He just can't be gone, I should have…' Nothing but a wave of numb horror filled him./_ Sylar meanwhile swallowed down his reaction, still staring back at Peter.

XXX

Peter nodded, then gave Sylar a long, level look, blinking once as he began to speak, "I _accepted_ you as my brother. What I _wanted_ didn't have anything to do with it, true or false." He hadn't believed it (the brother part), but he'd accepted it. Hell, he supposed people could be adopted at any age, as long as everyone was good with it. No one had ever asked _his_ opinion.

XXX

"'Stop calling her that, you are not my family'," Sylar parroted back Peter's words from years ago, slightly smug to be proving him wrong. In mocking doubt this time, "If you say so." _Total acceptance. If that's his idea of acceptance…He's making Mercy look like a welcoming committee._ Sylar chose to be…merciful himself by not including Peter's own sneers at Sylar's…'Gabriel's' concern for Angela's comatose state; Peter choosing to ignore Sylar's warnings and urges about the Hunger, about the things that were doubtlessly sounding oh-so-good in the medic's head at the time… It wasn't the subject at the moment.

XXX

_Did I say that?_ Peter wondered. _Christ, I think I did. Dammit__._ He changed the subject. "As for what stopped me from killing you …" Peter looked introspective, then frowned, shaking his head. "I don't know. I had more than one chance. When I got the ability in the first place was the other chance and I didn't want it then either. Maybe it comes with an aversion to itself. Or," he shrugged, not sure how to express himself on this, "or something like that." Of course Noah had been there, the four year old, but Peter knew that wasn't relevant. The hunger didn't discriminate based on the presence of children, no more than it did for Nathan being his brother or Angela his mother. Though Peter had to admit even now, completely beyond the Hunger's active influence, that both of them had sort of had it coming. He smirked. His attacks had been completely wrong, but he could see a glimmer of humor there, morbid and dark like some of the paramedic jokes.

XXX

Sylar's face turned into a frown as he too thought on that. He hadn't felt the need to exterminate someone else with a copy of his own ability. That was completely out of character, odd, and strange given his outlook on abilities, given the ability itself. _Why was that? Other than the drive to be a good boy, a good brother, a good son of course__._ "I…didn't feel the drive to kill you either," Sylar mused aloud, only partly for the other man's benefit.

XXX

Peter was calming down a little, feeling better for having let out a tiny fraction of what he carried around bottled up inside. Sylar hadn't given him much in the way of answers or explanations, but at least Peter had gotten to vent.

XXX

It was Sylar's turn to look around, glancing up towards the looming library building, now unsure how the rest of the day was going to play out. _Looks like the honeymoon is over__,_ he thought with some regret. _Oh well. It's not like the alternative is something new and strange_. He then thought back to how Peter had been just as violent if not more so after Nathan's death. "I don't see why anyone would want it, really," was what he finally said loudly enough about IA to be rejoined to the conversation. Peter had said 'no ability talk', but Sylar wasn't really one to follow preferences like that. A little stuck now, between whether to stay or go from the library he remained in place, waffling about what he himself wanted in that regard.

XXX

"Your ability?" Peter asked. Sylar's expression was affirmation enough and Peter nodded distantly, in agreement on the matter, but surprised that Sylar felt that way. A great deal of his life recently had been tied to that feature, but then again if Sylar was telling the truth about wanting to change, then maybe he'd also had a change of heart on his ability.

XXX

Sylar sighed, thinking, _He's the best of his fucked up family. I wonder if he knows_. The Petrellis had their evil deeds, trick cards up their sleeves, but Peter did stand out and it had saved his life a dozen times now. He wondered at the man's trick to being…well, less fucked.

Quietly Sylar spoke after a beat, "Do you want to see the library?" Shrugging a shoulder towards it, expecting a flat out 'no'.

XXX

"No, not really," Peter said, unknowingly giving Sylar about what he expected. "Maybe some other time. You go on though. I need some time alone." Peter turned and walked away with little other explanation than that. His emotions were in tumult whenever he was around the other man. Maybe the answer was just to stay away. He doubted he'd manage it for long, nor did he intend to. He just wanted some alone time, even if he could already feel the oppressive nature of the place weighing on his shoulders. He adjusted the straps on his bags restlessly and glanced back after he'd walked for a minute or two.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Should have known better. He was fishing for something to do and wasn't into it to begin with. He can't handle boredom and he thinks you're a date machine__._ Sylar realized he'd have more amusement, hell, more luck in stalking a lost Peter. Maybe the man would break down and ask for directions. _Now wouldn't that be something to see?_ He chuckled aloud, laughing into the open air from his own thoughts, something, he was aware, that always unsettled other people. Sylar began walking after the medic, a good distance separating them, but a loud voice would carry to each other's ears, should they care to speak.

XXX

Peter was irritated, greatly so, to see that he was being followed. If Sylar had been closer, he would have turned on him and told him to fuck off, though probably not so directly. But he wasn't going to yell back at him - that struck him as immature at best - and he sure as hell wasn't going to stop, inviting Sylar to get closer just so he could tell him to go away. For the moment, he decided to try to ignore the other man.

Peter pondered his situation. Argument aside, nothing had really changed except that, yeah, he had more of a feeling that he could provoke Sylar and survive it. The day's conversation had shown him that his suspicions about Sylar's psychopathy were probably (mostly) misplaced. He seemed normal enough, when the man didn't have his ability eating away at him.

Peter still had his doubts. Had he known the true extent of Sylar's acting ability, he would have had more. But beginning to believe in basic sanity for his companion was a good start. Of course, even if Sylar were completely normal, Peter wasn't deluded enough to think this meant the man would go out of his way to save Emma and the others. Peter supposed it might be better if he offered Sylar something - appreciation, promises of putting the past aside, granting some sort of pardon or 'sentence served' and letting Sylar start from a blank slate. Peter snorted. He wouldn't let _himself_ start from a blank slate, nor his mother. As much as he loved her, as much as he understood the circumstances around his own actions, it didn't excuse them. It only explained them.

_Explanations_. Everything Sylar had done seemed to boil down to his ability, according to what Sylar had said. It was as if, without that power urging him on, he would have been … what? a humble watchmaker? Peter's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the pavement he was walking over, head down and lost in thought about this. Had there ever been a moment of culpability, where Gabriel had reached out for power and become what he was now? Or was he always … blameless?

_Maybe that's what's irritating the hell out of me. None of this is his fault. Or … he says it is, but that doesn't seem to mean anything. It's like coming upon a murderer standing there covered in blood, knife in their hand, saying blithely, 'oh yeah, I stabbed him to death. Sorry. I knew it was wrong, but I had to. All forty-seven times.' He's too calm about it. But it's been years. Maybe he's just given up fighting it, gotten jaded and it isn't something that upsets him anymore_. Peter's thoughts turned to veteran paramedics. Even the most unflappable and calloused of them were still moved, at times, but what they encountered. They were still human. Sylar's attitude … something about it didn't work for Peter and he couldn't tell if it didn't because he didn't want it to, or because there was something off there.

He lifted his head to watch the buildings he was passing, noticing that he had no idea, off-hand, where he was. He'd been past these buildings before a few times, but he couldn't recall how they fit in with the rest of the local geography. _Oh well. I've got most of the day to find where I want to go._

XXX

Sylar thought back to their 'argument', rather, he was sure Peter would term it a 'disagreement' (while Sylar may have been a problem solver, Peter was always looking for a happy medium or some shit). The empath was surprisingly….right. At least, he'd brought up some interesting, if uncomfortable, contradictory points to Sylar's own argument. Yes…of course it was true, it was human nature to manipulate; it was…socially expected even.

He now had to reevaluate his reasonings: _why would you expect something more of people you don't know, even if they admittedly knew you or knew of you? They were strangers to you; there was no relationship whatever. Are you just…taking their 'hero' status and including yourself under their supposed jurisdiction because you've been wronged? So Angela has a dream and Bennet carries things out so that I become their monster. So I saved Peter, but….things wouldn't have gotten to that point if I was still a watchmaker in Queens! Hell, I might be dead in Odessa or Kirby. Surely I didn't make that much of a difference that…the fold of reality rippled. _

_Being special either pays…or it fucking bites where it hurts._

He shook his head, for the most part watching where he walked, not interested in watching Peter 'walk away'. The other man had stunned him, flipped things over onto the intuitive and then blasted him with an obvious fact of life, one that he clearly already knew. _Is__that what people really think of me?_ Sylar literally shook off his own line of questioning. _Of course they do. Easier on their consciences if I chose my path, which I did. I did. I know that. Does an addict ever really have a choice? I had the choice to show Elle my ability on hidden camera. I somehow don't think that would have changed anything. _

Sylar cleared his throat as an introduction. "Know where you're going?" Oh, he knew for a fact Peter's map-reading skills were crap. It was probably the reason he was in the passenger seat of the ambulance. As taunts went it was limp, but Peter might have counted that exchange as a win. If Peter glanced back, he would tilt his head and raise one of his broad eyebrows to make it extra mocking.

XXX

_Okay__,_ Peter thought. _This is not going to work__._ Simply asking to be left alone and then giving the cold shoulder wasn't enough. He glanced back. Sylar had closed up the distance a little bit, but not by much. He was still too far away to confront easily. Peter could stop; Sylar might stop. Even if Sylar didn't and Peter let him come to him, there was a certain degree of acceptance and allowing an approach in that which Peter didn't want to do.

He made another attempt at getting what he wanted verbally. Without turning, Peter said loudly, "Sylar, stop following me. _Go the fuck **on**_."

XXX

Sylar just chuckled to himself. Peter didn't even bother to turn around to deliver his….request. "But I've already seen the library." He knew his words and actions would determine whatever outcome. "There's new scenery to be had," he smirked, pleased with himself as they walked. Maybe it was Peter's figure or maybe it was the absolute thrill of having his wit sharpened against another human being, who knew? His adrenaline was beginning to perk up; it almost tingled through him, flushing through his veins.

XXX

Peter gritted his teeth and went on. After a handful more strides, he glanced back. Still there, and perhaps it was just Peter's imagination, but it seemed Sylar was even closer. Of course he was longer-legged and Peter was not putting on a scorching pace. He refused to look like he was running away.

_If I'm not going to run and he won't back off if I ask him__ …_ He began to look around at his environment. Perhaps a more forceful display of threat was called for. Not a mere threat either - he fully intended to be willing to carry through. Something as simple as disregarding 'leave me the fuck alone' seemed like a small thing to have a fight over. Peter's mind hesitated over just how far he was willing to go over something trivial. It didn't _seem_ trivial.

He was walking down a four lane street with sidewalks. Trees were spaced semi-regularly in planters along it. As usual, the place was scrupulously tidy. There was nothing here that might work as a weapon. Well, there were things - tree branches, parking meters, signs … he could probably kick a brick off a planter, but nothing showy and intimidating like Peter wanted.

Peter looked down the street at the next intersection at the new stores presented to him - King's Products, SmartBuy Gifts, something with a small, difficult-to-read sign, For Lease, Hookahs!, Import/Export Emporium, and Auto Parts Accessories. He huffed. They were strangely generic and if anything reinforced the subconsciously surreal dreamscape of the place, that did. He supposed maybe the auto parts place would have … _Wait_. He looked back and to his left at the bong shop. He'd been in a few bong shops, having personal experience with a range of recreational drugs. The style of merchandise carried by that sort of place had a certain uniformity and it almost always included prop weaponry. He stopped, wheeled and headed back.

XXX

Sylar noticed the other man's head beginning to turn, looking around, or so he assumed. Peter suddenly rubbernecked after almost passing an intersection before he turned back and went down it, turning left from where Sylar was walking currently. He frowned and watched, but didn't hurry his pace. His goal was to annoy the hell out of the medic, not attack him. Not a moment later Sylar reached the intersection and looked down it before he turned onto the new road.

Peter had disappeared. Not into thin air or anything, no, no. Was Peter hiding? Sylar laughed aloud again, tilting his head as he began walking, slowly down the pavement. "Oh, Peter…." He said softly, as if the man could hear him, chuckling louder, highly amused at the chase, "Is this how you want to play it?"

_Huh_, his mind decided now to activate his safety net_, __the last time you said something like that you ended up getting crucified in a construction site. Oh, yeah. And that was after you got brained with a two-by-four__._ The sudden urge to look behind him was sated as he checked over his shoulder and let out a breath of relief. _Hmm hmm, totally buying that no-violence policy, you see._

He knew his next bet was to determine which store Peter was barricading himself in and…a whole lot of nothing. If he had to guess he would check the auto store first, then maybe King's Products. Hide-and-seek would be fun and amusing and all, but the idea of combing through an entire city for one rather small man was daunting even for him.

He replayed the image of Peter's turn to try to predict his trajectory. It hadn't been near the mouth of the intersection, it was in at least two or three buildings. He still refused to shout for the other man. _C'mon, Peter…come out and play with me…_

XXX

Peter walked further into the narrow shop, scanning the walls. He saw what he wanted almost immediately and walked past counters of carved meerschaum pipes, expensive scales and novelty water bongs to arrive under a display of gaudy, medieval-style weaponry. Most of them were replicas of weapons used in movies, large and intimidating. He wanted intimidating; large, not so much. He frowned. He had only his left hand to devote to this. His right might be useful for balance but that was it. _Maybe this is a mistake__._ His mind flashed to Nathan repeating to him one of his father's sayings: '_Never point a gun at a man you aren't interested in killing.'_

It was funny how much embarrassment factored into his decision - more sad and disturbing than humorous, he would later think. He didn't want to walk out empty handed and invite speculation from his all-too-sharp-witted companion, who would either arrive at the correct conclusion that Peter was seeking to endanger him, or conclude something humiliating about Peter and harass him about it until the real explanation came out. Or maybe such an expectation was just Peter's insecurities coming to the fore.

In any case, he knew what he would pick as soon as he saw it. The unwieldy-looking highlander sword wasn't useful, nor was the Lord of the Rings style dwarven axe or the collection of throwing daggers and ridiculously oversized shurikens. But the katana there in the middle … small-handled without a lot of ornamentation, light and yet still long. It was not too different from the bokken he'd sparred with briefly fifteen years before when he'd taken martial arts lessons as a teen. He grabbed it up off the stand and hefted it briefly. All he cared about was that it was real metal and looked basically serviceable. He recalled Hiro carrying a similar weapon, even running Sylar through with it at Kirby. Surely that would reinforce the impact of it.

He heard Sylar's voice outside, and heckling laughter. That turned Peter's mind back to the idea of reasserting his right to be alone and away from considering the consequences of his actions. He took off his messenger bag and the trauma bag, hanging them by their straps from his right forearm. Laying the blade over his left shoulder, handle in his left hand, he walked outside with a grim expression on his face. He dropped the bags immediately to free his arm.

XXX

Sylar turned and saw Peter dropping his bags with…_is that a sword?_ His eyes widened before he raised them to stare at Peter's eyes. _Is __this a joke?_ Sylar didn't know Peter well, okay, at all, aside from the addition in his cranium: he doubted it was a joke, but he was beginning to doubt the validity of Peter's actually existence here. It was like a nightmare, literally—being rejected and left alone, tortured by a dead man in his head….the beating he'd received felt real enough, they still felt very real. But the appearance of the katana Peter now held threw everything back to 'I wanna wake up now'. This was not Peter's brand of humor.

Needless to say, Sylar stopped dead, otherwise unmoving except to tilt his head. Strange how exploding and being turned into a nuclear waste site, being turned into dust, shot/shanked and otherwise incapacitated in the head didn't scare him. But that damn katana… He knew now that he'd been injected with the Shanti Virus, Mohinder had called it, so a needle was involved in screwing up his little vacay in Mexico. Collapsed lung, unhealing chest, eight surgeries to survive as nothing but a normal human, like everyone else. Yeah, the katana scared him a little. It took guts (no pun intended) to approach someone armed with a three foot razor with no protection and no weapon (_hell, no abilities!_His mind spoke up then).

He couldn't stop his eyes from shifting between the blade and the man's unreadable eyes. Now he had to consider how sharp the thing was. He was aware of a false-edge, which was usually sold in stores, but the question was…was this katana one of the few genuines? That was a difficult fifty-fifty shot. Without abilities there would be no stopping a real razor's edge from cutting him in two (provided Peter could manage the force required for it); he could lose a limb in an instant and bleed out. If he took a chance and the blade was fake, he would only suffer flesh wounds or lose an eye at the worst.

XXX

"Sylar," Peter said in a tight voice, feeling adrenalin starting to spiral through him.

XXX

Stranger still that Peter was now willingly picking up a weapon after having a gun in his hand and setting it aside, but Sylar hadn't been riling him up then either. Clearly being stalked wasn't on the medic's wish-list. "Peter," he replied, voice lowering slightly at the threat. Something else he had to take into account was whether or not Peter was even serious. He could still be bluffing, probably was, at least that's what his gut told him. (Would Peter really kill him? He now knew what the world was like, would he truly risk being here alone, with no 'help for Amanda', here?)

XXX

Peter continued, "I told you I wanted to be left alone. _Leave me **alone**_." He did not brandish the weapon, as of yet, and he stopped walking only a few strides beyond the store. "Just turn and walk away," he directed. His skin tingled and nervousness ran through him. He did not want this fight and he was feeling that very clearly now that he was facing his opponent. They'd been talking just earlier - surely there was a more reasonable way to assert one's rights than threatening a life-or-death conflict? _Is this something I'm willing to die over? Whether I can walk down a street without him following me?_ Then he thought of that mocking laughter.

XXX

"It's not like I suddenly turned into bad company," Sylar pointed out. _He knew who he was with the entire fucking time, this changes nothing!_ "Peter, one might think you're upset about something. Now what might that be?" Sylar took a step forward, hands sliding from his pockets as his posture shifted.

XXX

Peter knew this was not going to turn out well when Sylar took that step forward. His thoughts immediately began to turn on themselves._ Oh boy, this was a phenomenally bad idea. What the hell was I supposed to do? Keep walking? Run away? Go play hide and go seek through the buildings? At least this is honest. _Claude's taunting voice sounded in his head:_ 'Here lies Peter Petrelli – he died honest.' Great._

XXX

"Just turn and walk away, huh?" Sylar gave that a disbelieving tilt of his eyebrow that clearly delivered 'yeah, right'. Sylar had enough (probably too much) pride and enough male ego not take up on the most-likely-generous offer. It was insulting that Peter thought he'd actually back down from something admittedly exciting and completely dangerous, something the younger man appeared to think Sylar couldn't handle. Peter had no idea he was only tempting the intuitive, forcing Sylar to test the limits.

He took another step, waiting for any shifts of posture or signs of qualm, hesitation. Petrelli's voice was forced, but that could mean a lot of things. "Do you think I'm your dog or something? 'Sit, stay, heel'?" he asked, putting on more of an offended, jeering tone than he truly felt because it was an honest question to him, but that brought up if Peter was still manipulating him still, lying about their arrangement. _Sure as hell doesn't think you're much of a human, so maybe he does_.

Peter moved, taking the sword from its place on his shoulder to point it at Sylar, keeping the hilt low at his hips in a theatrically correct pose. Sylar took a few more steps, now rather committed. _Strike me if you dare_, he thought, but in the back of his mind he was screaming at himself, _this is ridiculously stupid! You could lose your hands, your life over this ridiculous display of male dominance and possession!_

XXX

"You're sure following me home like some kind of stray." Peter circled suddenly, unhappy with having the storefront so close at his back and his bags on the ground within a step or two, just waiting to trip him up if he tried to maneuver. He moved sideways and out, onto the street and if his motion increased the distance between them he told himself that was just wise and inadvertent.

XXX

Peter made a strategic move in starting to circle, mostly to gain more space, but Sylar stayed put in the middle of the road. Sylar grimaced at being called a stray, his expression caught between a snarl and a wince. "Some kind being…?" he prompted further, "I'm sure you have your own creative vocabulary to label me, Peter. Unless you stick to the accepted basics; what kind of stray?" Sylar was sneering, aiming to make the other man feel lower despite the fact that the empath wasn't being called names_. __I knew it, and I'm sure he wants to say it aloud. Why is it he only swears at you? Never calls you a psychopath or a monster…_ Now wasn't the time for that, so he put it aside.

XXX

He licked his lips, really very nervous about this whole thing. Peter had faced certain death with much less reservation than he had now, but that was precisely because he had less reservation in those circumstances. He was standing up for no one but himself here, and not even for anything tangible like life and limb. Plus, he was threatening his mission here. He wasn't stupid enough (or good enough with such an unfamiliar weapon) to expect to be able to inflict some kind of superficial flesh wound and as a paramedic, he knew how unpredictable injuries were. This was not heroic. It was just … _stupid_.

"We have _got_ to back down from this. Stop- Would you stop walking closer?" The end of the sword was wavering. This was going from bad to worse and he knew Sylar was going to get emboldened pretty quick and press him. And then what? How would Sylar react if Peter ran off? Peter was not one to generally stand on his honor, but he was not going to be stalked and _hunted_ here. He'd rather stand his ground _now_. Which might entail killing the very man he'd come here to get. _Shit_.

XXX

"'We' do? Says the man with the sword." _I'm just standing here_, Sylar thought grim and smug. "It's a free world; I can stand here." _Or walk at you_, Sylar thought, _Hopefully that implies that I'm not going to stop just because he's holding a katana__._ He glanced down a few times at the blade, noticing it shaking around a bit—hard to hold one handed. Or…Peter was super nervous_. __Cha-ching_. His gaze instantly went up to the other man's, sensing weakness and opportunity, his own expression surely expressing his solidification of control and victory in and of the situation.

XXX

Peter looked at the wobbling end of the sword, then past it at Sylar's oh-so-mocking face. _Is that the expression he wore when he faced Nathan?_ The blade stopped shaking and Peter relaxed into his stance. He dropped the tip of the katana so it was pointed at Sylar again, as he had unconsciously raised it out of position before. _It wouldn't really be that much of a loss to kill him._


	22. Standoff

Day 8

Peter, he saw, had already made his decision. Sylar snorted at the display—Peter sinking down into a battle pose, the blade going still and raising back up to point at the intuitive. _What did I say about lying?_" You are the lousiest assassin ever, Peter, you know that?" _The__ females of your family do a better job of killing me than you!_He had the urge to smear him with_ '__loser!' Stupid fucking Petrelli—is the truth anywhere in your DNA?_

Sylar held his arms out, clearly taunting, eyes dark and blank with a hint of disdain, "Hmm? You know you want to…"_ /'Emotions make you sloppy.'/_ Sylar didn't think he was suicidal, not particularly. He wasn't testing for the 'would he' any more, but the 'will he'; as usual, he was doubting that it would come to pass. The idea of Peter having the balls and guts enough to stab someone and deal with the consequences he preached about but never seemed to observe was an obsessive interest of his_. __Maybe it would make him feel more at home, more at ease if I attacked him?_

XXX

Peter was relieved that Sylar had, at least, stopped advancing. Even if he was making a showier invitation to harm now than before, this was something Peter could deal with. Letting the man walk up on him was a lot worse. Sylar was well within range to rush him and although of course the man would risk getting run through, he almost certainly knew Peter was no swordsman.

"Think about it, Sylar. _Think_. If I wanted to kill you, would I threaten you in the middle of the street with a _sword__?_" _Or would I get a rifle and set up down the street from your apartment?_ "If I wanted to kill you, if I even wanted to hurt you," _which I do, honestly, but it's stupid and I don't want to right now … we had a pretty good conversation today and even if we argued it turned out alright_, "this is **_not_** how I'd do it.

XXX

Sylar gifted him with a dubious look, his arms still spread wide. _How the hell would I know how you'd 'prefer' to kill me, Mr. Murder-Is-Wrong? You're a very fucking creative empathetic Petrelli; it really is beyond my powers of deduction__._ "That may be so…but I could make push you right past that little moral boundary you seem to be happy to cling to. I could make you," he promised. _I could make you want to do it; I could make you do it without lifting a finger or touching you. You're right, Peter. You fancied that gun a lot more._

XXX

"I'm no assassin. I just wanted to be left alone." Peter dropped the tip of the sword abruptly to where it was only a few feet off the ground. He drew himself up a little out of the stance, but not so far that if he were charged he couldn't still react. "You tell me what I need to do to get that." _I tried asking. Didn't work._

XXX

Sylar snorted, he couldn't help it. _'__Wanted'_ to be left alone? Peter shifted into a more relaxed position and Sylar's head tilted, his arms moved closer to his sides, but not dropping completely. _He is really going to pass this up, isn't he? The little…twit. _That managed to annoy him, but not enough (at the moment) that he would continue to physically provoke_. Not even a few slices? Nothing?_Nothing set his bullshit meter off faster than something that appeared…merciful or kind. Not from this man. A Nathan-based comment was itching on the tip of his tongue as he stared Peter down, eyes flicking over him in search of….something.

Sylar expected more out of this. A second wave of provocation came to mind, this time featuring Peter's woman-friend, the damsel in distress, Amanda. He was opening his mouth to snap something along the lines that not killing him wouldn't help her because she was already dead, but he was cut off by Peter's request. Stunned by it, actually. Sylar's head slanted much further to the other side, studying the hell out of Peter. _I can think of a few things_, he thought. _Then, why won't he play my game? Who cares if it's deadly; he's busy hero-ing and I'm…well, I'm just jaded and I don't care._

Sylar was silent for a long moment, watching Peter watch him_. __Um….I don't know? I didn't plan on this…_

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's perplexed expression as the seconds ticked by. He was amused by that, really, and would have shown it if the situation wasn't so sensitive. It told him they were in the same boat here, Sylar no surer of how to handle things than Peter was.

XXX

Finally Sylar said, "If you're not going to use it, you can start by putting that down," he glanced at the sword for clarity, his arms coming to rest at his sides at last. He decided he'd get comfortable and shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the wince he would have liked to make at his wrist being tilted around. He sure as hell didn't make the motion to set the other man at ease, oh no. _Stupid Peter gets so twitchy. Does he always have to act like I'm…yeah__._

XXX

Peter eyed the blade. _Of course, disarm myself,_ Peter thought sarcastically. _No surprises that you'd want that__._ But … why not? It wasn't like Sylar had been threatening him before. He wasn't threatening him _now_, if you didn't count 'threatening to make Peter stab him,' which Peter didn't.

_Am I going to get my way without it?_ he thought of the sword. _Was I getting my way **with**__ it? Maybe I've made my point, which is that him following me leads to things I don't think he wants. It's not like I can't find something else to clock him over the head with later, if it comes to that. Clock – heh._

Peter lowered the sword with a brief, upward quirk of his lips. He waved it back and forth for a moment, holding it down and off to the side so there was no chance of it being interpreted as threatening. He was just getting a feel for it. He hadn't taken the opportunity before. He wasn't an expert on such things, but he didn't think it was balanced very well – but maybe it was that he was using it left-handed. He made a few shallow hacking motions with it and snorted softly. He was sure it would hurt like hell to get hit with it, but it wasn't a work of art – not that Peter expected high standards for bong shop wall decorations. He supposed there was probably a real weapon shop around here somewhere. _Or a real gun shop_, his mind supplied. _Which is an even stupider idea than a sword, precisely because I'm more likely to be able to kill him with it. Idiot._ He wasn't sure if he was thinking about himself or Sylar with that last.

He looked up at the other man, studying Sylar's face. Sylar had been patient while Peter made up his mind. Peter shifted his weight uneasily for a moment out of an ill-defined desire to move and be restless. He stifled the urge before he did more than shift, lest it look like he was going to do … something. He lifted the weapon and tossed it to the side, away from the store, letting it clatter against the pavement and roll a few times. He looked at it a moment, then back to Sylar.

In a mild tone of voice he used when he was trying to be calm but really wasn't inside, he said, "I'm going to go get my bags. Are we done here?" He raised a brow and began walking towards the mentioned articles.

XXX

Peter grinned once, quick and swished the sword through the air at his side, doubtlessly testing the weight…or being a boy with a sword. Sylar gave it only a brief glance even as Peter hacked at the air, instead watching Peter's face as he eyed the blade. Sylar hadn't moved otherwise but to stare, head tilted slightly. He knew he'd won – Peter was playing the submissive dog now, running not only from a fight he would win, but from vengeance Sylar knew the man longed to enact. _Why the high road, Pete? Where has it ever gotten you? Besides Hell with me, that is._

The medic's lack of aggression annoyed him deeply. _What is his problem? Why won't he do it?_

Peter tossed the weapon and Sylar didn't blink at the loud clang it produced on the pavement. He straightened and smirked into Peter's face.

"You're pathetic," he spat lowly, raising his head to look down at Peter literally in addition to his height and posture. "You won't even take a slice at the monster who butchered your brother and for what? Some girl? I mean," Sylar chuckled without humor, "whipped much?"

XXX

Peter managed to get three steps towards his bags, walking on through 'you're pathetic' and 'you won't even take a slice at-' before stumbling abruptly on 'butchered your brother' as adrenalin kicked in and everything seemed to narrow and sharpen in focus. The rest of what Sylar said washed over him, hardly registering. Some automatic part of his brain probably recorded it, but he was too busy reacting emotionally to Sylar's bald admission and the psychology of his word choice. _'Butcher' … like you understand how awful what you did was? How it wasn't just hitting someone with a car and 'killing' them, how it wasn't getting angry and 'murdering' them, but how it was cold-blooded, calculated and completely unnecessary, taking a life just because it amused you to do it, like killing an animal … 'butchered'?_

Having regained his footing, Peter just stared at Sylar for a moment while those thoughts ran through his mind, his eyes wide and hurt for that second. His heart was pounding in his ears. Without thinking his words over, Peter said with complete and biting honesty, "I'd rather be pathetic than what you are." _Take a slice at you? 'Butcher' you? Kill someone because I'm angry?_ Obviously it was in Peter to do just that, but that was a part of himself he tried to rise above.

He stood three-quarter turned towards Sylar, next to the curb but still standing on the street. His hands were at his sides and he was still somewhat in shock to have been hit over the head emotionally like that. _He's **trying**__ to provoke me,_ Peter's mind supplied as it slowly came back online. _Why?_

XXX

Sylar smirked at the stumble, his eyes tracking Peter as he walked. _Oops_. Peter then turned and gave him this look – like his heart had been ripped out. It was probably true, the blind, trusting sap. (He crushed the twist his gut made at the sight). _Aww, boo hoo._

Sylar couldn't help his arms folding over his chest in typical 'oh, yeah?' but his smirk didn't falter. Keeping the expression generally did its job in bugging the hell out of someone which was his current goal. _Wouldn't everyone?_ Was his first mental thought to Peter's reply.

"Tell me something new, Petrelli. You're no better than I am," his voice lowered, "deep down inside that twisted cranium of yours." Sylar flicked his eyes over the other man's barely visible forehead mostly hidden in all that ridiculous hair.

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar, his brows drawing together and an expression of anger settling over his features at the assertion Peter was no better than Sylar. _Yes, I am! You're a murderer! I'm … not. But … really, we're both human. Everyone's the same. That would make me … no better than him. _His expression shifted slightly to include mild confusion at his own contradictory thoughts. Sylar went on speaking though, giving him a wash of more provocative words and every one of them stung.

XXX

"You're a cheap fake, trying to do a bigger man's job. Let me know when you hit puberty and want to play with the big boys," Sylar snarked, flipping him off in a gesture that wasn't really his own, turning to walk away finally.

XXX

Peter stood perfectly still, watching Sylar's face. The words stung, but none of them sunk in. Instead he found himself wondering what had caused this verbal attack._ I hurt him, somewhere, earlier. That's why he's doing this. Revenge. Did I frighten him with the sword? Or was it that I was walking off in the first place?_ His eyes jumped to the single finger and he frowned, saying nothing as Sylar turned and strode away. Peter badly wanted to throw a rock or something and hit the man in the back of the head. _Walk away from me, will you?_ But he did nothing. He looked over at the sword. _I wanted him to leave me alone. This way he feels like he's the one leaving me. Insecure asshole, isn't he? Just let him go._

Peter took a deep breath and let it out, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. _Nathan …_ He shook his head. _There's nothing to be done about it. Just … deal._ He sighed and swallowed, walking over to his bags. Resolutely he picked them up and began the long trek back to his apartment, wherever it was in this place.

XXX

Sylar exhaled as walked, slowing to 'meander' as he was out of sight of the other man, sparing half a rubber-neck to see that he in turn wasn't being followed. _Let Peter be lost._ His posture slumped. He tried to think why….where along the road Peter had gotten under his skin enough for Sylar to stalk him and provoke the empath like that. Sure, Peter had implied things – a bunch of things that were common misconceptions Sylar had to deal with and to be fair, he'd never really bothered, never really put much effort into correcting those false ideas. His words had fallen on deaf ears as usual and misconceptions like that never failed to grate on his own eardrums.

_So I'm an addicted murderer who enjoys killing and who only does it for personal gain. That's not new, I don't….think that was the problem I had with it….Maybe because it was from Peter, someone I expect more understanding from, more, well, empathy from. No, that's just….Nathan, talking._

Currently he missed the Hunger, it could excuse almost anything and he was very used to having that alibi. His equally evil and uninhibited subconscious coiled around his brain to whisper something to him. _I don't feel important. I don't feel feared. _Peter thought he could assume those things, voice them, and give orders when all the medic wanted was assistance in rescuing an imaginary girlfriend. _And I wasn't expecting a sword…_

XXX

_How did I get stuck here … with **him**__? Why did this seem like a good idea? Why didn't I listen to Matt? Why didn't I listen to **Ma**__, even?_ Peter sighed, not bothering to try to answer himself or defend his reasoning. _I'm here, that's that; what am I going to do about it? I've got to do something about being so fucking moody. Getting away from **him**__ is a good start._

_I can't figure out how to react to him. I'd like to cut him to ribbons. I'd like to get him down and carve his eyeballs out_. Peter grunted. _You wouldn't do that, Peter, so don't even talk to yourself like that_. He smirked and raised his head, looking at the buildings he was walking past. _Wouldn't do it? More like shouldn't do it. I dunno. I hope I wouldn't. What did he say, something about me having a twisted cranium? That's brass._

_How the hell am I **supposed**__ to react to him? I need his help; he's not helping. He's an asshole. But then he wants to talk and hang out and be all buddy-buddy friendly because he's lonely … hello? Earth to Sylar? You wouldn't be lonely if you didn't kill everyone who associated with you! _He huffed, aware that his mischaracterization was probably not true. _Well, he hasn't killed **me**__ yet. Which is kind of weird, but whatever. I'm not too keen on finding out if getting killed here wakes me up in the real world, or if it makes me brain dead. _He looked down at his broken hand. _Evidence favors the brain dead part._

XXX

Never mind that Peter had won nearly every encounter between them. Sylar had felt the burning need to lash out at him and what better tools to use than the man's family and friends? Hell, he'd gone light actually, not desirous of a drop-kick fight with a katana in the area. He had plenty more to say about the former senator. _I'll break him tomorrow_, Sylar thought of Peter, kicking at a pebble on the pavement before him, hands having been buried in his pockets after he'd left his 'companion'.

_I wanted that fight. Why wouldn't he even attempt to hurt me?_ Sylar was left angry, forgotten and very confused. _It's like he's tempting me. Challenging me? What a foolish, foolish boy. Hasn't he learned? _Sylar raised his head to look around him. _He will._

XXX

_Whoa, where the hell am I?_ Peter stopped and looked around at the buildings that were getting less familiar with every stride. _Yeah, okay, must be back the other way. This is my chance to see if Asshole is still following me._ He felt a surge of irrational fear and anger at the very idea, not sure what he could do to impress his seriousness if Sylar **was** still following him. Various half-baked scenarios filtered through his head. Peter made an abrupt turn and headed back the other way, eyes sharp, but saw nothing untoward - no villain lurking in the shadows, cackling his arrogant, heckling laugh and sneering. _Yeah, really want to carve his eyeballs out,_ Peter thought, frustrated by the memory.

_It wouldn't kill him. He's not even really here ... Stop it, Peter. Don't even think about that shit._ He gave himself a shake and resolved not to sink to Sylar's level. _I am not the same as him!_

XXX

_Son of a bitch doesn't want to listen to the truth? Fine. I'll just make his life hell._ Sylar snarled to himself, his feet hitting the pavement harder as his thoughts spiraled down darker, deeper, more violent and generally "evil". As there was no human, vehicle, not even bugs he could destroy, Sylar darted into an office building, slamming the door open and going straight for the reception desk he saw to his right.

When he reached it, he took hold of the basic gray keyboard, splintering it against the wall, creating a solid dent in the fancy wood. With barely a sound from his thinned lips, Sylar continued to bash the hell out of the communications implement until he broke the lower half on the desk's edge, creating a quarter of keyboard. Throwing that away, he kicked at a heavy file metal cabinet, bruising his toes up as it failed to budge.

He growled at it, changing his balance for his foot, resting his hands atop it and giving it a death glare like he would love to be giving to Peter right then. "Son of a-" he rasped out, a little breathless from injured toes, pivoting and using the sole of his foot to crash the cabinet onto its back, a loud echo emanating through the foyer in the otherwise-quiet.

Using his hands he swiped his hands to clear the desk of the computer's monitor and tower creating more echoes, throwing blank papers and pens to scatter over the floor as his mind was able to blank into pure violence for release. When his mind cleared somewhat, clearer than it would have been without the Hunger of course (he was grateful), Sylar stood panting in a silent, messy and dented room feeling…forgotten. His breathing hitched as he tried to get control of himself. _That implies that someone was there to think of you in the first place._

_Fucking Peter. Why is he here? Son of a bi-…_. _He wants to point goddamn fingers at people who can't help but be what they are? He's a GODDAMN PETRELLI! I need no other argument!_ Sylar clawed back his hair, a little static-y now, just as frustrated, but less enraged.

XXX

It was getting on towards the dinner hour by the time Peter found his way back to his apartment. He didn't mind the journey so much. It was nice to just wander, without Sylar there requiring observation and response, without feeling any driving need to escape the place and being hounded by the constant fear of real-life suffocation. _I'm really glad that's over. I've been here a week or so. Whatever's happened in the real world has happened. Time here is either really funky or … wait, watchmaker. **Watchmaker**__. What if the time thing has nothing to do with Matt at all, but has something to do with Sylar's … hobby?_

He stood on the front step of his apartment building mulling that over, but he couldn't figure out if it meant anything. Finally he shrugged and opened the door, glancing inside with a weird feeling there might be an ambush within. The world seemed … sort of hostile. He couldn't put his finger on it, exactly. There was no ambush, though. He shrugged again, shut the door behind him and took the stairs to his apartment. He enjoyed the strain in his legs by the time he reached the top; the throbbing of his hand, not so much.

He dug out several more slices of raisin bread, noticing he was nearly out, and ate it left-handed as he surveyed the apartment he'd finally decided to make his own. As soon as he was finished eating, he washed down more painkillers. Without waiting for them to kick in, he began determinedly, stubbornly, moving furniture out of his apartment and into the one across the hall. The first things to go was everything from the second bedroom, bed included. Next was the coffee table, an end table, the overstuffed chair (he kept the couch), two of the four dining room chairs and a plethora of cooking utensils and devices he had no idea how to use.

He didn't bother to put the things away in any order, not that it was really possible to be orderly when stuffing half the contents of one apartment into another. He wanted it _out._ He wanted the place to be _his _and not Sylar's. It didn't bother him that this was some kind of metaphorical pissing-in-the-corners. _If I'm going to live here, it's going to be **my**__ space, not **his**_**.** Peter worked late into the night making it that way.

XXX

Sylar blinked, long years alone making him comfortable enough to relax somewhat to feel tired. Or maybe drained. That was it; Peter was draining, the filthy little leech. His lip twitched as he stared blankly at the destruction. _Plan, I need a plan. A….goal, where's my fucking drive? _Peter had mutilated that and set them back the progress Sylar thought they had made when the medic tried for 'smart'.

He thought back to earlier that day. Peter had also gone on a rampage with the storefront. _He said he was angry that he couldn't find me…and that he was stuck. He must know he's stuck. _There's no rescue, Nine-One-One hero response. He snorted to himself; the irony that everyone's favorite hero was being left out to dry.

His concussion's headache was back as bad as the day it happened and it was crippling and made him cranky and unbalanced. His back still ached from where Peter had run him up the bedpost and not in a sexy way; his knuckles were still scabbing over. All the sensations, aches really, joined to make him focus, through or over his complaining nerves.

_Peter threw down the gauntlet. He's turned me down and belittled me and he has no idea just how dirty I can play._ As he thought, he'd wandered slowly back outside, limping once he'd made sure Peter wasn't around to watch that. Turning home absently he continued to think, continued to try to hold back his aggressive urges. His plan didn't take long to pull together; it was merely a reiteration anyway: _He's all mine and he doesn't know it yet. I need to mold him into shape… _Such were his thoughts as he found himself in his apartment, fixing a meal and attempting to read the night away with mixed results.

Day 9

Peter woke with a start, disoriented by the very fact of being asleep. _Whoa. What am I doing in bed?_ He rolled over and sat up, fully clothed. The room looked different, but of course it would with those boring landscape paintings off the walls. They were bare. The whole place was bare. He rose and scratched at his scalp, trying to remember going to sleep. He couldn't, but he decided not to obsess over it. _I'm in a false reality. It shouldn't surprise me that the place is weird._

He chuckled to himself as he finished the toilet and stripped for a shower. _I'm weird. Sylar's weird. 'Course the place is weird. 'Weird' - just another word for 'special'__._ He put the usual gallon sized plastic bag over his right hand, secured it clumsily with a rubber band, and got in the shower.

After toweling off, Peter walked, naked, into the now-empty second bedroom._ Looks like I slept right into late morning. Well, I didn't really have anywhere to be, did I? _He stretched as something nagged at his memory._ I oughta drag some free weights up here. Ceiling's not high enough for a jump rope. I could do push-ups, though__._ He looked at his bum hand. _One-handed push-ups__._ He smirked. _I could get all lop-sided and Sylar could make masturbation jokes. Oh, wait … Sylar … that storefront. Oh, yeah … that's what I was gonna do._

_Yeah, right._ A certain lack of enthusiasm permeated his thoughts. _Right after lunch. And painkillers._ Lunch consisted of celery, carrots and peanut butter. He would have liked to added apple slices to that, but there was no way he was going to try to handle a knife with his left hand. He had plenty to eat otherwise. Hygiene addressed, food eaten and put away, painkillers taken and taking effect, clothing donned, Peter had no more excuses for delay. He packed a couple apples and the last two slices of raisin bread into his bag, along with keys and pills.

He paused with his hand on the door, thinking. _I'm going to go find the place and … no, I should stop by the janitorial closet here and get a bucket, a dustpan and a broom. I think I'll just be getting the debris cleaned up today. I'll worry about fixing stuff later. For now just get rid of the trash._ He paused. Sylar was a looming, unasked question in his mind. _I told him to leave me alone. But this is a new day. There's no reason why he'd think I meant** forever**__, and anyway, I didn't. I'm going to have to get used to him eventually. Maybe better though if I can just take him in small doses._

_Yeah, right. Let's see how well Sylar cooperates with that plan, Peter. He's always been so cooperative in the past, after all._

XXX

Sylar woke up groggily, his head pounding the instant he lifted it. Blinking, it took him a moment to place himself, disoriented from his headache and something he couldn't quite place. _That's right. Peter._ Sylar gave a grunted growl with his dry throat, slowly rolling himself to stand. Once there his back twinged and he made a noise, trying to rub at it lightly enough as he made his way to the bathroom for morning clean-up.

Dressed and fed, he didn't glance at any of his clocks or his prized watch for the time – the sunlight when he'd woken told him what time it was as did his brain and the ticking surrounding him in the room. He knew Pete wasn't up yet. He forced down memories of waking the boy as Peter had grown up, the funny little 'h-hu-uh?'s his kid brother would make on greeting the day, his hair stuck a million directions and those big eyes still stuck on sleepy.

Walking downstairs to the road heading not for Peter's place this time, but the storefront Peter said he'd clean today; Sylar rebandaged his wrist as his only maintenance for his injuries. Any discomfort was a reminder of being human and of being alive and again he found himself slipping into empathizing with Claire. He took a breath and exhaled it shortly in the brisk air, seeing only the barest cloud around his mouth from the chill. Everything would heal in its own way, rather, in his own way.

He arrived at the broken store, taking more time to look around at its contents seeing as Peter hadn't arrived just yet. _No katanas, guns, bats, or teddy bears, _he noted instantly of the women's clothing store. Peter had fucked up the mannequins pretty good, most of the glass was missing but the window's edges were still prickly. Sylar stepped lightly around in the display case, idly checking out the racks of products just in case Peter decided to wait around the proverbial corner for him.

XXX

Peter arranged his supplies as he stood in the hallway outside the janitor's closet. He had a bright yellow bucket more accustomed to a mop than the handful of rags and a dustpan that was in it now, and a fairly newish flat broom. He balanced the broom over his right shoulder and lifted the bucket with his left, looking off in the direction of the entrance. He'd already looked outside - Sylar wasn't there, or at least he hadn't been when Peter had looked. He still had this urge to slink off out the back way.

_And why would that be, Peter?_ he asked in an internal voice that annoyingly sounded like Sylar's. He leaned heavily against the wall and groaned at how his conscience was truly sadistic if it was going to sound like Sylar._ I really should have listened to … but on the other hand,_ he sighed, _since when have my mother or Matt Parkman been fonts of wisdom and good advice?_ He shook his head and started for the main entrance, determined to do what he _should_ even if he didn't like it. _I don't want to go out this way because I'm embarrassed about smashing the storefront, that's why. I got mad and broke stuff because I was frustrated and it felt good to do it. **That's**__ what I'm guilty about - the feeling good part._

He paced off down the street, lost in thought about his decisions and why he'd made them. Peter classified the choice to destroy the storefront as a 'decision', even if it wasn't the most well-considered. It hadn't been reflexive. Few emotional outbursts were. The emotion might be uncontrollable, evoked by circumstance and the events, but what a person did as a result … that was something he held them, and himself, accountable for.

He found his way to the building in question without much difficulty. It was four or five blocks from his apartment. He hadn't really kept track, which was part of why he was kind of lousy at finding places. _But I'm getting better! I didn't even get lost getting here!_ He paused at the corner, looking over the street warily_. I kind of thought Sylar might be here. Guess not. Good. Maybe we can work something out then, if he'll give me space when I need it._ He walked on, approaching the mess, eyes on the ground. He was looking at how far from the building the glass was scattered, mentally working out where he needed to start sweeping from to work his way in.

_I probably need to pick up all the big pieces first, which is what the bucket is for. I should have brought a glove._ He set the bucket down and looked up, intending to find a spot to prop the broom against the building while he worked. **_Sylar!_** Peter sucked in air in a sudden, noisy gasp and nearly jumped out of his skin. The creep was lurking just inside the store, totally still and silent, like one of the mannequins Peter had trashed before. The resemblance was so uncanny that for a fraction of a second, Peter's brain wasn't sure it _wasn't_ just a Sylar-shaped mannequin standing there.

XXX

Sylar heard sounds and turned towards the open display to see Peter walk up with his gear. He couldn't help feeling totally validated at seeing a Petrelli looking like a janitor – there was something supremely ironic and satisfying at the sight. In addition to the little voice chanting in his head _Peter screwed up! Peter screwed up! Not such a golden boy after all!_

If there was one thing Sylar felt better about it was bringing all the high-and-mighties down to his level where they really belonged. And Peter was the best of the best, almost holier-than-thou and that had never ceased to get under Nathan's and Sylar's skin. He stood still, curious to Peter's reaction time or reaction period on spotting Sylar. It took less time than he thought.

Peter went still, partially bent over after setting the bucket down and still holding the broom with those soft brown bangs covering part of his face. A few seconds passed and Peter still didn't move, staring at him as if he was some apparition or illusion. Sylar felt that he should be flattered. As for holding still himself (and seeing just how long he could string Peter's paranoia along, however tempting), a slow smirk spread across his face unbidden. Fear was such an ego boost and it only fed the intuitive's addiction. He wasn't sure if Peter could see it given the lighting differences between the outside and indoors, but he didn't care.

He took a long, slow first step towards Peter, speeding up the second just for show and, again, that lovely reaction. Peter had been leaning next to the corner of the window, looking for something just inside it so when Sylar got close, he decided to fuck with Peter some more (admittedly risking bodily harm, but what the hell, it would be fun). Sylar walked up to Peter who had straightened up to stand, and slid between the space the man and the window created, bringing their bodies into close enough contact for Sylar to be thrilled and Peter to be….well.

XXX

Peter could see that something about Sylar's face changed, but he couldn't make out the expression immediately. It didn't matter - the other man was the real deal, not a mannequin or a hallucination signaling Peter had lost touch. _At least, I don't think I've lost touch with … reality, such as this is. I don't remember going to sleep, but it's usually the waking up you don't remember if you're in a dream, isn't it? _He blinked a few times and fell back a step as Sylar took one forward, feeling that hindbrain fight-or-flight instinct telling him to_ Run! _when Sylar's second step was faster. _Which is probably why he's doing it, the asshole._

Peter set himself then, resisting the urge to take the broom in his left hand like a weapon. One - it wasn't that heavy-duty a broom. It would make for a shitty, undignified and unintimidating weapon. Two - he'd already seen how trying to escalate with Sylar worked out, and that was 'badly'. Three - his face still hurt from getting tagged time after time a few days ago and his fucking hand was still broken and going to stay that way for a long time. Fighting almost certainly equaled losing and Peter was not fond of losing. Especially when there was nothing much other than ego he was fighting over.

But knowing all that didn't stop the adrenalin, or the stiff posture, or the accelerated breathing, or the thinning of his lips. He stood his ground, refusing to move, making Sylar turn sideways a little to brush past him. Which might have been Sylar's point, but Peter wasn't about to let that goad him into doing something that looked like backing down.

XXX

Sylar spared a nano-second glance for the broom as he passed it, noting with sadistic amusement that Peter didn't shift it around. _Learning his lessons, I see. Good._ Peter made a face which Sylar was happy to ignore. _Not here for your pleasure, big boy,_ Sylar mocked in his head. Peter didn't budge and Sylar was forced to tilt his lanky body around to get by, but he made contact and thus was satisfied in his effort. He moved to stand a few feet (in range of the broom, should Peter choose), facing and beside Peter.

Stepping out of the display, brushing past the medic, he stood on the sidewalk and eyed Peter, snarking, "If you wanted to cross-dress, you could have used the door, Peter."

XXX

Peter snorted at Sylar's comment and quipped back immediately, "I went to a party once in drag. Got some action. It was pretty cool. You ought to try it." He regretted his words almost instantly, because … well … they were mean. And it said far more about himself than he'd intended to be sharing with this particular audience.

XXX

Sylar's head inched to the side after he gave a slow blink in response before answering, "Try what? Going in drag or getting action? I, unlike some, don't have the face to pull off the first one. And I don't actually have to troll to get laid," Okay, that was an exaggeration if not an outright lie. He had reasons for not looking and not being interested. IF he so desired, he could snag any person off the street to the nearest hotel (or alley) and….Sylar crossed his arms in front of him, standing straight in smug assurance although his brain was still turning over the whole drag secret not even Nathan knew about. Then he really, really tried not to picture Peter in…_Holy shit. Focus._

XXX

Peter had turned mostly to follow Sylar's progress, but still had the broom over his right shoulder, balanced under his right forearm. He figured it was way too late, but he tried changing the subject anyway. "Um … I mean, good afternoon to you, too," he said rather lamely, pretty sure he'd just ruined any fractional chance he'd had of getting out of this encounter without _some_ kind of fight.

XXX

Peter then switched tactics and went for polite, if faked and it had Sylar's brows arching slightly. _Wait, was he implying that he just ignored my comment and thought I was greeting him? That's…that's….clever. Would have had more punch if he hadn't spilled his…that whole thing._ Sylar was eager to both know more of and ignore the information.

He grunted in reply, looking out onto the street and away from Peter, rolling his eyes.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a very long look, exhaled disdainfully, and slowly unlimbered the broom. He set it against the wall like he'd been planning to do anyway, and scooped the rags and dustpan out of the bucket. His motions were gradual and a little exaggerated even. But then he changed pace and tossed the brown, plastic dustpan at the base of the broom, in a sudden flick of motion. It was hardly dangerous, but he kept a particular awareness of Sylar in his peripheral vision to see if the man was jumpy or not. _Not happy about him standing right there, kind of on top of me. There's no reason for him to be here at all … or at least no good reason. He's just here to pass the time and getting in my face about things is probably the most entertaining thing on his schedule._

XXX

Sylar felt the look, but ignored it just to be a dick. He mentally crowed when no response came, Peter taking the insult like some kind of annoyed housewife. _That_ image was certainly amusing and Peter's own admission of dressing like a fucking woman wasn't helping the medic's case at all. If anything, it only fueled Sylar on with more ammunition. He made sure to check on Peter with a side-glance as the man moved and he allowed himself to feel some gratitude at the speed. A sudden move with a broom would certainly set him off and Nathan knew enough about prison, both military and domestic, to know a few gay broom jokes.

Sylar turned his head a little fast at the faster motion Peter made in throwing the dustpan, his eyes staying on it for a second before glancing over Peter once and looking away again.

XXX

With a little huff, Peter stuffed the rags in his left pocket and moved the bucket over next to some of the larger pieces of glass. He squatted, pulled out a rag, and picked one up, using the rag to avoid cutting himself. He looked at the fragment, eyes narrowing, a memory coming to him of looking around Mohinder's apartment in desperation, at the realization a second too late of what a somewhat younger Sylar intended to do to a somewhat younger Peter. He'd seen the field of glass suspended in the air. He'd turned and started towards the door when … his life ended for the third time.

XXX

Peter crouched down and Sylar moved over to the outer edge of the building just beside the broken display, leaning a shoulder against the store to settle in and watch Peter work. Oh, yeah, he really was going to sit and watch. He initially had thought nothing of the glass shards until he saw Peter linger. He was in no position to see Peter's face in any detail so he couldn't divine what the other man was feeling, but he could sure guess at his thoughts. _Oh, yeah,_ Sylar chuckled to himself inaudibly. _What the hell did he need to see stupid 'Mohinder' for anyway?_

XXX

Peter shuddered and dropped the piece into the bucket, moving on resolutely to the next._ I hate glass._ He tried to ignore that he was being watched and probably gloated over. It really wasn't an experience that Peter had much parallel for in his life. Even when his father (or Nathan) had stood over him to make sure he did something, there had not been the feeling of sniggering self-aggrandizement he suspected Sylar was getting out of watching Peter clean up his own mess. Peter wasn't sure what to do about it, but it was making his skin crawl.

XXX

"Maybe you should shop here. You've never worn this much black in your life." _And I think I know why. I think I'm the reason, too. _"I bet that drives your mom nuts you dress like her, black and in size twelve." Sylar rolled his eyes at the unflattering image. _I also imagine your mom doesn't- well…actually she might know about all the dirty little things you've done with her eavesdropping, mind-fucking, life-ruining, retinal-scarring ability. Serves the bitch right. _He would have continued on, asking if Peter had "borrowed" Ma's makeup or stolen his own. _Freak's probably got a bunch of gay friends, probably bummed it off them. Not worth asking about. Wait…that makes him gay? Ugh._

XXX

_She has good taste. I could do worse._ Peter sighed, his mind simultaneously trying to come up with a clever retort and shut down that line of thought as he continued working silently. _There's no point. Don't argue with him. Don't be his entertainment._ He kept moving along, picking up pieces and tossing them in the bucket, then rising and moving to a new spot to do the same all over again.

XXX

Peter was apparently done "sharing" after he'd blurted out his naughty little secret. _Oh, if only Nathan was still alive, I'd torture him with images of Peter getting laid dressed like a girl. Ha._ The man was studiously ignoring him and that made Sylar acutely annoyed and determined to get a reaction. He licked his lips a little, dreaming up an insult while Peter shuffled around. _Cleaning up after his own damn self._

XXX

_Why does the color of the clothes matter?_ The answer came to him immediately and he said it out loud without considering the implications, "You said black was your favorite color." Peter glanced down at his outfit - a long-sleeved black, v-neck cotton shirt, jeans (also black), and his customary, thick-soled work shoes (also … yeah, well, black). While there were a number of good reasons why his wardrobe had shifted to darks lately (beside the fact that this was what he'd found in the apartments he'd raided), and those reasons were related to the color of his work uniform, the desire to avoid sweat marks and a lack of appreciation for how heavily bleached clothes felt against his skin, it didn't change the fact that he was entirely dressed in Sylar's favorite color, the day after Sylar had told him that. _And … I just made sure to point that out. Great. Just great, Peter. Sounds like I dress this way just to thrill him. Awesome_, he thought sarcastically.

He stood with a sour expression, rubbing the spot on his thigh where he'd been kicked. It was fine now for walking – hardly a twinge except when he'd taken the stairs the day before – but the successive, deep squats he was having to do were something different. He gave Sylar his least appreciative glower.

XXX

Sylar sneered back in reply to Peter making faces at him. "Yeah, so-? Ah." No sooner was the question voiced then the answer presented itself to him. His eyes shifted aside as he thought. _Why would Peter think of that first thing? Because I said it the other day? Still… _Sylar's eyes toured over Peter's body and not wholly for said clothes.

His eyes were significantly more amused when they returned to Peter's face. _That means something, doesn't it? Dressing like a girl might make things weird, might have difficulty hitting him, but he's not getting any special treatment unless he asks nicely. Who are you kidding?_ "You don't have to glare. I know; it's black, size fourteen," he smirked. Peter the clam was no fun. "Black is my kink, Pete. You can't have it."

XXX

Peter snorted. "Tomorrow I'll wear yellow, or maybe green. It'll go great with the eye-makeup you gave me the other day." He gestured at his raccoon-faced visage and smiled companionably. Most of the people he'd been in fights with, he'd had to keep dealing with day after day. The best way to deal with it seemed to be to make light of it and go on, and hopefully the other person would recognize that he was trying to leave the animosity behind and play along.

_Size fourteen instead of twelve? Ah, it's a fat joke. Didn't catch that the first time around. 'Yo mama's so fat …' Meh. Might be funny if Ma actually **was**__ fat, or even a little fat. Since she's not … kind of falls flat. _Sylar's repeated insults to Peter's family were starting to get under his skin regardless._ Asshole._

"Don't call me 'Pete'," he tacked on in a less friendly tone of voice, going down on one knee for what would probably be the last batch of glass he needed to pick up instead of using the broom. He picked up one piece and then scooted it over, using it to lever up two other pieces. There was a sharp, brief pain along his knuckle. "Dammit," he muttered, picking up all three pieces and dropping them in the bucket. He looked at his left middle finger, which now had a thin line of blood forming. _Should have worn a glove._He got back to his feet and picked up the bucket, otherwise ignoring the cut.

XXX

Sylar leaned over a bit, towards the window to see what had Peter muttering to himself. He caught the slightest flash of something red on Peter's hand. _Blood. /I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: Blood./_ Ironic that Peter had, in a way, drawn first blood and that it was his own by his own faults. He watched as Peter stood, doing nothing more than observing. _Why am I not pounding the shit out of him again? I should be. He deserves it. (Or does he?) What's stopping that?_

"What are you gonna do about it, Petey? Act like a brat in a candy store throwing a temper tantrum and I'll call you whatever I want. I see not much has changed since you were….well, born." Peter was worth protecting, Nathan knew, but really there was only so much he could do or put up with; especially when Peter was a legal adult and began to threaten the family's status and Nathan's own career. Nathan had stung back at Peter every time his kid brother got out of line…and then some. The leapfrogging between the brothers for attention, morality, power and politics boggled Sylar's mind. At the same time he understood that the atmosphere that had been bred into them had come from the Petrelli parentals. Kind of a lose-lose.

XXX

Sylar had Peter's complete and angry attention. _I haven't been called 'Petey' since I was a kid_. He took a deep breath, bristling and glaring. 'Petey' was more derogatory and more of a slur, but somehow it didn't tread over into Nathan's memory as heavily as 'Pete' would have. As that thought occurred to him, it was swiftly followed by the realization that Sylar actually had done as Peter asked and not called him 'Pete'. _Well, the wonders never cease!_

It was a small consolation, but it _was_ a consolation. It calmed him down a little and, probably more importantly, loosened his tongue. "_'A candy store?_' I think the stakes are a little higher than that, Sylar." He walked over and put down the bucket, picking up the broom instead.

XXX

Sylar raised a mocking eyebrow at the bluster Peter presented. "Could've fooled me," he snarked with dead seriousness, "Notice how you preface that with 'I think' because all of this is speculation to amuse you in circles, Petey." His brows lowered almost in disbelief as he saw Peter heft the broom handle. _Seriously? I know you're a stubborn son of a bitch, but you need to learn when to stay down because you don't hold a candle to me for dishing or taking pain and coming back for more. Stay down, Peter. _

XXX

Peter turned to face Sylar, some ten feet from him, holding the broom perpendicular to the ground and punctuating his statements with it as he continued, "Where do **you** of all people get off on lecturing _anyone_ on temper tantrums?"

Peter was arguing mainly to argue and he was aware of that. Although he figured Sylar would eventually go away if he simply refused to respond, he was weirdly cheered by getting his way, even if it only meant Sylar chose something different to insult him with. But he _had_ chosen something different and so Peter felt like communication wasn't necessarily off the table. Even if, at the moment, it was angry communication.

XXX

Sylar's look shifted to annoyed when it came back to Peter's face."And where do you of all people get off on bashing me for having a temper when you've had my ability?" He paused a moment as Peter went on (Sylar was partly surprised he was getting dialogue at all).

XXX

"**Me** of all people?" Peter snorted and looked around rapidly on the ground, spotting where he wanted to start sweeping and taking a few short steps over to it. "You've had your ability for **years**, Sylar! Are you trying to tell me that _every_ person that you ever killed, you did it because your ability made you do it?"

Peter stopped there, really,_ really _wanting to go on and tell Sylar he thought the man had gotten used to killing, probably felt he was above everyone else, and might even have enjoyed it if that nasty smirk he always wore said anything about it. Peter stopped though because he wasn't sure what Sylar's answer was and he genuinely wanted to know it. It wouldn't necessarily be the truth, not even as Sylar knew it, but Peter wanted to know what defense Sylar was putting forward for actions that just the day before he'd admitted were irredeemably wrong.

Indistinct, half-processed memories of killing Nathan in the future tried to surface in Peter's head. He pushed them away. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want to ponder Sylar finding, or trying to find, an area of empathy with him, some shared horror. If Peter could keep pretending _only _Sylar had done wrong … Peter grimaced, recognizing how hypocritical and self-serving his own desires were on this, but not sure he had it in him to do anything about it. He made a few tentative, one-handed sweeps at the ground, watching what he was doing rather than Sylar, although his mental attention was very focused on what the other man had to say.

XXX

"Did I leave you with that impression?" Sylar snorted, honestly amused. "I won't pretend that. I've killed lots of people because they had it coming or they were in my way….self-defense, too. You'd know some of them," he hinted, aware that this honesty would probably come back to bite hard. Chandra (Peter wouldn't know him personally); Arthur; Nathan; he'd almost killed Samson; Virginia; Peter himself a time or two. Sylar's eyes slid to the side as he contemplated, not much showing on his face but a slight smirk, a little lost in thought.

Dozens of agents, civilians, police officers, special ops; Bob Bishop (although the allure of his handy ability had made it sweeter); Maya and Alejandro (the annoying bastards); Isaac might have been a throw-away of sorts; Trevor…the list went on and there wasn't a prevalent amount of guilt present in him. That list was black, secret, and small. On further thought, he'd never been around people long enough to rattle off his accomplishments. _Should have done that with Matt, sent him right over. First time for everything, Peter. _

It was a lifetime's worth of compressed hot air, rage, and bitter, ugly feelings that made him do the things he did. A personality flaw or a learned trait, he didn't know. He would guess that it was an inherited genome given his father's rather scummy existence, but he couldn't say for sure. It sounded like he was trying to lay blame and that generally wasn't something he did – looking for ways to dodge accountability, however, was very much his forte.

Sylar could not be blamed if the majority of his problems as a genetically enhanced man stemmed from a single family and their endeavors and business interactions. Peter knew lots of them, really. "You've got anger issues, too, man, so knock that halo off your head." _Part of me wants to, Peter; the ability….makes it happen._ "There's a lot about abilities and how they affect people that you don't know."


	23. People You Might Know

**A/N: Violence (fist-fight) and blood.**

Day 9

'_I'd know some of them'? I'd know some of the people you've killed? Ya think, Sylar? Why the hell do you think I'm so pissed off at you?_ "Anger issues? I'll give you some anger issues - 'They _had it coming?_' Are you _**serious?**_ That would be funny if we weren't talking about **PEOPLE'S LIVES!" **Peter ranted towards the end, gesturing threateningly with the broom. He wanted to hit Sylar with it, but it wasn't stout enough to do more than annoy the man. "You might be able to talk me into self defense. In certain circumstances maybe," _like that scientist you threw against the wall at Pinehearst and he happened to hit things and died. You threw Mohinder, too - he didn't hit anything. Then he got up and bashed your brains out. I can see how that would be a deterrent to not finishing people off in future._ "But '_they had it coming'_?"

Peter gave a harsh, ringing laugh, turning to sweep energetically and this time doing a better job of it, left-handed and awkward though it was. Whether or not people 'deserved' certain treatment had always stuck in his craw - that a prostitute 'deserved' to be beaten by her pimp, that a criminal 'deserved' to be raped in prison, that a terrorist 'deserved' to be tortured for information … Whatever evil was visited on them might be _expected_, maybe they should have predicted it and known it would happen, but it didn't mean they _deserved_ it. People who said others deserved it or had it coming were just excusing their own failure to do the right thing.

"That is so fucking entitled. Do you_ really_ think that way? Is that …" _Oh my God, it might be. Is it?_ "Is that another effect of your ability?" Peter asked, his voice turning from shaming to … actually a bit curious. "Does your ability make you feel entitled to kill anyone you think 'has it coming'?" _No, it can't be. Lots of people are that evil without abilities goading them on_. Peter's voice shifted back to accusing and angry. "Or were you always this kind of self-righteous prick and just didn't have the power to act on it?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows lifted just slightly as he watched Peter put on a show. To someone who didn't know him, Peter's emotion might have read 'anger' – Sylar knew he wasn't in any real danger….yet. Peter was just venting and Sylar suspected the awareness of safety came from Nathan. Sylar didn't give any other sign that he was even affected by the hot air blowing past him.

_What does he mean, do I really think that way? Why….I don't…. _Sylar was struggling inside to make sense why it, apparently, didn't make sense to Peter. _He'd have me believe….all the shit I grew up with I don't deserve now I'm a murderer? I deserve it now; it was just a down payment all that time._ He frowned and blinked at Peter, strangely hurt at the idea that he _didn't_ deserve what he'd gotten, but he couldn't place that. _Then how does it work? _He decided to ask.

"What other way can it work, Peter?" He snorted to hold off a more vulnerable expression, "Yeah, I think that way." _Unlike you, Peter, my parents felt I deserved shit and I wasn't anyone's golden boy to prove them wrong._ Sylar's expression took on genuine confusion, probably telegraphing just how far he was out of his depth in all matters moral (Of course, the perfect person to be in said argument with – Peter Petrelli). _What does my ability have to do with that? I have….what is he talking about?_

"Don't display your ignorance, Peter. I was always this self-righteous, as you put it,"_ another powerfully useless and telling bit of honesty, way to go!_ Sylar mocked himself internally. "Powers manifest from….somewhere inside you, your greatest desire in a sense. You, you want to help people and heal the world. Save the goddamn cheerleader and all that. Nathan wanted to fly high and avoid his problems, avoid his family. Claire doesn't want to be hurt. Look what abilities you've all manifested from that. It's not just a random draw, even if your genes are," Sylar finished off his impassioned speech, pulling away a little since he was sure to get bashed for that and the people he'd used as examples. Maybe throwing them out for examination would help him avoid the spotlight on his own manifestations.

XXX

Peter kept sweeping, working his way across the sidewalk, getting closer to his companion as he did. He glanced up at Sylar's first words, taking in his expression, and didn't answer right away. That was okay, because Sylar went on. Peter's expression turned from mostly contemptuous but a little contemplative, to merely annoyed and somewhat patronizing as Sylar confessed to being self-righteous and began to lecture about powers. Then Sylar mentioned Nathan's name and Peter almost stopped moving, looking up, eyes narrowed, poised like he was going to attack. Sylar's words passed through him without pushing any buttons. Peter reviewed them internally again, and then again, glancing away, looking for the barb. _Huh._ He was kind of surprised there wasn't an insult there. _Just an observation. Not the most complimentary one, maybe, but Nathan had his flaws. Who better to know them than the guy with his memories?_

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose that's true about Nathan," he conceded, muttering almost too quietly to be heard. He went back to sweeping, giving himself a little shake. He thought, really thought hard, about what Sylar had said. When Sylar finished, _'I was always this self-righteous'. Ha. Self-righteousness as a power. I'd think that would be my dad, and that ability he had to issue commands._

When Sylar finished, Peter sighed and stopped sweeping, pretending to lean on the broom a little but not actually putting any weight on it. "Okay, I'll agree there's _some_ link between personality traits and abilities, but that's sort of like saying there's a link between a person's job and who they really are, inside. Not everyone ends up with a job that plays to their strengths. Lots of people have really strong emotions and never manifest abilities.

"There's nothing special about the way we - people with abilities - feel, or who we are. We aren't _privileged _or have moral superiority over others or have some divine right to kill or let live. We _happen_ to have abilities," Peter pointed briefly at Sylar in emphasis, although for the most part he'd calmed down, "just like you _happen_ to be healthy, intelligent and mobile." Peter shook his head briefly. "Those aren't traits everyone gets, any more than they get abilities. Some people are sick all their lives, are mentally handicapped, or crippled. That doesn't mean that someone like yourself is a better person than they are. They don't _'have it coming'_ just because you decided they do."

XXX

Sylar knew speaking about the brother-that-shall-not-be-mentioned was a bad idea, but he was a good example. "Well, if you want to be simple minded about it. I know how you feel about abilities, Peter; 'meant for something bigger', 'why were we given these unless they have a purpose?' We _are_ privileged, like it or not. Let me know if you get any divine intervention for our grand purpose on this stupid rock." Not that it mattered. _I sure haven't had any luck figuring it out and fate seems to favor him so if anyone's getting a damn answer, it would be Wonder Breath. God, that's so unfair. The one person with debatably the least amount of brains always seems to be stumbling one step ahead of his betters. Then he wonders why he annoys the hell out of people?_

XXX

_Those aren't your memories! _Peter wanted to snap at Sylar repeating lines Peter had spoken to Nathan. Instead he just moved restlessly, going so far as to shift his grip on the broom before shaking his head at himself and going back to sweeping. _It's not his fault. He didn't put those memories in his own head. He's just talking. _He huffed. "We have abilities. That's ..." he struggled to find a difference between 'privileged' and 'different'. "That's not the same thing as having a right to dictate other's lives." _I seem to be arguing as much with dad here as him. I wonder how much they talked?_

XXX

Lots of memories of saving Peter's ass from walking off rooftops and getting mixed up with /Dad/ and Pinehearst rushed over him. All those times Peter tried to prove something to something unseen, try and find his purpose or whatever and he, Nathan, was always left to clean up the mess.

As if to back up his main point, something from inside him bubbled up and out: /"Ma said she and Dad gave me my ability, Pete."/ _Oh, holy fuck, that did not just…._Sylar's eyes flew wide. If what Angela said was true, Nathan was a synthetic special, probably one of the few that succeeded, both in surviving without defects and succeeding in the world. (If Nathan's synthetic ability molded to his desire, his personality, then Peter should have no argument, but that wasn't really on his mind at the moment). Sylar cleared this throat, blinking, looking away and stepping back because Peter was getting closer and he still held the broom, one-handed or not.

XXX

'_Pete' again! God-dammit, I thought that was over! Wait … 'me'? 'Dad gave … __**me**__'?_ Peter started in anger and then blinked in confusion, brows drawing together as he momentarily and unintentionally gave Sylar his best 'What the fuck?' face. His heart caught in his throat as he thought, _Is Nathan still in there?_ "**You said Nathan was dead!**" he exclaimed in sudden agitation and intensity, closing on Sylar immediately and getting in his face. The broom trailed behind him, still held in his left, but mostly forgotten. Desperation fueled him, like a man reaching for a dying loved one … _Has he been suppressing him all this time? That doesn't make sense! He couldn't! Why would Nathan let that happen? Why would he let that bastard win? He said good-bye …_

The impossibility of Nathan's continued existence in Sylar's mind hit him like a blow._ It can't be. Just a slip of the tongue, right?_ A roiling mess of anger, rage and grief came flooding to the surface all at once, but it was Sylar's face looking back at him, not Nathan's. It wasn't even particularly Nathan's expression on Sylar's face, if such a thing were possible and Peter's frantically scanning eyes would have spotted that if it were there at all, to be seen or even imagined. He examined Sylar's countenance with a hyper-vigilance that left him nearly shaking with adrenaline. His lack of success left Peter snarling, "Who do you think you are?" The words came out with the primary intent to challenge Sylar for his presumptuousness in speaking as Nathan, but somewhere lurking in the shadows of Peter's mind it was a literal question.

XXX

Sylar lowered his eyelids quickly as Peter turned. Hopefully his companion hadn't seen that he knew he'd slipped up as that was Sylar's only cover at the moment.

He caught the hope in the younger man's face but he didn't have time and wouldn't let himself feel for it.

Peter was in his face; Sylar could feel the heat from his body and he straightened, his head coming up, both from the proximity and the broom that Peter still held, but had yet to shift into position. He had to wait a moment before he could respond at all, let alone respond the way he needed to. It could save him a beating, after all. The puff of Peter's rapid breathing was distracting him and distantly he noted that it was a shame the medic wasn't interested in a more intimate hobby. Trying not to blink or start at the sudden outburst, he felt his face shifting against his will, brows trying to frown, mouth trying not to grimace. Most of all he was desperate to stay in place – not show weakness or back away. Or worse, apologize.

/"I went to see my real father. He was so alone…so _pathet__ic_! I didn't wanna become him, so I took this power and now I can be anyone I wanna be, anyone in the world!...So tell me, _Mom_… Why do I feel so lost?"/

/"Change of voice, change of face, still him underneath."/

/"Why does this keep happening?"/

/"Whoever Nathan Petrelli was, he's gone now. Just some random thoughts in a mass-murderer's head."/

/"Last night I went to sleep as myself…I woke up as Agent Taub. I didn't…I didn't mean to change, I just did. I'm _losing myself_!"/

/"Do you really think Matt could purge every sick thought from that head?"/

/"Who are you?"/

/"To the rest of the world, I'm Nathan Petrelli, but every time you look at me. The way you're lookin' at me right now. You're gonna see Sylar. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm wrong, Pete."/ 

/"You know…one of my eyes…stayed _blue_. For over an hour, yesterday."/

Peter's piercing gaze was roving over his face and while Sylar felt that every imperfection was being sought out, at least on the surface, he knew, distantly, that he should have been enjoying the attention. All types of proximity were sending warning bells up his spine and it made his face feel warm without coloring while the other man's smell was familiar. Surprisingly he was only partly intimidated by the other man's behavior and even more surprising - Sylar had yet to be hit, broom or otherwise.

_Why is he asking me this?_ Sylar thought, very lost in his own head. Strange that he was used to being lost in life, but his solace, his sanity, his drive had all been in his mind and with that gone…

_Peter only wants to know who you are so he knows which person to abuse – Nathan for leaving him and giving up or Sylar for taking him away and killing him._Sylar couldn't cope with the question and it probably showed. _That's a good question, Pete. If only I knew._

In the wake of his confusion and loss, anger roared into him to fill the gaps. _How dare you ask me that? And how dare you ask that now? Don't pretend to give a crap. YOU of all people, you DRUGGED ME UP AFTER I KILLED HIM SO I COULD HAVE HIS FUCKING, SLIMY CONSCIOUSNESS IN MY FUCKING HEAD!_

"He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that." _Keep your mouth shut! _

XXX

_Like I needed a reminder. _And maybe he did, because the moment Nathan's death was thrown in Peter's face by the very man who had done it, it was like a switch inside of him flipped. Anger, violence, grief, hate, revenge, all things he'd been trying to rise above, things he'd tried to shove aside and ignore and be better, all rose to the fore. His right hand ached with a sudden spasm. If he'd been paying attention, he'd have noticed he'd just tried to ball it into a fist. Instead all he registered was the dull reminder that his primary hand wasn't a good option. So he went with his left.

_Murdering bastard!_ He let fall the broom. It wasn't a good weapon and he didn't really want a weapon anyway. He wanted to see Sylar's face smashed under his fists. He wanted blood and pain and fear. He wanted to feel the other man's flesh bruise and lacerate under his hands. He wanted what he'd seen on that pyre, that had turned his stomach when it happened, but he'd done nothing to stop it. Later, after the fiasco at Mercy Heights, when Peter had given up all hope that Nathan could be saved, he'd fantasized about making that slow death by fire a reality for Sylar.

_If only it was that easy._ He backed up a half-step and swung with his left to deliver an uppercut, snarling in wrath. _'I made sure of that'_ rang in his ears like a call to battle. "_You sure did, you son of a bitch!_" He swung repeatedly and fast, crowding Sylar and trying to push him back and overwhelm him with the sheer fury of his assault.

XXX

Sylar had a flash of a second to register the decision in Peter's face before his teeth were clacked together. _Thank god that wasn't my tongue…I need that_. The uppercut had him stumbling back and a little to the side, nothing but pavement and the road behind him. For some reason, it seemed incredibly funny to him; he laughed, thoroughly amused. He straightened, mouth opening to tell Peter just what he thought about all this, just in time to see a blur coming at his face again.

A grunt and a chuckle escaped him from that blow and he lifted a hand to feel at the side of his mouth that had been struck, but his hand never made it. Another hit landed and he stepped back as he detected, but couldn't really see, Peter moving in. He tasted blood and he grinned so Peter could see his bloody fangs.

XXX

_You think this is funny, you sick bastard?_ Peter didn't know what to think of someone he hit and hurt who laughed about it, but this was hardly the first time Sylar had had that reaction to Peter's assaults. It broke his momentum though as his barely-thinking mind tried to come up with a better way to put the suffering he felt inside of himself onto Sylar's face.

XXX

At that point, Sylar reached out to grab Peter's shirt, possibly stiff-arm him to keep him away. Peter would be at a disadvantage there with shorter, if more powerful arms. "And this is my thank-you?" he sneered, voice raspy, tossing his aching head to clear his over-long hair from his face. The blows only shook his brain up further – headaches and concussions, unhealed bruises were firing pain up his nerves.

XXX

_A thank-you? For killing my __**brother?**_ Peter thought, disconcerted and offended by the whole idea. _How insane is this asshole?_

XXX

With that Sylar yanked Peter in close and slammed his fist into Peter's face; where it landed, he didn't care – it would be inflicting pain. Sylar held him generally in place, railing on him, not as fast as Peter had on him, but he got some velocity behind his swings. "Oh, I think you can do better than that!" He snarled, giving Peter a shake with his words.

XXX

Sylar's first blow caught Peter squarely in the left eye and knocked him silly. The whole side of his face bloomed in pain and for a moment, he was blinded. He jerked and swayed more automatically than intentionally, staggering in the other man's grip. He felt himself get clipped on the jaw on the right side and there was a numbness and a click. The next instant he could see out of his right eye, though he had no idea if these two events were connected. He got hit a third time, or so he suspected, because his head jogged back violently and he felt it in his neck, even if he didn't perceive the blow itself. He still couldn't see out of his left eye and his awareness was foggy.

Peter was getting hurt and hurt bad enough that he wasn't sure what was going on. _Gotta get a breather, get back, get away_. He flailed a little, jerking backwards against Sylar's grip on his shirt and getting his right arm up to deflect Sylar's next shot at him. The half second respite that gained him as his opponent had to shift his grip and balance let Peter's head clear a bit more. The next time he yanked backwards it was intentional. He heard his shirt tear, but it didn't quite give and for a moment Peter hung there, leaned back so far he was held upright only by Sylar's fist in his clothes. Just in case that wasn't enough, Peter lifted up his right foot and drove it forward, aiming to kick out Sylar's leg and hopefully kneecap him.

XXX

Peter looked like he was going to go down for the count and Sylar mentally applauded himself. It was not very often (ever, if he was honest) that he won a fist-fight with Peter Petrelli, the world's brattiest, most suicidal, heroic brawler. And somehow he always forgot the part where Peter surprised him.

The smaller man took his beating, making all his typical funny noises, before his brain apparently came back online. Peter leaned back; Sylar heard or felt some of the man's shirt ripping as Peter stuck his arm out, just enough to get in the flight-path of Sylar's fist. Dimly Sylar noted it was his right hand, the broken one and that if he wanted to, he could crunch Peter's fingers again just for the hell of it. Sylar settled for grabbing the hand and throwing it aside, cocking his fist back once again. He had little interest in fighting Peter when he was maimed – Sylar wanted him healed and at full capacity to test his mettle.

At first he had enough weight and balance to hold Peter up. Sylar lurched forward as Peter did something with his feet; suddenly the balance was all on Sylar's left side. He risked a quick glance down and saw Peter's foot zipping towards his weighted knee. Sylar's eyes widened and he had to make an instant decision, choosing to suddenly bend the knee and change Peter's target area.

_Did he just try to jack my knee? That little-_ Sylar had time to remember the groin-shot at Mercy and being kicked while literally down on the floor. Those were hits that lingered in his memory. By then the kick connected, and Sylar grunted, feeling something of an instant cramp go up the side of his thigh where Peter had basically stamp-kicked with the full use of the sole of his foot. He still felt a twist in his knee and sadly it was his left limb – the same that had bruised toes.

Now completely off balance and angry at the low-blow (literally), Sylar added a shove as he fell forward, snarling, intending to bash Peter into the concrete and use him as a pillow, gripping that much harder onto Peter's shirt.

XXX

Peter had expected to fall, whether because Sylar released him or fell as well he hadn't known or cared, as long as it got him away from fists to his face. _Hate him!_ He registered satisfaction that his kick struck home solidly, even if it wasn't quite the crippling blow he'd intended.

He went down harder than he had anticipated. He had a split second to see that Sylar was going to come down on top of him. It was enough time to try to jerk his knees up. Maybe he'd catch the other man in the groin or hip, but at the very least it would keep Sylar's bulk from landing directly on his torso and driving all his air out. Peter tried to catch himself, but the hands he'd thrown back weren't quite fast enough, plus he hadn't remembered that one hand was in a brace.

His weight came crashing down on those two hands and his right hurt with a sudden, white-hot surge that took all thought away from him. He buckled immediately. His cry of pain was cut short by Sylar smashing into him, a heavy weight slamming him the rest of the way into the pavement. Peter flailed weakly, struggling to get his hands back in front of him while lost in a world of hurt. He wanted to get the other man off him, to fight through the lancing pain from his right hand, and to suck in enough air to keep going. What he wanted didn't seem to be what was happening.

If he'd had enough attention to pay to it, he'd have noticed he could see a little now out of his left eye, even if it was tinged with red and everything was blobby. He was too punch drunk to do it though, even if his life might depend on it. Real fear began to creep in and threatened to push out wrath as the predominant emotion he was feeling at the moment.

XXX

Sylar all but heard Peter smack into the concrete. But then he had to figure out how he was supposed to land on someone with minimal damage and awkwardness. He heard Peter's cry and by then he was mere inches from slamming him again with his body. At the last second he saw Peter's legs jerk and his bony hip came down hard into Peter's knee. Again, he grunted as the skin scraped over his bone, his body trying to curl to protect his groin even as gravity fought the motion as he was going down, not moving up and away. The knee slid off his hip, not fast enough to suit him, and continued its gouge into his abdomen, forcing the air up and out from him.

_Ow_, was his first muddled thought, resuming the fight seemed beyond him for a few seconds that he probably couldn't spare. His leg was burning with pain as the tensed muscles struggled around the kick site and now he had no air with a badly bruised hip._ Little bitch tried to rack me. Again__._ Achingly, Sylar dragged himself up to hands and knees over Peter who lay there looking dirty from lacerations and contusions and extremely out of it – it was a cute look for him, Sylar decided.

Sudden shifts in atmosphere triggered his headache and it hurt to see and move, his spine feeling stiff if he had to make a motion. He sat up, struggling to breathe, straddling Peter, holding himself up with a hand, preparing the other in a fist as he shook his head slowly again to clear it of fog and hair in his face. "I'm not opposed to Hallmark cards of gratitude, Pete," he whispered, panting, eyeing the man's labored face with interest. _Of course, there's lots of ways you, O Talented One, could thank me… or hate me. _Sylar gestured with his fist to try to gauge just how out Peter was. Something or someone in him was seriously twisting, roiling around in his already abused stomach at the sight of Peter this hurt and it wasn't exactly a new feeling.

XXX

At first, Peter lay there like a fish out of water, gasping for air and without the capacity to do much other than flop. Fortunately, Sylar wasn't doing anything to him anyway. The other man lifted himself up and Peter finally managed to suck in breaths. He instinctively tried to shrink back against the pavement, away from the recent source of his hurt, but that wasn't going to work. Vaguely he was aware of Sylar saying something about Hallmark cards and although a small, idiotically belligerent part of him wanted him to react to what was probably a taunt, the rest of Peter was more concerned with keeping himself in one as-functional-as-possible piece.

There was motion; Sylar drew back his right fist. Peter flinched his head to one side and got his hands up, open and with palms facing his opponent, intent on catching or deflecting the blow that didn't come. With an effort, Peter's eyes focused on Sylar's fist. It swayed slightly with the other man's breathing, but it wasn't crashing down on Peter's face. Peter's eyes darted past that fist to Sylar's expression, which was intent and attentive, but not … _I think I've got a moment. He's just looking at me. Why the hell did he stop?_

XXX

Peter squirmed once as Sylar settled in, the other man lying there groaning and turning his head back and forth and Sylar noticed that his eyes looked really out of it. Blood was in the medic's left eye and Peter kept reflexively blinking it. Sylar didn't move other than to get his wind back, watching Peter react to the fist, flinching when he brought it to bear. The other man's hands came up as if that would help him avoid the violence. It was amusing, actually. But inspiring fear was getting old – it only protected Sylar for so long and it had never gotten him what he wanted. So he stared Peter down, not getting much eye contact in return, but he didn't expect it and vigilantly watched Peter's gaze.

XXX

Peter made use of the time by swiping at his left eye. His fingers came away with blood and he had a flash of automatic fear that anyone would, as his hindbrain cringed from the possibility that his eye - such an important part of his body - was bloody and might be permanently messed up. The more rational, experienced part of him immediately figured that his brow had torn when Sylar had hit him earlier._ If I can see at all through it, then I'm probably fine._ Peter glanced between his fingers and Sylar's face and fist, trying to gauge how much time he was going to be allowed. He wiped more thoroughly, clearing his vision.

XXX

Sylar saw Peter check him twice, obviously waiting for the primed hit. Sylar didn't hit people when they were down, no. People like that were ignored for weakness…or slain for their power. Otherwise they obviously weren't worth the trouble. He had no interest in incapacitating Peter – it would be permanent here and if that happened, Peter would be no fun. However, it was important that Peter know the reason for the surcease. Peter looked preoccupied with his bloody eye and Sylar was interested in the blood. _How many times have I seen that?_

He ignored his injuries, pushing above the throbbing pain of his chin and rattled teeth and took time to feel the body heat under him. _That's…that's been a while._ Peter looked helpless and all Sylar wanted to do was get him interested, remind him who was boss. _Kinky sex?_ He found his eyes roaming over Peter, taking in details. _I have him right where I want him. What's he going to allow?_Peter's throat was looking very tempting, more so than usual that is, and he found his eyes lingering there.

XXX

Sylar was looking him over and Peter wasn't so shaken up he didn't notice the shift in desire from inflicting pain to … something else - an interest that he recognized, but this sure as hell wasn't the situation for it. _Er …_ Peter's mind hiccupped around that one, not sure how to react any more than if Sylar had begun discussing the baking of cakes with him.

"Get off of me," he tried to say commandingly, but it came out more as a croak as his jaw didn't flex or move as it should have. The statement was at least intelligible as the words he'd intended. He bared his teeth, but he didn't do anything else. His head was ringing and throbbing, one leg and hip felt wrenched (he supposed something had happened when Sylar had fell on him - Peter hadn't registered it at the time but he felt it now), and he could see that the brace on his right hand had shifted position. Peter still had fight in him - he would as long as he could draw breath - but he sure wasn't inviting more at the moment. _What was that I thought before? That at this rate I'd be dead in a week?_

XXX

Peter tried to order him, tried to back it up with a mean expression. Sylar just snorted, opening his hand and delivering a slap to Peter's already abused face, reveling in getting away with it and enjoying the sound it made – it wasn't even that hard of a slap. "Don't mouth off to me; you're in no position. You can always try asking nicely, big boy."

XXX

Peter's words brought Sylar's eyes back to his own, and a shift in expression to momentarily more focused on Peter as a person rather than Peter as a body. Sylar feinted with his fist and Peter blocked it, but then, Sylar's hand too close to have much momentum, the other man switched and darted his hand in to deliver an open-handed slap. It landed on the most damaged part of Peter's face, the left cheek.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, snapping his head to the side as far more pain than normal for such a blow radiated through his injured face. Breathing hard, he looked up at the other man as Sylar followed up his apparently-disciplinary strike with condescension. _What am I willing to do to get out of being hurt worse?_ Peter's mind was blank for a moment of anything but jumbled emotions: fear, anger, the constant perception of pain, dread, resentment. Despite polling his feelings, the answer was basically rational. He wouldn't be able to handle having Sylar push him around any more than he had taken it well from anyone else in his life. _I'd rather be dead. _He knew that; he knew it about himself. His defensiveness kicked over to offense and the first thing he needed to do was deal with this inappropriately sexual interest.

"Not this time."

Peter brought up the leg that wasn't wrenched, driving it into Sylar from behind. If he was lucky, he'd hit him in the crotch, depending on angle and position – factors Peter didn't bother to check because the ass would suffice. All he really wanted to do was shift Sylar's attention, for just a moment, off Peter's face and hands. That achieved, Peter's left hand shot forward for the taller man's shirt, to yank him forward as Peter curled upward, tucking his chin and bringing his forehead up for as solid a head butt as he could manage. His last thought before impact was, _I haven't hurt my forehead yet, have I? I'm running low on body parts that don't hurt … _

XXX

Sylar sniggered, or tried to. It came out something of a muffled snort. His sinuses were shot to hell. The concussion and recent pounding was doing his cranial cavities no help. Then again, if Peter just played ball… The other man's yelp of exaggerated pain (or so Sylar saw it) was funny this time, not just amusing. _Wuss__,_ he thought.

He wasn't given any time to react to Peter's little declaration of rebellious intent. One of Peter's knees came up and jarred his butt, digging firmly enough into his spine to tip him forward. More forward of what he already was, both hands in Peter's shirt as they were left him with only his knees for balance; he was probably invading Peter's space now (then again, he wasn't a great judge of these things). His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a kind of grunted gasp of almost-reply and surprise.

The forward lurch was assisted as he was yanked down into Peter's forehead and all he had time to think was _Damnit, not my head again!_ Before the world flashed and he saw little and felt nothing but pain. His head felt like a helium balloon again, maybe one filled with some type of burning acid-y lead for blood. Sylar groaned, slumping forward, barely conscious enough to curl to the side. Saddest part was, he knew Petrelli hadn't laid that hard of a hit. He only hoped his brain hadn't bruised a second time because if so…Peter probably meant business, probably meant to finish him off. His brain giggled without permission, _death by concussion. _

XXX

Peter's forehead crashed into Sylar's with a solid 'conk!' that probably meant a good jarring, but nothing broken. Sylar's collapse was the best thing that could have happened as a result, but Peter found himself suddenly confused and disoriented from the additional head impact on top of all the others. He thumped back down with Sylar partly atop him. _Ow. Ow. Ow. What is he doing? Did he pass out? Get off of me!_ He shoved at the other man's weight once and then a second time when the first was ineffectual. Peter disentangled himself and struggled upright reaching with his right hand to fumble at his face. _What's this thing on my hand? Oh, yeah, brace. Fuck. Broken hand. _He switched to his left, touching at his forehead gingerly.

He gave a slow groan, then wiped at his left eye again. Fresh blood was in it, or maybe just more blood, and it was beginning to swell shut. Sylar made a similar noise of pain and Peter looked at him. _I need to … I need to … do something … he's going to … what's he going to do? Shit._ He looked around, spotting the broom on the ground nearby. He'd nearly landed on it when he'd fallen earlier. Now he leaned over painfully to snag it. In his mind was a fuzzy vision of holding it over Sylar's throat, pressing it in and choking the bastard to death. He panted, staring from Sylar to the broom handle. _Choke him with the broom? Wasn't there something about gouging his eyes out? He won't be a threat if he can't see. Gouge his eyes out with the broom handle then? Crap. I shouldn't do that. Why am I doing this at all?_

_Nathan. 'He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that.' 'And this is my thank-you?' 'Hallmark cards of gratitude.' 'Nathan's dead!'_ It was nightmare fuel, all of it. A vision of Nathan's face, hanging off the hospital, swam in Peter's mind, and the split second in freefall of when he'd transformed into a grinning Sylar. _Son of a bitch._ He threw the broom aside again and turned back to Sylar, getting up on his knees, one of which did not appreciate the position. _I don't want to kill him; I just want to hurt him._ He reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sylar's shirt, jerking him closer while Peter's right pulled back and ached like a mother-fucker as he tried to ball it into a fist. He winced and cringed, looking at it. _Still broken. Yeah, okay, focus, Pete. You are completely fucked up. What's a person supposed to do when they're completely fucked up? Um … I don't remember, but there's a rule._

He let go of Sylar's shirt and drew back his left hand, able to make a fist with it at least._ I should really … I think I should just stop. This … all of this … this is not helping. I feel like shit_. He paused for a moment, staring at Sylar and hoping to see an excuse to stop fighting.

XXX

Sylar distantly felt someone trying to move him and he responded sluggishly, rolling onto his back and trying to look up at the sky, tree line, buildings, whatever. He felt the other person moving away completely and somehow he knew that was a bad sign. Slowly he turned, hearing noises that sounded like they were coming at him through a filter, bulletproof glass, distance, something; the sounds weren't fully realized to his ears. The other man was picking up a stick – broom – and kneeling above him.

_Well, it's curtains finally._ All he wrangled up was a grimace, turning his head away a little and raising up an arm to block his eyes because the light was starting to burn. After what felt like a year, he found his lungs were still drawing air and that meant he was still alive. A clatter and the other man returned to his field of vision, hauling him up and causing a rush of vertigo as his head left the ground. He reached out to grip the man's hand in his…shirt, yeah, shirt, for support. Sylar turned his eyes to Peter in time to see his fist appear, then disappear as he was dropped and he grunted, his neck barely able to cushion him from smacking into the concrete again. At least he had a reprieve before…

He was supremely unhappy; he was defenseless, seriously injured (more so than he thought he should be, mind) and Peter wasn't playing by the rules Sylar envisioned were in place – it was all for fun. That nasty, serious, almost uncalled for hit (well, Peter started the whole damn thing) made him furious.

Sylar was honest-to-god considering taking a shot at Peter's groin in response and that was against the rules. He rolled and pushed himself up to hands and knees so he, too, could kneel.

"If you were smart, you'd stop dicking around and finish me off, Petrelli. Quit being such a tease!" Sylar lunged forward, hoping his aim was better than it felt, snagging Peter around the throat and throwing him down to pin him by that pale, scrawny column. Easy enough. Peter's limbs would be at odd angles again for striking back, so Sylar moved in to straddle him a second time, leaning over to apply the right amount of pressure to keep Peter down, immobile and_ thinking _he was being strangled without causing a horrible amount of damage. "This is the part where I make you apologize for unnecessary violence, Mister I'm-Not-Like-You."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar get to his knees and he let his fist falter, convincing himself they weren't going to fight anymore because that's what he wanted to believe. _Maybe we'll just go back to arguing?_ He didn't have time to think of what to say in response to Sylar's first line before the man was on him. Peter was shoved down by the throat, choking and flailing, but at least this time he managed to take the fall better.

"Uf!" he grunted as he hit the pavement, flexing his back. He immediately tried to get up only to be pushed down matter-of-factly as Sylar straddled him. _I should have rolled. Not thinking good here_. Apparently Sylar _was_ thinking better, because this time he sat directly on Peter, his body shifted forward significantly and his center of gravity lower. It would be **much** harder to dislodge him this time. Sylar's hand came down on Peter's throat and Peter panicked, flailing for a moment and finding out that yeah, Sylar was not going to be as easily removed as before.

Peter clamped onto Sylar's wrist with his left hand, fingers digging into it. Somewhere there was a spot he could pinch that would cause Sylar to release his grip – not that this would do a lot of good, given that Sylar had two hands to Peter's one, and he didn't need to grip, but only to exert pressure. Peter twisted his head as Sylar spoke to him again and tightened his stranglehold instead of releasing. Peter hesitated _… no, wait …_ he wasn't being strangled, not even now. He was breathing and there was no particular reason why that was except that Sylar was letting him. His clasp on Sylar's wrist lightened to merely a firm hold and he tried to replay what Sylar had just said to him.

_Unnecessary violence? You started it! Sort of. What the hell was I supposed to do? Let 'I raped Claire' and 'I killed Nathan, you should thank me' pass? Why are you saying that crap to me if you __**aren't**__ trying to start a fight?_ Peter panted, baring his teeth at the killer and twisting his head again in a futile attempt to get away from the hand at his throat. He felt light-headed. "An apology? You want," he tried to clear his throat, which hurt his whole face. He winced. "You want an apology … for me trying to kick your ass after you told me I should thank you for killing my brother?" He felt a pang go through him that was as bad as any injury he'd yet taken. It showed on his face. "I _**loved**_ him."

XXX

Sylar grimaced and frowned. Sitting on Peter was nice and all, feeling on top of the world or something, but his head was killing him. His usual snappy reply seemed just out of reach in his recently clouded brain. In an instant, he'd relived every time Nathan had ever said, thought, felt or heard those words in relation to his brother, causing a buzzing vibration for a moment.

Emotionally, it was very painful to have to endure or hear._Nope, still no guilt, Pete; try again_. Sylar couldn't fathom or comprehend that level of feeling devoted to another human being, at least, something that wasn't hatred or disgust. Love. Wasn't that what every person strived for? Sweat, blood, tears, stress, pain, all for that one illusive, possibly non-existent little word; a silly, nauseous feeling? 'Love' was an excuse, a reason, a drive or goal; a religion to some, a disease to others. Then again, years of hearing that he couldn't feel, that he couldn't understand 'Love' would wear a person down.

Nathan knew love that bordered on a sense of duty, even if his personality was…a little slippery and self-serving when it came to abandoning and betraying family members. _/I love you, Pete./ __Ooh, hell no!_ "Strangely enough, that bastard loved you, too." He inwardly snorted; _And people say I can't love, it's a wonder he knew how, either. They all say I'm a monster for killing people; well at least I was quick with it. Nathan goes off the fucking grid, snatching people from their homes to imprison them for what? I worked in Building 26 twice. Peter went in once and barely got to look around. He has no idea what Nathan did or planned to do – he was going to give everyone abilities one minute, then kill every special the next. At least I'm consistent._

"It's really not my job to teach you manners, Peter, but I see we might need a crash course. As fun as this is, your suicidal urges are going to. get._ annoying_," Sylar hissed, bloody teeth leaning down into Peter's face, similar to what the other man had done at the start. "You're not winning a prize or saving someone's life so you can ease off the damn 'death' throttle unless you really wanna die – I can make that happen."

"Impressive and heroic your stamina may be, but you're defending a dead guy. Do you really want to do this," Sylar inched to shift his weight, located over Peter's pelvis,_ just barely_, "all day?" He managed to narrow his eyes a bit for effect. "You're so much more of a…" he pretended to search for the word, "lover, than a fighter." _God knows you almost suck at that part; all those morals getting in your way._

XXX

Peter's grip tightened on Sylar's wrist as the other man leaned in. It didn't escape Peter's awareness that Sylar's face was now in an easy range to punch, even if he couldn't get much of a swing on him while flat on the pavement. Still, the fight was leaking out of him steadily as the adrenaline faded and the pain rose. Peter turned his face away a quarter, but keeping his eyes on Sylar. It was a mixed signal, but half of it was 'I give up'. It was a cautious, defensive surrender said through body language.

"You wanna talk about manners?" Peter still had his face turned to the left - he could barely see out of that eye anyway and the whole left side of his face was throbbing. "Here's one for you to work on: Show some respect!" he spat out. Peter swallowed roughly and made a tug at Sylar's wrist. It didn't have much force behind it and wasn't a yank, just a tug to encourage him to get his hand off of Peter's neck. Peter didn't like it there. It was a constant threat, like trying to have a conversation with someone who had a gun pointed at you.

"I _care_ about my family and I'm not going to _apologize_ for that." He thought about making the low blow of mentioning his belief that Sylar had no family worth mentioning, but that wasn't the sort of thing Peter thought he should be using as a weapon. Even if other Petrellis wouldn't have overlooked the opportunity to impugn Sylar's relations or lack thereof. Peter's gaze left Sylar's face and wandered to the ruined storefront beyond.

XXX

Sylar's lip curled a little_. I need manners? I was raised with as much manners, if not more, than any Petrelli – I just choose not to use them._ 'Respect'. Such a horrible word. Everyone wanted it, some deserved it, few got it. Sylar only understood respecting something bigger and better than he was. It was hard to respect a bunch of nitwit wannabe's who got lucky and could never make their power stick, try as they might. Clearly they all failed at gaining his respect, 'A for effort and some creativity, maybe drive'. Their cruelty to humanity by treating it as a legal right to use people like animals and serious abuses of power and wealth left him no respect for them at all, except a wariness as to the threat they presented. Parkman, Angela and Bennet in that order. Claire and Peter (formerly Nathan) on the physical front.

Nathan understood respect as playing along, playing the political game – the family game. Some respect, in his profession, was needed or at the least the illusion of respect. It was a way of buying time, to think, to plan, to throw off one's opponent. 'Respect' was a smile, nod, and a wave of a champagne glass. Maybe Nathan didn't take it so damn personal or something.

Sylar couldn't respect some stupid, self-serving, abusive, lying asshole even in death. The same idiot who'd pissed away his life. He respected and understood (probably way more than Peter knew) Peter's devotion and undying love for the bastard senator more than Sylar wanted to admit. That kind of love for a fucked up system was nothing if not down his alley. Still, Peter wasn't stupid (just slow sometimes) and he knew that Nathan had it coming a few times over; the same way Sylar had it coming. Sylar was just smarter, planned better, ruthlessly murdered competition or threat to avoid it in ways Nathan couldn't or chose not to. That's what made him top of the food chain (or so he tried to tell himself now).

Peter quit paying attention and that bugged him, so he glared even though his intended target missed it. His retinal muscles strained to accomplish it. The implication therein was that Sylar didn't care for his own family. By the letter of his own law, he shouldn't care for dead family either, regardless of the fucked up system.

XXX

Peter contemplated his own recent sins, not by cataloguing them intellectually or remembering specifics, but by recalling the hate and rage he'd felt that he couldn't find Sylar when he wanted him. He'd given himself permission to rampage because Sylar's integrity didn't matter to him. He had not done right and he felt that, even if he was still having difficulty according Sylar the same respect he was demanding. Peter's mind toyed with that realization of hypocrisy, turning it different ways, feeling around the edges. He wasn't sure what to do with it.

There was at least one concession he was willing to make. "You wanted me to ask nicely?" His nose wrinkled briefly in disgust but he forced his way on, "Fine, I will." He looked back at Sylar, turning to face him directly and softening his voice as much as he could. It still sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth - because he was, his jaw wasn't working right - but his tone was less aggressive and close to pleading. "Will you _please_ stop provoking me?" Peter shook his head a little, twisting his neck against Sylar's hand with a grimace. "I know you know what you're doing." _Or else you wouldn't be doing it. This is twice in a week and at this rate we're not going to make it._

XXX

If Sylar could have, he would have raised at least one eyebrow. Given the pain in his head, moving facial muscles, particularly any above his nose, wasn't worth it. _He thinks I'm…?_ "You think I'm provoking you?" Sylar asked, surprised. _Of course he'd see if that way, wouldn't he? _The pleading in combination with the squirming was working and Sylar didn't appreciate that. _I know what I'm- what? He thinks I planned this? If I wanted something I could have, I'd fucking take it, not beat around the bush! _His expression turned a little puzzled.

Sylar had to think back to the exchanges before the blows, both times. _Claire being raped was it? Seriously? That's just insulting on every level – his niece is not that hot. Maybe she would be if she could keep her mouth shut and her nose out of trouble; seems to be a Petrelli trait._ Then this time…Sylar's thumb moved from the right side of Peter's throat, leaving the rest of his fingers, his hand in place against the other man's throat. To him it didn't feel out of place. His grip released, Peter was free to move around, wiggle around, whatever. Sylar wanted to defend that he wasn't provoking – Peter was just sensitive. What he said instead was, "Since you asked nicely," his voice equally soft as Peter's.

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar, dubious about the surprised tone, but the man seemed serious, if confused. Peter opened his mouth to say something incredulous anyway, but then Sylar was moving his hand, or at least part of it and Peter shut his mouth without speaking. Sylar was no longer on the verge of throttling him, but he was still touching Peter's throat for some reason. _Not in the right spot to be taking my pulse, so what's he doing?_ Peter tucked his chin and looked down, not that this helped much. He could see his own bloody hand on Sylar's wrist. He moved it away uncertainly, leaving behind smeary red imprints of his grip.

XXX

Peter gave him that 'What are you?' look and Sylar held back his instinctive urge to sigh and move away. The other man began to speak, then decided against it and that gave him an odd surge of hope for some reason. Peter glanced at his, their hands (or as near as he could), releasing Sylar's wrist_. What's this? What's going on here? He's letting me? (This beats breaking his hand. Literally. If I survive this, I'll be thrilled)._ Again, another desire to thumb away, gently, of course, at Peter's surprisingly soft neck.

XXX

Peter reached up and touched his left eye. He could feel warm blood trickling over his temple into his hair. He supposed it was an improvement over getting it in his eye. His breathing was slowing down to normal. His fingers went under his left ear, to the curve of his jaw, an inch from Sylar's hand. Peter probed at the joint. Hopefully this would be something he could pop back into place.

"Yeah, I thi- thought you were trying to provoke me. What the hell else was that stunt with the bear, or talking like you're Nathan and calling me 'Pete'? Those were _intentional_. Why did you do that?" Peter had a lot of experience with being lied to. He studied Sylar's face.

XXX

This was all…quite strange. Peter was carrying on almost like he wasn't there; checking his own medical status while Sylar still, basically, sat on him. Although he had since put some distance between their faces because too close was just too close. Getting close only served a purpose if it was effective and…Peter seemed to shrug it off, the average disgust and sense of defilement at his proximity seemingly not present with the empath. He was almost afraid his eyes were too wide. _What is this?_

Peter's hand moved to check his….jaw and Sylar's eyes zeroed in on that area. Now he heard multiple clicks – the ones that should come from the man's wristwatch, the ability (abilities) in the man's head, his heartbeat (not really a click, but a sound, since he was so close) and now the sound of a misplaced joint. The other man said something, but he'd almost tuned him out, "Shh," he said, bringing his other hand up to gently, gently grasp the opposite side of Peter's face, jaw and chin specifically; his right hand currently sliding up to hold onto Peter's skull. There was no aggression in the touch, but his eyes never moved from the joint of the man's jaw.

XXX

Peter's breathing rate shot up again and probably his heartbeat, too, as he tensed all over at that touch. 'You're in no position' came back to him, along with a memory of Sylar looking at him like this in the past. The expression on Sylar's face had shifted to an intensity and concentration that took Peter back to that night in Mohinder's apartment, himself fixed against the wall and Sylar cutting into his head. Peter had died that night. Now he twitched, trying to suppress the fear as he brought both hands up to hover a half dozen inches from Sylar's arms. His emotions were in a jumble. He wasn't sure how to react to what was clearly a cautious, careful touch. Peter bared his teeth, blinking rapidly, his eyes darting over Sylar's face and trying to read his motives.

XXX

"Stop….moving…this shouldn't hurt," was his 'I'm working here' delivery, maneuvering Peter's jaw around – back and forth, open and closed. "Didn't know…" his face jerked into a quick frown and he shut himself up. He hadn't been aware Peter's jaw had been damaged; seemed like the least he could do unless Peter threw him off or didn't relax enough to fix it.

XXX

Peter moved his feet and then brought them up so they were flat on the ground, bending his knees. He could flex his whole body and buck Sylar upwards, perhaps enough to twist to the side and start the process of getting away from him. It was an option. _Hold on. Calm down. He's trying to pop my jaw back in. I think. I think that's what he's doing. He could do worse. I don't think he's trying to hurt me. He helped with my hand, before, getting the brace on. He was okay then. He didn't make things worse. He wasn't even a jerk about it. _Sylar manipulated his jaw and Peter tensed against it anyway.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Peter hissed. "Gimme a second. I gotta relax." _Or else it__** will**__ hurt._ He shut his eyes with an effort and tried to take a couple deep breaths. His nerves were more jangled by the sudden shift in Sylar's conduct than if the man had kept threatening him. He opened his eyes, as relaxed as he was likely to get with Sylar bent over him, examining him like he was trying to find the right puzzle piece to complete the picture.


	24. Follow You Home

**A/N: Some stalker-ish behavior, home invasion, hurt & comfort themes, otherwise aftercare of a fight and blood. **

Day 9

Peter appeared to panic somewhat, calling time. Sylar paused and tried to snap himself out of it; the need to fix was almost overwhelming. It occurred to him then that it made him appear 'kind'. _What are you doing?_ He thought to ask of himself. He felt the tension in the other man's body, previously ignoring the raised knees, his own hands growing loose.

Sylar grunted, expression morphing into that of a scowl. "Yeah, you do that." He released Peter's head, wanting to slap the man again, but he lay his hands on his thighs, sitting straight. Still eyeing Peter, he hoped to wig him out through the undivided attention. He also wasn't moving away from the straddle.

He was comfortable and the touch of another human being's skin in his hands was not only sorely needed (making his nerves cry for more), but it was unlike any other texture in the world. Sylar had done lots of touching, on objects, here in the barren world, just to see what there was. His curiosity had been fairly satisfied through the years. 'Barren' seemed a good word – touching human flesh was similar to receiving water in the desert, granted it was measured in droplets, granted the droplets came with close-to-fatal beatings. _Well, wow, thank you for that little reminder_, he thought to his own mind for being so poetically pathetic.

And, okay, yes; he wanted to watch Peter try to figure out how to fix his jaw himself and not helping him (especially or because of those nasty hits) would be fitting revenge. Sylar blinked and swallowed, feeling much more woozy and unbalanced despite his stable position. _Don't die on me now,_ he instructed himself.

XXX

Peter stared right back at Sylar, any easing of the tension in his muscles having vanished when Sylar pulled away. _Is he going to try to hit me some more? Or get up? _Peter's eyes widened and his hands pulled in a little towards his face. His right hand reminded him how much it still hurt. He ignored it. But Sylar didn't do either of the things Peter expected. Instead, he just sat there. _He's not out of breath. What the hell is he doing? Waiting for me to__** make **__him get off of me? Sylar, you're not even sitting on me all that much. _The other man had most of his weight on his long, folded legs. _Why would I risk getting beat on some more, when the fight's already been settled? It's over. Done. You won. Huh … wait … maybe he's waiting for me to admit that? Ha._

Peter would. Probably. Eventually. He wasn't in any hurry at the moment. Sylar was still glaring at him petulantly. The man wobbled a little bit, bringing to Peter's mind the head-butt, and the probable concussion he'd given Sylar a few days earlier. Peter smirked (_at least I made him pay_) and proceeded to ignore the asshole. He touched his jaw again, rubbing at the joint on the left side. _I need both hands for this._ He eyed the brace on his right hand. It had slipped up an inch and either bent, or he wasn't seeing it right_. Don't think I'm seeing it right. Shouldn't have bent. My hand's just turned funny. Damn, I hope I didn't break my wrist! It doesn't __**feel**__ broken. Wait … yeah, I think the brace is twisted. No wonder it hurts like hell. Probably sprained my wrist while I was at it._

He took hold of the lower Velcro strap of the brace with his left hand and without hesitation gave it a single, steady pull. It hurt agonizingly worse, an overpowering ache that made him kick against the ground and grit his teeth, rising up against Sylar as an unintended consequence. Peter groaned aloud, louder than the sound of the parting Velcro. With the greatest relief, he felt the final part of the strap release and his right hand jerk to the side without that grip holding it. Peter's head throbbed and everything turned alternately black and brilliant for a few seconds.

XXX

Gosh, Peter was just jittery, flinching and staring and whatever else he was doing. Sylar (and Nathan) wished to have a better understanding of how Peter's brain worked because not knowing was annoying as hell. Sure he might know how Peter would react, but that wasn't the same as knowing the motivation and Peter was nothing if not good at throwing people for loops despite his well-known predictability. He was predictably unpredictable. Annoying as hell.

As such, Peter went about his own business, checking his broken fingers, surely. Sylar had nothing else to watch; there was literally nothing else to see. Peter looked at the brace like there was something wrong and that had Sylar confused because it looked fine, if the position of the brace was off and that drew his attention all the more. This time he didn't offer to help because….Peter hadn't asked. (_What the fuck were you thinking? Trying to help him with his jaw?_) Maybe something was wrong with his fingers…?

The other man fussed with the brace (making more noise than Sylar thought he should, but whatever; it was entertaining), Sylar thought he was attempting to remove it which struck him as ridiculous and unnecessary, but soon saw it was an attempt at resituating. Mid-way through the man's first pull to shift the brace down his arm and fingers therein, Peter…arched?

Sylar's eyes widened as he could not decide whether to "ride it out" so to speak or abandon ship. _Oh….um…What?_ Sylar partly turned his head away, glancing down to check what Peter was actually doing (adjusting the brace or so it would seem). It just got weird since Peter was, well, a _guy_. A muscle jerked in his face, not that Peter would see as Sylar looked around as a reflex. He got the distinct feeling that he did not want to be _there_ right then. He couldn't figure out how to get distance without…going back on his 'generous offer' from a few days ago. _All about signals…(what do I do?) _He did move into a kneeling position after a few seconds and that afforded him more space as he stared down at Peter, not scowling now, but frowning. _What the hell was that?_

Peter's grip, thankfully, slipped as he accomplished his mission, slumping back but Sylar wasn't ready to forgive him whatever the hell that stunt had been – he'd had enough tricks for one day. Petrelli looked zoned, like, really zoned, so Sylar nudged him with a knee. What he wanted to say was along the lines of 'Um…hello?' but what he spoke aloud, with contempt, was, "You through? That was a real show."

XXX

Peter's focus on the world pulled back slowly and he found himself being pushed in the side a little. He blinked up at the other man, listening to what he had to say while noting Sylar had risen on his knees while Peter had been distracted. Peter gave a brief, weak roll of his eyes in response to Sylar's words. He looked at his right hand. That last jerk on it had also served to pull the brace down and into position. All he needed to do now, theoretically, was refasten the strap.

Peter raised his left hand to it, noting there was a slight tremor in his fingers. _That really hurt like hell_. He sighed and pressed the strap back sort of loosely so it wouldn't flop around. It wasn't tight like it should be, but if he only had one hand to devote to it, then it was difficult to tighten without jostling the whole hand, broken fingers included. It was why he'd solicited Sylar's help initially with the brace._ I'll tighten it up right … later._

For now, he took a couple deep breaths and touched the left joint of his jaw, rubbing at it. After a moment, he brought his right thumb over to the other side. He stared up at Sylar, then let his eyes drift down to the middle of the man's chest, going unfocused. He relaxed, breathed deeply, and tried to empty his mind. Peter had some experience meditating and playing with altered consciousness. He let his eyelids droop and felt his face relax. His left eye throbbed all the more at first, then hurt less as the tension dispersed.

He remained too aware of Sylar, a small fear worrying at him that the man would interrupt. He put it aside and moved his jaw, flexing it and feeling through the problem. _There. Right there._ He found the pressure point, let out one last breath, and pushed firmly. It released with a pop and a wave of good feeling. "Ahhh," Peter said, one side of his mouth smiling. He was too relaxed to put the effort he usually did into making his whole face move. He moved his jaw up and down slowly, enjoying full mobility in it again. _If only all my problems were solved so easily._

"Show's over, I think," Peter said, voice tired but now speaking more normally since he could move his mouth right. He reached down with his left hand and patted Sylar on the outside of the thigh, above his knee. "Let me up." For a half-second, he debated tacking on 'please'. He didn't like it. He didn't like the patina of begging that it put on the situation. He was asking for an action that anyone gracious in victory should do automatically. _Victory - that's the angle_. "Come on, man. You won."

XXX

_I don't feel so good_…Peter squirmed, zoned some more and managed to figure how to fix his jaw or so Sylar assumed based off his expression (although Sylar had basically shown him how). Oh wise medicine man wasn't so hot at keeping himself tip-top. Then again…Sylar supposed he was the man who could fix anything and couldn't fix himself either, not that he'd let on. Yet.

Peter could manage a grin, a relieved one, but Sylar was ready to cry purely from the pressures and bruises on his prized brain. It was damn painful. His toes hurt, his leg hurt, his hip and stomach hurt, his face hurt, his knuckles hurt. His back and neck were still fucked up from their last fight and the stiffness was sinking in rapidly. If he didn't get home soon and get in a decent position, he'd be in for one hell of a painful walk assuming he could walk at all.

"Huh," was Sylar's grunt. _Show's over, huh? Taking requests now?_ Dazedly he watched Peter's outstretched hand until it patted his leg. Sylar swallowed. _That's awful familiar of him_…Sylar backhanded Peter's chest without any force, already moving by 'Let me up'. He couldn't complete his dismount – getting back onto all fours to push himself up left him too dizzy to see or even feel the concrete under him. The world veered to the left and he skidded over onto his elbow, albeit off Peter.

He lay blinking for a moment before pushing himself back up, trying to find the world in his sights again with limited, tunnel black vision. Sylar got to his knees and clawed his way up the side of the goddamn store until he stood, moving away from it. Inhaling he clawed his hair back, spreading his stance a little wide to keep himself upright. "So this is winning with you, Peter?" he murmured, hoping to stall the man with dialogue until his eyesight was back. _Two for two…Wasn't that son of a bitch asking me something before?_

XXX

"Yeah, you beat me," Peter answered, still lying on his back, watching Sylar's obviously difficult process of standing. Peter was gratified to know that kicking his ass had not been easy, or without cost. That, more than any moral qualm, would slow Sylar down from trying it again in future. _Of course, if I'm the one punching him in the face, the idea that he's going to let that slide without defending himself is pretty stupid. He's gonna fight __**back**__, Peter. If I really want to quit getting my ass beat, then I have to quit punching him!_

He sighed. It was easier thought than done. He felt horrible and he **still** somewhat wanted to hurt Sylar. Peter curled his back and sat up with a groan. He was pretty sure he had bruises along his spine, or would have them, from the fall. Sylar wavered a bit next to him, too close, but apparently doing his best just to keep his feet.

XXX

Sylar kept an eye on Peter as the other man sat up. Peter really didn't get it, did he? All those nasty hits – what was he thinking? Sure the dude was hurting, but such was life. Besides, if Peter's "mission" here was to have him save some broad, what good would he do if Sylar was some brain-mushed, limping veggie? And one-handed Peter? _Yeah. Let's save the world now, you dope._

XXX

_Concussion,_ Peter's brain supplied without prompting. _Dizziness, confusion, nausea, sensitivity to light and sound. Oh, and avoid repeated trauma, like having assholes head-butt you a couple days after the initial injury. Huh. Yeah, well …_ Peter knew he should feel kind of guilty about that, and in a distant sort of way he did, but they'd been fighting and you got what you got in a fight. He stood up next to Sylar, gingerly testing his own leg, the one most of Sylar's weight had landed on earlier. His hip felt loose and it hurt (like everything else, just about), but he figured he could walk on it. Standing had caused his face to throb again and his head to ache from where he'd slammed his forehead into Sylar's. _I need an ice pack, stat. Where's a nurse when you need one? Oh yeah … I'm it._

Peter's eyes raked across the storefront. "You know, funny … I tore this place up with the intention of hurting you. Guess it worked out after all." He made a resigned exhalation. "That really sucks." Peter reached out and put his hand on Sylar's upper arm, testing the response to being touched before doing something more definite like trying to lead him. "Let me walk you back to your apartment. Yours is on the way to mine, anyway."

XXX

"Eat glass, Peter," Sylar grouched, managing to inflect enough aggression and anger to sound pretty close to his usual, more deadly self. "If there were anyone alive they'd join you and give you your desired gold star. What a hero," the wry sarcasm dripped from his bloody mouth while he now tried to clean out with his tongue. "Aww, now you wanna be my hero, too?" _Hell no, kid. Tried to crush my knee, crush my balls and smash my brain around, all unforgivable things to a man._ I _have played_ fucking nice_!_

Peter stood and soon enough Sylar felt a touch on his arm. Sylar quickly shifted the hand off. _Oh, get real, man_. "Touch me again and I will hurt you," he delivered seriously. _Finally!_ His vision sharpened and some of the black fog cleared and he was able to see more and see a little clearer now, thank goodness. As if that were a signal, Sylar threw Peter the best look he could manage (in what he could gather was Peter's general direction) and limped off towards _his_ apartment.

XXX

_Great. Asshole._ Peter watched Sylar go, not moving and thereby playing defense - attracting no attention and setting off no additional alarms for Sylar, whom he sort of hoped was confused and disoriented and not genuinely that filled with hate at the moment. With Sylar though, Peter really couldn't tell. Angry after a fight - he certainly understood that and he took Sylar's threat quite seriously, concussed or not. _Combative, aggressive patient, either way_. He watched Sylar walk off unevenly to the north for about ten feet before Peter glanced back at the storefront and the bucket of glass shards nearby. _I don't want to clean this up right now. I want to go home and get an ice pack, lie down for a while. _He looked after Sylar. _And I want to make sure he gets home, doesn't break his stupid neck trying to get up the stairs to his apartment._

XXX

_Oo, let me walk you home. What am I, an eight-year-old schoolgirl who needs babysitting? Here's your rape whistle._ Sylar snorted in amusement to himself because in his increasingly flawed logic, it was funny for all his life experiences, ironic in its own ways. _How stupid does he think I am? Come follow me home, Peter._

Unfortunately, his vertigo shifted, again, to the left, so he decided to roll with the punches, so to speak with no puns intended, and followed his swerving feet to make the first turn not thirty feet from where Peter and the storefront were located. He was now at a right angle to his apartment, but that strangely didn't bother him or his (fuzzy) mental map skills even if it was a stupid or childish mistake. _Let Peter think I don't wanna walk home with him…while I get lost in circles. /__Like that male model who couldn't turn left…what was that movie again?__/ But this time I can't turn right!_

XXX

Peter was watching as Sylar veered suddenly left - the angle of his head, position of his hands and general demeanor all telegraphing wooziness and dizziness. Peter started after him, reviewing in his head his lack of desire for getting punched, or swung on, or otherwise hurt at this stage of things. His hip joint still hurt and, like Sylar, he limped, but not as badly.

As he closed to a little over ten feet, he spoke. "Sylar? _Sy_lar?" he said, emphasizing the first syllable more than usual to get the man's attention, but still speaking in a normal conversational volume. "Hey. I'm worried you're gonna face-plant into the pavement. You have a _concussion_." Peter softened his voice a little. "Remember a couple days ago, right after you got hit in the head, and you laid down on the couch … I got you an ice pack. Do you remember that? That's all I want to do – walk you somewhere that you can lay down, get you an ice pack. Then I'll leave you alone."

Actually Peter intended to do a little more than that to make sure Sylar didn't check out on him entirely, but he was keeping it simple. He was also staying back about twelve feet from the man. Peter could easily be rushed, but it put him too far away for casual swipes. He worried – it also put him too far out to catch Sylar if he fell, unless he happened to stagger in Peter's direction first. Not that Peter was certain he'd stay up if abruptly burdened by Sylar's weight. He wasn't in the best of shape himself at this point.

XXX

He heard a voice coming from somewhere and he gave the world's most difficult, pained frown_. What is that voice? So familiar… Peter. Petey Pete. What's he want? Wait….what's he want now? He wants to win one?_

"Wha-at?" was Sylar's exasperated, tired reply. The man continued talking at him. "You're just here to watch me face plant." Peter stopped making any sense. "Yes! I remember that!" he burst out. _So what?_

"You want….to walk me home, lay me down and play maid? Or nurse, sorry…nurse." Sylar exhaled through his nose. It would have been a snort or snicker otherwise, but he lacked the energy and sinus capacity. He considered shuffling around to give Peter a look to let him know just what he thought about that idea (to be decided), but he didn't want to waste time. He wanted to get home and…collapse. Sleep like a mummy.

He also wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but somehow the world kept tilting and he needed them as flippers or paddles to balance. He wasn't sure how well that was actually working. Licking dry lips, tasting blood still thick in his mouth, he was blank on how else to tell Peter to go away.

"Man, fuck off. Resuscitate a cockroach, play house with it 'cause all you're doing here is pissing me off." _You're lucky I can't see or stay upright enough to swing at you more. What's he want from me here? Take me home after he tried all that shit? Poison my tea, break my legs when I'm asleep, inject me with something?_ Sylar felt that some part of his head or face should be bleeding, bleed off the headache and pressure, but every heavy beat of his heart made his life agony. Something was bothering him about Peter being quote "worried" and talk of ice packs and face plants; it just wasn't connecting and that pissed him off further. Mental prowess was serious business and that his was….shrinking at the moment increased his current mood.

XXX

_Hm. Yeah. I've got to get him to calm down. Don't be the cause of his problems, Peter. How do I quit upsetting him though?_ He swung out and to the left, the direction Sylar was favoring, putting himself in easy view. Coincidentally that put Sylar to Peter's right, which was a good thing as Peter's left eye had swollen to where he could barely see out of it. His face, head, leg, hands and back hurt and the urge to just leave Sylar to his own devices was fairly strong. He shook it off, though. _I'm the one who made him this way. I ought to at least make sure he's okay. If I got messed up, I'd want him to do the same for me. I sort of doubt that he would, though, but that doesn't matter._

For a while, he just walked with Sylar, slowly getting closer, keeping his eye on the man's balance and not caring that they weren't headed in the right direction. He edged in with the intention of trying to catch Sylar if he fell.

XXX

Sylar looked around at the somewhat limited skyline, or tried to until the light grew too bright and he was forced to crunch his eyes up to avoid being blasted with the sun. Muttering "Who's the stray dog now?" _Hmm? Sick puppies? At least he shut up…What's his problem anyway?_ (Strangely some part of him expected this from Peter; parts of him wanted it.) _What was it he said? Don't sleep or go to sleep when you have a concussion? Or was it something about the light?_

"Hate to crush your dreams, but you are not my first concussion….either of them." _And I swear to god, if you hit me again for saying that, I'm gonna get angry. I'm gonna get nasty, too!_ Out of the corner of his eye, once his failed viewing of the sky was complete, he saw Peter sidling up, between himself and the buildings. Sylar wasn't appreciative of that_. /"Gentlemen are supposed to walk on the outside of the sidewalk."/ This is not a good day, is it? Could be worse._ So he tilted his head to the right and tried to veer that way with limited success. His leg was seriously cramping up now and face planting was starting to sound good as the sheer sleepiness began to set in from his head.

A jerking spasm in the leg had his head spinning, his gut lurching in nausea and left Sylar stopped dead to hiss and nearly clutch at his appendage as it hindered him. Bent over somewhat, the sleepiness dissipated a bit because the movements set off a chain reaction up his hip, abdominals and spine. Now he felt he couldn't run or escape, couldn't get away from the threat, whatever it was.

XXX

Peter hadn't had anything to say to Sylar's rambling. The angry tone of voice told him Sylar was still angry and brewing for a fight, probably having gone past a rational awareness of his pain and injuries and into a confused fog where he was willing to strike out at anything remotely threatening. It kept Peter on a higher stage of alert than he wanted to be at the moment. And so when Sylar stopped abruptly with a stagger and a jerk of his leg, Peter really should have given a little more thought to his automatic reaction.

All he could imagine happening in the next few seconds was Sylar continuing over in the arc as he bent towards his leg, losing his balance and going face-first into the concrete. Peter didn't want that to happen. It was within his power to stop it. He immediately stepped forward the short distance that now separated them, grabbing the man's shoulder and bracing him. Peter had to turn his body a little to do it with his left hand, pushing back and stopping what he'd thought was an impending fall. "Sylar! Whoa …" That was about when Peter realized Sylar wasn't nearly as unbalanced as he'd anticipated.

_Shit. I think I'm about to get hit again!_ He was easily in Sylar's range now, the man was testy and temperamental and Peter had grabbed him. Peter did not think this was going to turn out well. But for right that second, instead of letting go and retreating, Peter stayed where he was.

XXX

Sylar was in the middle of moving a hand to roughly massaging his damn, uncooperative leg when suddenly Peter's hand was on his shoulder, pushing him upright. As quickly as he could Sylar reached out to grasp Peter's sleeve in a tight fist, possibly for balance. He sent up a heated look at the man's face when Peter failed to move…or remove the hand; that just annoyed him further. So Sylar gripped onto Peter's shirt until he held him by the shoulder seams, eventually finding the man's eyes with his own and standing upright. "What do you want, Peter? If you're gonna go for gold, just go for it," Sylar narrowed his eyes, somehow quite sure that he was failing at menacing or tempting, whichever, his voice low and rough. _You have no idea how lucky you are you got smart and that I'm too tired and out of it to whale on you some more. You're lucky I'm weak right now. You're lucky I don't think I can make it home and I need to….Just wanna lay down…_

Sylar shook Peter by his shirt, his efforts minimal as far as moving the medic went, but that wasn't his goal. _Can't hit him now…he'd kill me if he hits me again._ He winced and blinked some more, flashes of bright color catching his eyes. "You're bleeding…" he noted, glancing back to Peter's eyes. _You look so good when you bleed…from your forehead, too. Nathan bled from his throat_. He licked his lips, tasting old, sticky blood, knowing it was his own. How unsatisfying. He gave a small smirk and chuckle before shoving Peter back hard, hopefully into the wall, as Sylar turned and did his best to stomp across the street – this time taking a right to head the correct direction and calling back, "Keep your distance, Petrelli." _I'm not safe to be around._

XXX

Peter exhaled roughly as Sylar tromped off in a not-quite-straight line. _Great. Just great. Here I am stuck trying to take care of a guy who doesn't want me taking care of him and who I don't want to take care of. I'd just as soon hold him down and … _Peter's imagination failed to give him any satisfying images of inflicting further harm on Sylar._ I dunno, hurt him really bad somehow. Worse. I'm sure if I had him down, I could think of something._ He shook his head and began to follow his recalcitrant charge, wiping at the latest tiny trickle of blood from his eyebrow. People who were concussed were frequently confused and irritable, especially if they couldn't just calm down and stay somewhere quiet. Sylar wasn't showing any inclination to let himself go off high alert - _hardly surprising, with me stalking him_ - and so he remained agitated.

_Maybe I should just let him go? But what if he falls and hurts himself? Is that even possible here?_ Peter grimaced as his hip hurt when he didn't step quite right on that leg. _Yes, okay, it's possible to hurt yourself here. But then how do I make him think I'm not going to hurt him … more? Well, it might help if I wasn't fantasizing, or trying to fantasize, about how to hurt him. Yeah, that … it's not like he's paranoid or off-base here. The reason why he's screwed up is __**me**__._ Peter had caught up to Sylar's hobbling pace and as before, he swung out to Sylar's left and then after a dozen strides or so, he drifted in close enough to be there if he was needed. He ignored the looks Sylar sent his way, kept his eye contact brief and non-threatening, and said nothing.

XXX

This guy refused to shake. If Peter wasn't here to finish him off, Sylar assumed he'd gotten his way – except that Peter hadn't won? Maybe that was it; it had to be. Peter appeared again on his left and Sylar glanced at him every few steps in case he got closer or something, he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. Peter kept looking back occasionally and thus far hadn't said a word beyond his name and an exclamation. What was that about?

XXX

They were about a block away from Sylar's apartment and just starting into the intersection when Sylar stumbled on the clear, unobstructed ground. The man righted himself with a curse, took two more steps and then stopped abruptly, looking around as if unfamiliar with the area. Peter bit his tongue not to say something like, 'It's that way.' Sylar started again, faltering and staggering immediately, wobbling on his feet and clearly struggling for balance. It looked like he was about to go down.

XXX

What choice did Sylar have but to continue walking? Maybe walk faster, but it wasn't really possible or a choice at the time. The world tilted on him again. _What a stupid universe. Why can't it see what's wrong with it?_ Sylar tripped up on his own feet in an attempt to stabilize. "Godda-mit…" he muttered. The less he did that, the better. Peter was the literal vulture waiting to swoop in at the first sign of weakness despite whatever guise the other man chose to hide under, in the name of help, yeah right.

He'd practically walked off the curb and into the bright, late afternoon sun as he came out from behind the buildings and it stunned him a moment. Slowly he raised up hand to block his face – a bad idea as his balance was horrid. His feet had a bad cause of nausea, he decided, they were just too woozy. Or was it his head? Stomach? _I'm tired. He must be, too. Can't round two wait? Oh. Probably afraid I'd beat his ass a third time in a fair fucking fight. _That perked him up…even as he felt like the Titanic.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar's left arm and held it for a moment while Sylar worked out which way was up. Before Sylar could make whatever biting comment he surely had coming, Peter tried to put the man's arm over his shoulders and swing his right arm behind Sylar's back. Their relative heights made the position almost perfect.

"It's not much further," Peter said quietly, his head tilted down like it would somehow help if Sylar couldn't 'see' him while he was doing this. More, maybe, so he wouldn't have to look at whatever expression was on the man's face.

XXX

Sylar felt a grip on his arm (thank god it wasn't injured or he'd have snapped at Peter for injuring him further), but his reaction was a tame turn of his head to see what the fuss was about. It was really just too bright and before he finished looking towards the other man, suddenly there was a body beside him, warm and firm and human.

_Oh!_ Sylar inhaled over the sound he would have made, exhaling quickly over the next. Nathan recognized this; Sylar knew it from helping a young, helpless, gunshot blonde into a service elevator to try and- _Oh god_. His body was tensed like a wire the instant Peter pulled close (and he was close), but with his exhale he loosened, and, after a few seconds, began to walk _with_ Peter. Sylar didn't dare look at him. In fact, he shut his eyes and tried to enjoy the feeling. At least before Peter led him off the nearest cliff he could find to shove Sylar off.

_Why on earth is he doing this? Lamb to slaughter? Didn't think I'd go with a helping hand. 'Die alone', doesn't he know that? Stick to your script, Peter, geez. After all this time that's probably code for suicide anyway. Holy hell, he feels good, though…not even in a weird way. Well…okay, it is weird._

XXX

It took several strides for Peter to match himself to Sylar's pace. It wasn't because of any inconsistency in the other man's limping strides, either. Peter just contrarily couldn't get his feet to move at the right time, like a dancer who was over-thinking his steps. He was anticipating wrong; he was out of sync. _Quit thinking about him being Sylar. He's a guy I'm trying to move. He's a patient. Get it right._ It smoothed out almost immediately after that, his right leg moving with Sylar's left, his left leg moving with Sylar's right. It reduced the chance for Sylar to trip over him with their proximate legs moving together and forced Peter to stay at exactly Sylar's speed.

Peter adjusted his grip on Sylar's left wrist, feeling the wrapping still bracing it from their first combat here. He moved his hand above that to the man's forearm, leaning his shoulder a little more into him, taking as much of Sylar's weight as he needed to share. The body heat against his reminded him of embracing Nathan on the top of Mercy Heights Hospital. Or maybe … Sylar. He'd smelled different, felt different, _been_ different than he was now. He'd been Nathan in almost every way Peter knew, except for those fleeting moments as Sylar tried to re-emerge. But he hadn't _been_ Nathan.

_Does he remember that? Me holding him? He's got to. Of course he knows it was me holding __**Nathan**__. 'And this is my thank-you?' Yeah, Sylar. Yeah, it is. My thank-you for you killing Nathan is beating the crap out of you, over and over, every time you disrespect his memory, for as long as I have breath_. Peter adjusted his right arm to hold the man a little more firmly, determined, even if the person he was helping was his target. He exhaled heavily, not sure what to do with all his complicated emotions about what was going on. They seemed to be buzzing inside him, burning him up, creating static wherever they touched like the popping of faint sparks. Peter grunted and decided to ignore that. Empathy wasn't something he wanted to indulge at the moment, so he closed the door on what he was feeling and focused on just getting them that last block and into Sylar's apartment.

XXX

Peter led him to the apartment building, Sylar's, actually. _No lion's den? He's really gonna walk me to my d-_ Between them the pair managed to open the door without becoming too untangled, shuffling inside. _Okay, walk me to my literal door then._ "You know if you wanted to touch me, you didn't have to hit me," he spoke quietly, insinuating a few things about Peter's desire to see him home (possibly factoring in his vulnerable state, too). _Ah, already an old, inside joke._ He wanted to tell Peter he was fine now, he could make it up an elevator okay, but he kept his mouth shut for reasons unknown.

XXX

"I'll keep that in mind," Peter murmured in response. _I think I like hitting you._ Those were more worrisome emotions Peter didn't want to examine. He punched the button for the elevator and they moved inside when the doors opened immediately. Peter hesitated, looking at the buttons, trying to recall Sylar's floor. He picked one and depressed it. He supposed it was right, as Sylar didn't correct him. Peter let Sylar go and leaned against the wall, feeling exhausted. There was the physical element, of course, but as much a toll was being taken by walling off his reactions. _It wouldn't help to let them out. My reactions all involve doing things to him that are stupid … he'd be dead, or maimed, or whatever. I __**shouldn't**__._ Peter shut his eyes for what seemed like only a second, jerking them open when the elevator dinged for the right floor. He straightened. "Come on, man," he said lethargically.

XXX

_Good. You do that._ The elevator parted and they moved inside, Peter pushing the button and moving away from him. Sylar reached out for the railing because, oh good, an elevator, going up, was just the thing he needed for his head. He was almost preparing for one of those carbonated nose burp-airplane ear popping- sinus pressure snapping feelings. He supposed it beat breaking his nose on the stairs. Sylar risked a glance at Peter, who had his eyes shut and relaxed himself a little, at least for the ride up.

Grunting in reply to Peter's tired words, Sylar dutifully, unthinkingly moved back into position for Peter to steady him. As he didn't need help in supporting his weight, just in walking upright….in a straight line. It sucked being stuck between what to feel – relief or anxiety and having Peter this close. Of course, he wanted to be relieved, but Peter was Peter and a Petrelli and all those other factors he'd rather pretend weren't there.

XXX

"I'm sorry I busted in your door," Peter said as they walked up to it, staying close to his 'patient'. _And your face, but I'm not admitting to that yet, am I?_ "I shouldn't have done that. Can I come in? I was serious about an ice pack. Let me help." He was rambling a little, one sentence tumbling after another._ I ought to help him, because I started the fight. Sort of. Of course I did. Peter, you're in control of your own fists, right? Yeah? Then you started it. Him mouthing off was him mouthing off. … But what about Nathan? I can't let Sylar … fuck it._ He put a stop to that internal argument, ending it abruptly and directing his attention to Sylar. He looked forward to trying to help him and he wasn't intending to take no for an answer. Peter knew it would make him feel better - make him, Peter, feel better. That Sylar would feel better was just sort of a confusing, semi-happy, stressful side effect.

XXX

Sylar snorted, "No, you're not," he said about the broken door_. I'd install an alarm system if I cared and if one worked. And if he comes in the night, well, at least my last minutes will be interesting_. "No one's asking for your help, Peter_."__ What if I don't want you in my apartment? I don't. I can't stop you, though_. Sylar just grit his teeth, which only hurt everything in his head and face that much more. He was not happy about Peter gaining admission via powerlessness and helplessness, there was too much unknown and unanswered for him to be glad to have lured Peter in somehow. The big question loomed in his mind now that he wasn't able to pretend this eventuality was avoidable – _What is he gonna do?_ Sylar tensed as they got closer, his heart beating faster.

XXX

Peter replied, "Well, okay." _I want to help anyway. _He didn't address Sylar's statement about the door. Peter felt guilty. That wasn't the same thing as feeling _sorry_ and Peter knew it. Yeah, Sylar was probably right about which Peter felt. It was just a lot more socially acceptable to say 'I'm sorry I busted your door' than 'Hey, I know I shouldn't have busted your door, but I did it anyway because I didn't give a shit'. Actually, social acceptability had nothing to do with it. Peter just didn't want to see himself that way. Any further thoughts in that direction were deprioritized in favor of perceiving that Sylar was getting worked up. Peter could hardly **not** notice it, being right up next to Sylar with an arm wrapped around him as he was.

XXX

Sylar squirmed away from Peter's grasp and person, making a kind of lunge for his door, hanging on to the frame and knob. Opening the door and sliding inside, he nodded to Peter and made to shut the door with Peter outside it.

XXX

"Sylar!" Peter said strongly, which gave him a number of small pains in his face that he didn't stop to catalogue. Instead, he closed to the door and stuck his foot out to block it. He had a good-gripping, all-purpose shoe that normally gave him plenty of traction. He stuck the heel to the floor and toes on Sylar's door. Sylar didn't have enough force behind it to shut the door immediately and by the time he readjusted to push against the obstruction, Peter had his left hand on the door and was moving to brace his left shoulder against it.

_Does he really not want me in there? Or is this more confusion like earlier because he thinks I'm still going to hurt him? Or is it both? Crap. I'm not willing to fight him to help him!_ But he **was** willing to force the door.

XXX

"No!" Was his succinct and childish reply. _What the hell was with that parent tone?_ Sylar hastened to shut the door, but it refused to close, almost as though it had hit some- well, what could- _Shit. Peter_. Before the thought could trigger a reaction, like shoving the door in the man's face and pushing back, Peter was on his way in. "No!" he tried for a yell and ended with…less than that, cracking in the middle.

Multiple, common, human fears were tearing through him uncontrolled. Thoughts of home invasion, killers lurking outside a home, weirdo apartment neighbors, robbery, rape, pictures of crime scenes (including the ones he'd created) and indistinguishable, bloody, beaten corpses. Having someone force their way into his domain with Sylar standing right there was surprisingly traumatic. Worse still, when Peter got in, Sylar was trapped, unstable, confused (yes, he knew he wasn't up to par) and powerless against someone who was in better shape and was much better at caving a face in. Smaller space…with an uninvited (dangerous) guest.

His tiny, forgotten conscience was whispering to him that while he may not want this assault, he'd done the same a hundred times over, sometimes repeatedly to families and individuals and that he deserved what was coming through the door. It didn't make him feel any better, in fact, it made it worse. Sylar really wanted to cry at that moment, but he felt it burning in his sinuses and that stopped him because it would hurt his head worse and blur his vision. Something about dying in his own home, like this, after all he'd experienced, after all his hard work was not something he was handling well.

"No," he moaned quietly because Peter was inside; Sylar had stopped pushing when the man got his torso in. It was basically over despite all his efforts. He quickly made a loopy pivot and headed for the couch, waving an arm towards the kitchen. "Knives and milk are in the kitchen – you already know where that is." Yeah, Peter might as well rehydrate and get a healthy snack after, or before, the murder show. Sylar wanted the couch because there was just less intimacy involved than with his bed, and he wasn't feeling the chair right then. He managed to slide in to sit at an angle, mostly thinking that he wasn't through fighting just yet, that he wasn't going to take this 'lying down'.

XXX

Peter put his shoulder to the door and forced his way in. It was easier than he'd feared. Sylar, though, looked to be at the end of his rope emotionally. It was the tone of voice that really caught Peter's attention and made him feel horrible. The moan in particular stopped Peter dead in his tracks, but Sylar seemed to recover a little and managed to stagger safely to the couch after flippantly directing Peter to the kitchen. At least, it was probably flippant.

Peter closed the door slowly behind him and stood in front of it. "Sylar," he said in a steady voice, "I'm going to try very hard not to hurt you, any more." His desire to be honest nagged at him. "At least today. Okay? Today, no more fighting." _No matter what he_ _says about anyone_. "Now, I'm going to get you an ice pack, just like I said I would." _Please stay there on the couch and don't complicate things. Shit, what if he has a gun in here? Naw, if he did, he would have grabbed it that first day. Or he'd be going for it now. He's got a __**hammer**__, which I should probably keep an eye out for. Second time I've cornered him in here. I hope he never returns the favor. I don't think I'd handle that well._ Which Peter knew was a tremendous understatement. He was still trying to get past the desire to barricade his door at night.

Peter went in the kitchen and searched the drawers and cabinets quietly for plastic bags. He found sandwich-sized ones. There really wasn't much need for a single man living in an imaginary world of plenty to have bigger bags than that. He frowned at them and looked out to see if Sylar was still where he was supposed to be, before moving on to checking the freezer for ice. There were two blue plastic trays, both full. Peter slowly filled a half dozen sandwich bags, double-bagged them, and wrapped four of them in a couple kitchen towels.

He leaned against the counter and shut his … eye, singular. The other had long since swelled shut on its own. He opened the one that was still on duty and looked at his hands. His left was a bloody mess that he still hadn't cleaned. The right … well, it _looked_ okay. Broken. In a brace. Hurting. He sighed, gathered up the two towels and four of the filled bags and walked out to see what Sylar was up to. "Ice packs," he said, showing what he had and stopping well clear of the couch so he could see Sylar's reaction before getting in arm's reach of him.

XXX

_You're gonna try? Really hard? YOU TRYING HARD WAS KIRBY FUCKING PLAZA, NUMBSKULL! Thanks. I feel…so relieved, comforted even. I'm in such well-controlled, rational hands I could just pass out in delight. Hell, I'll pass out like it or not_, Sylar ranted mentally at the couch, staring at the fabric with determination to prevent just that. Inflicting his feelings on an inanimate object sometimes helped….more often than not, here, being that there was….well, nothing animate. _I mean, god, I give this guy a wrong look, he's gonna smother me. On my own couch. Where's the decency for the world's most evolved 'human being'?_

Any safety (he thought) he had was ruined. Allowing Peter entry was like handing over his safe-haven, his home. He was sure now Peter would feel very welcome to barge in and do whatever he pleased – he began anticipating how to prepare for the eventual rude awakenings of all sorts. Talk about invasion of privacy. Just when he thought he'd been prepared for everything – what new torture could Peter devise? The little sneak. He had to clench his teeth to spike pain up his face and head to avoid memories of living with the Grays. Which was worse, after all? Having someone who you couldn't see break in to attack you randomly whenever he so chose or to live with the attacker and have to anticipate visually?

"Ice pack," he muttered, completely disbelieving. Turned partly away as he was, his ears were sharpened to Peter's movements in the kitchen. The man was looking for something, then some rustling, his fridge- no, freezer was opened and the ice was- what?

"I don't have any cyanide or arsenic, I know you'll be cru-" mid-call he was interrupted by a scuff, a looming shadow and presence holding…seriously? Sylar had turned to look the other man over. _Ice packs?_ He frowned into Peter's face. Pursing his lips in distaste, he leaned forward and snatched two of the four packs, leaving half for the equally wounded Peter and retreated back to his space on the couch all without breaking contact with the sofa.

"Son of a bitch better not make this a habit," he growled, keeping his eyes half-open and trained on the medic as Sylar settled his back against the cushion, still upright for the most part. Sylar was aware that this skirting-death phenomena may indeed become a common occurrence as Peter hadn't shown any interest in playing (even while fighting) nicely. He was sure to hog enough of the couch so Peter couldn't sit beside him because, hello? he was not that stupid.

XXX

Peter stood there with the leftover ice packs, not sure whether to try to push them on Sylar or what. That the man had taken half was … surprisingly considerate of him. It gave the lie to Sylar's whole 'I think you're going to kill me' routine. Because if he seriously thought Peter was going to do something bad to him, then why only take half the bags? Why take any at all?

He stood there trying to figure out what to do with the extras in his hand, feeling a bit dumb, like thinking was just too much of an effort. _Give them to Sylar - Sylar doesn't want them. Keep them myself - I have more than he does, and he needs them more. So … give them to Sylar, but Sylar doesn't want them. Huh. _He blinked at them, swaying just a little. _My hands are really cold. That feels kinda good_.

XXX

"Band-aids and ointment are in the bathroom," Sylar grunted quietly, watching to see what Peter would do. _He's not…he won't stay, right? He's not…doing anything horrible yet, but maybe he's waiting for something._ "For God's sake, clean the blood off your face, it's distracting." _Distracting me_ was what he meant.

XXX

Peter's attention snapped to Sylar and he bent to put the remaining ice packs on the couch next to his companion. He was dimly aware that doing so put him too close to Sylar, in his space, in his reach. "Sorry," he muttered, not sure if he was apologizing for where he was, or the condition of his face. Neither seemed like things he ought to be apologetic about, but the word had already left his lips.

XXX

Vision fuzzy, Sylar kept a prolonged stare on Peter as he moved closer, closer still, then very close. His muscles were sluggish and barely responded, certainly not to the degree he would have liked, as he tried to prepare for any sudden moves. His eyes just blinked slowly at the apology, unsure of what it was for or what it could be for.

XXX

Peter looked around the room, trying to remember where the bathroom was. There weren't a lot of choices, so he found it on the first try. He looked at himself in the mirror and actually laughed, which died as a pained, grimacing groan. His face and jaw hurt too much to allow for that much expression.

He got the water running and stood there with the fingertips of his left hand in the cool flow, watching as the dried blood gradually flaked off. He didn't know how long he stood there, but it seemed like minutes before he finally roused himself to get a wash cloth and start working on his face. Between the cold water and the occasional pain, he woke back up from the stupor he'd started to slip into. He paused, mid-wipe, and stuck his head out the bathroom, looking to see where Sylar was. Mindless, semi-instinctive check-up complete, he went back to cleaning himself, eventually getting all the streaks and splatters off through dint of persistence. _Surely this isn't all __**my**__ blood, is it? _His cheek and left knuckles stung where they'd been opened, and they bled more. He was more careful around the scab in his eyebrow, leaving it in place for fear of starting up that flow as well.

Basic cleaning done, secondary blood flow stopped, Peter looked around the bathroom for the mentioned band-aids. He saw nothing, so he put his hand on the cabinet door and hesitated. _Open it? Don't open it? I'm in here in his stuff. People have personal stuff in their bathrooms. I'm snooping._ He exhaled heavily. _I'm looking for band-aids and he's the one who told me to look here._ He opened the cabinet to find towels, then looked under the sink to find a tote with first aid supplies. Gratefully he pulled it out and carried it out to the main room, belatedly realizing he should have at least bandaged his cheek while he was still in front of the mirror. He looked around for a spot to put down the tote, eyeing the spaces on the couch next to Sylar.


	25. Anger Issues, part 1

Day 9

Peter left for the bathroom and Sylar found himself idly playing with the one of the towels the medic had carried out. It was one of the nicer ones he observed, playing with the worn, blue fringe. The sink cut on and the steady noise lulled him even more into relaxation. _No….no. Gotta stay alert. Life or death_. Thinking back, he couldn't remember why and that was…amnesia was never a good thing for him. It always came back to bite.

He twitched when he heard a light clattering as someone snooped through his cabinet and strangely that didn't bother him as much as it should. _Not like he's gonna find something interesting in there. Wait…I was doing something before this…why am I…? _The continual flow of water in the sink (_why's that on?_), like any stable, repetitive noise calmed him like a well-oiled gear. But for the pounding in his head and the aching in his body, he was comfortable…and finding himself drowsy.

Sylar was hardly aware his eyes were shut when he…felt something else with him. His eyes popped open and he caught sight of Peter standing in his living room with his aid kit. Embarrassingly, he started, grabbing whatever was closest (ice packs) in reaction as he straightened and lifted one foot from the floor. "Jee-…fuck, Peter…." Was all he gasped and muttered out around a hummingbird heart, curling in on himself a little to recover. "Where the hell did you come from?" _I didn't ask him in here…did I? Why would I? Did he come here for the kit? Did he even ask? What's…?_

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment. _'Where did I come from?' Your bathroom, perhaps?_ He recognized the symptoms - confusion, disorientation, lack of continuity of memory. Much of why Peter hadn't bothered with conversation earlier, after the fight and while Sylar had been ranting, was that Peter didn't see any point in talking with someone who was fucked up. He wasn't going to agree with Sylar, and he didn't want to rile him up either. Being quiet and supportive seemed simplest.

He noticed Sylar hadn't been using the ice packs. _What's he got against ice packs, anyway?_ They'd melted a little and looked perfect to put on his eye. _How long was I in the bathroom? Felt like forever._ Peter tucked the plastic tote under his right arm and gestured at his face with his left hand. He spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, trying to leave out any blame or concession. "We had another fight. We both got pretty banged up. I head butted you and your concussion is a lot worse." He'd been aiming at his 'paramedic voice', but it came out more as 'I'm tired, please don't make things worse'. He paused, waiting to see how that was received, regardless of what it sounded like.

XXX

Peter sounded so calm about that: 'We had another fight'. _Oh_, was all he could surmise. The medic sounded annoyed and Sylar was left to wonder who'd started it. It was a gut-dropping feeling, just….being somewhere with no recollection of where he'd been or what had happened. Peter might, in theory be lying to him, but Sylar could find no reason why. He supposed this wasn't a new feeling – this was how he'd 'woken up' in this strange world after all, 'woken up' to being Nathan.

Peter was already here, didn't appear to be making any aggressive motions or intentions so Sylar felt comfortable enough, but not completely so, to settle back into his fugue state and relax a little. His face ached badly and by then his attention was free to wander to the ice chilling his fingertips as he shifted the melting cubes in the bag.

XXX

"Scoot over now and let me sit down. You asked me to get the band-aids and ointment. You can bandage your knuckles and I'll wrap mine." Peter moved forward, making to set the tote down on the couch if Sylar would just move to one side or the other. Then the tote would be between them and he could do something about the lacerated knuckles he had on his left hand. He'd noticed the couch-hogging, of course, but hopefully if Sylar's memory was faulty, then the man might have forgotten trying to slam the door on Peter and being territorial.

XXX

_I did?_ Sylar looked up from his fondling of the packs, shifting as quickly as he could, which still felt too slow with the speed Peter approached with, but he had no desire to be crushed with the tote. So he dragged himself to the left, situating his back into the corner of cushion and armrest, automatically slouching for comfort. He kept his feet more or less on his own side of the 'divider' the tote represented. Peter had plopped it down and sat, thankfully, on the other side of it, opening the container and making a racket of plastic looking for things.

Sylar glanced at the mentioned knuckles of both participants. His own were bloody and scraped, bruised with scabs torn up or broken. His left elbow was placed on the armrest, that hand full of ice as he gently rested the freezing contraption against his head_. Stop pounding already, I hear you_, he instructed his head.

Sylar's eyes were slitted to watch Peter almost lazily, enjoying the patches of relief against his skull. When he saw Peter's ministrations weren't fireworks and flash, his eyes dropped to his knuckles once again, stroking the surfaces, sometimes attempting to clean.

_His face is wet, he came out of my bathroom….his face was bloody, too? My hands are bloody, so are his. I probably look like crap. He hurt me – he said so, concussion_. He wanted to ask, but conversation wasn't a priority, mostly he lacked energy. If anything, he wanted to cuddle up and nap, like a kid, like a cat – book and blanket, the whole thing. The position strained his abdominals and hip and thigh so he concluded he must have been struck there, too. _Peter's…thorough. _He was out of it significantly when he failed to notice his eyes drooping shut.

XXX

Peter opened the tote and sorted through it, making mental notes of what supplies Sylar had available. He treated the knuckles of his left hand, applying ointment and knuckle bandages to his index and ring fingers. That of his pinkie finger was hardly scuffed, but he worried over his middle finger. The tiny, inconsequential-at-the-time-he'd-gotten-it cut from the glass had exacerbated the damage done when he'd punched Sylar. The skin was split. He moved his finger experimentally, but the tendon and everything else seemed fine. He took much more meticulous care of it than he usually would for such an injury, being very carefully in cleaning it, applying the bandage snugly and then taping it for most of the length of it. _I'm running short on extra hands here. And doofus over there is going to be messed up for days, at least. _

Speaking of his companion, Sylar seemed to have zoned out again._ Could be a bad sign – bleeding inside his skull. Or it could just mean he's tired and needs some rest. He hasn't thrown up at least. I didn't really get a good look at his eyes, not that there's much I could do about it anyway. It's not like I'm going to penetrate the brain case to relieve pressure, no matter what the ancient Egyptians used to do_. Despite a medical background, Peter was no neurosurgeon. Oddly, were their positions reversed and assuming Peter was coherent enough to consent (which he didn't think Sylar was at the moment), he'd trust the 'brain man' to know his way around someone's head. _Certainly more than I would._

Peter's right hand and wrist were hurting and swelling within the brace. He was glad he'd never gotten around to tightening it correctly. He lifted himself off the couch to fetch the last two ice packs and returned, settling carefully to avoid disturbing Sylar. He took the two packs Sylar had left to him and wrapped them around his right wrist, then leaned back, wriggling around until he got a good angle to put the other two over his left eye. He settled in for a nap, worrying a little as he drifted off about Sylar's presence, but …_ trust has to start somewhere._

…

The gentle chiming and tolling of the clocks woke him. The ice packs were nothing but water now, though he wasn't sure how much time had passed, having not taken note of it before drowsing. He could hardly lift his head – _oh my God, my neck is totally jacked._ He grunted and managed to roll his head to the side, looking at Sylar, who was still asleep, mouth hanging open and snoring lightly. _Fearsome killer. Ha._ His thoughts went briefly to watching over Sylar? Nathan? one of those, sleeping restlessly in Peter's bed weeks before, curled around a liquor bottle. He'd seemed tortured even in sleep. It was nice to see him calmer now. _Not having to live a lie … or something like that, I'm sure._

Peter wrenched his head upright to stave off further thoughts in that direction. Easing off the couch again, he gathered up the water-filled bags and put them on the kitchen counter. Then he slipped out the front door, returning many minutes later with better ice packs and some frozen vegetables he'd acquired by raiding other apartments. He debated waking Sylar but decided to let him rest. Instead he dropped the extra, prepared ice packs in the freezer and settled back in on the couch with a sack of frozen peas across the left side of his face, listening to the ticking of the clocks and trying to decide if he liked or disliked the constant, low level noise.

XXX

The sound of his freezer opening and closing woke Sylar and confused him horribly. "Mom?" he asked, muddled, unable just yet to open his eyes. They just hurt too much. Who else would be getting in his freezer? He let out a long groan and tried to suppress it as he shifted on…the couch. He heard footsteps, a little heavy, but he waited for her voice to precede her. Then he waited for maybe her hand on his forehead or his shoulder, but neither came and the footsteps passed him by. He felt her sit beside him on the couch and that was strange of her.

Peeling open his right eye he looked around a very messy living room until he saw….Peter. Oh. No…Peter meant…Nathan and Angela and…that meant Mom was dead and he'd just embarrassed himself completely. "Damn…kit," he muttered, wishing it gone so he could stretch out at least, even if it involved contact with Peter. He inhaled over his irrational disappointment. Or was that irrational hope? Sylar feeling something shift in his hand. A water bag? No, it had been ice cubes, melted now. He dropped them to the floor, stretching out his elbow that had cramped somewhat in sleep before settling it at a new angle to rest his head on his hand.

Glancing over again, he saw that Peter had a bag of frozen…peas. _Those aren't mine_. "What are you still doing here, Peter? I'm fine." _I want to take a shower or…maybe a bath. See if I can eat something but I doubt I'll be able, probably won't hold it down anyway. I can't do that with him here. Besides, what does he care if I drop off and die in the night? He'd care that he wasn't there to gloat and say something poetic about justice finally being served, that's why. Then why doesn't he kill me? Son of a bitch makes me so angry, he makes no sense!_

More or less Sylar desired privacy to bemoan and lick his wounds.

XXX

Peter felt a spasm of embarrassment at Sylar's question, an intense dislike of being unwanted and unnecessary rearing its head. It made him feel worthless and rejected (and probably had a lot to do with his choice of professions where people **had** to accept his help). _What __**am**__ I doing here? He's __**Sylar**__. He doesn't need my help. Let him fall over and whack his head again on the corner of his desk there and bleed out for all I should care._ Peter's mind helpfully provided him with graphic and realistic images of Sylar on the floor, scalp torn from coming down against the sharp edge of the furniture; his watches and tools scattered across him, lying in the spreading pool of blood; Sylar twitching and dying alone in his apartment because no one had been there for him. Peter gave himself a little shake to dispel the gruesome image and levered himself up off the couch. He only partly suppressed the groan he made as his stiff neck ached.

"You have," he said as he put aside the bag of frozen peas and walked into Sylar's kitchen, "a concussion and it's not a mild one anymore." He got out one of the ice packs he'd made in the apartment where he'd found a refrigerator with an ice machine in the door. He came back to where Sylar was sitting. "Maybe you're lucid right now," he paused, eyes scanning over Sylar's face for reaction and eye contact, making sure he was following the conversation, "but you haven't been that way earlier." He offered the ice pack.

XXX

_That must be the nicest way anyone has ever called me insane_, Sylar thought, staring back, eyes narrowing some at the end. He took the pack after a glance, giving a nod and placing it on his cheek for the moment.

XXX

"For the next couple days, it's real likely you'll have periods of being disoriented, dizzy, not sure what's going on, and clumsy. You'll fall easily. You'll probably have trouble with self-care." Peter turned and opened the tote again, digging out another set of knuckle bandages and the tube of ointment. "You might be fine if I'm not here. Or you might not. It's not like I've got anywhere else to be." He gave the bandage wrapper a lot more attention than it deserved as he stripped off the outer packaging. Peter's voice became low as he said, "If I was somewhere else, I'd be worried the whole time that you'd taken a header in the bathroom and died, because I was too eat up with hate to help you out."

XXX

_Did he just imply that I can't clean myself? Insane and dirty. Again. What is with this trend? I don't think- I don't like that he's judging me based on my messiest apartment. Maybe the apartment has nothing to do with it._ Sylar followed Peter's movements with only some interest, more of a self-interest interest. If Peter pulled out a rib-spreader, Sylar would wanna know about it (not that he had one in his aid kit). Sue him; he had a real thing about not enjoying the company of medical men. _So he just invites himself over? _

Peter was focused with the wrapper, but Sylar's mind was running limited mental loops around the words 'worried' and 'died', 'hate' was in there, too. _You would worry? That sounds like you'd regret it if I died…must be some empath-guilt complex. He'd be pissed he let someone die on his watch, that's it. What is it you really want, Petrelli?_ All he could do was frown and listen.

XXX

He looked up at Sylar, his gaze very level and serious. _Hate. Started all of this. I've got to get over it. Better if I just don't think about it._ "Let's look at your knuckles there. You were going to take care of them earlier, but you couldn't focus enough to do it." _Which is part of what I mean about self-care_. "If you want to hold that ice pack in place, I'll work on whichever hand is free." He pushed the tote out of the way and sat down close, setting the supplies on his thigh and waiting to see if Sylar would offer a hand and cooperate, snatch the bandages and do it himself, or refuse to work with him at all.

XXX

"My…" Sylar glanced down at the mentioned joints, seeing them torn and bloody. By the time he'd looked up again Peter had pushed the tote away and made his approach. Sylar was left to blink and control his breathing. _I'm not that out of it. Am I? _Peter's voice was low and barely slow enough for him to follow; technically there was little to no threat but there were too many unanswered questions for Sylar to go along with things. Peter got closer than Sylar wanted; he was so vulnerable.

Sylar shifted back, frowning at he thought. Help would be nice, he knew, it would feel nice and be great. Having the man clean the knuckles that had pounded into him (he assumed) not too long before was wrong even by Sylar's inadequate standards. Sylar certainly wouldn't fix up Peter's knuckles, especially if they had caused his concussion. He hadn't received real medical treatment in…how many years? and now he was thoroughly distrustful of the entire system and the people who served in it. He'd done without all this time so he would be okay, one way or other. Peter might break his fingers as punishment. It wasn't like this was America and he had freedom of speech and rights for human treatment (that he probably shouldn't receive anyway); it wasn't like he could sue Peter for medical abuse.

And what the hell was he really to do here? Deliver his hand, delicate as could be like a princess and…hold hands with Peter? Hands were important, especially to a watchmaker and telekinetic. That touch would be downright intimate and Peter was asking for it and probably doing so for the wrong reasons if only Sylar could divine. This had to be some sort of test; like sticking one's head into a lion's mouth, this would be sticking his hand out for Peter to…hurt or heal. Peter would want something in return later and that had him…more curious than anxious.

Lifting his head, still staring at Peter, his mouth tensed. Sylar shoved his right fist into the man's space for indefinable treatment. _Not my first Androcles moment._

XXX

Peter pulled back sharply from getting a fist thrust at him, his face going to wary and alert. Sylar, on the other hand, looked challenging … and afraid. Peter held very still for a few seconds, his eyes first darting rapidly between Sylar's hand and face, then making that same trek much more slowly. Peter relaxed and started to move. He reached his left hand up, open, under Sylar's and lifted it slightly. He felt that static again between them - a weird sensation he'd felt off and on since he got here, whenever he got really close to Sylar and was paying attention. In the middle of fighting didn't count.

He didn't know what it meant. He wondered if Sylar felt it, too. It made his hand (and some spot inside of his head) itch. It had a certain similarity to the feeling he got when he touched someone who had an ability. Spontaneously Peter wondered what would happen if he tried to take one of Sylar's abilities, here. Sure, Sylar claimed not to have any, but back in Matt's basement, or wherever their physical bodies were now, he still had them. _Would it work and I'd have one of his abilities here? Would I lose telepathy and get kicked out of his head? Or would it not matter at all, because it would be my body that had the ability, not me? No matter what, I think he'd see it as an attack. This is __**not**__ the time to start shit._ He set the thought aside.

XXX

Sylar snorted and hid his amusement at Peter having a similar reaction to actually getting the desired hand. The motion may have been sudden, the fist a sign of aggression, but it came nowhere near contacting Peter's body, more was the pity. While Peter's eyes were involved with the hands, Sylar was left to watch the medic's face, curious about the thoughts going on behind it. His hands, previously feeling a little clammy, warmed up instantly when they felt Peter's skin. It was a jolt, a shock; the gentleness was a completely separate matter to top that. His fingers loosened without any order from his consciousness, not that it mattered.

Sylar inhaled over the sensation, swallowing for good measure. Even in his condition he could feel his nerves sizzling; he knew how someone could get addicted to feeling people up if that was the feeling it inspired. That could explain a few things about Peter and his job choices – hero and medic. Sylar caught himself envying that luxury.

XXX

Peter took Sylar's fist and put it over the thumb and forefinger of his right. "Uncurl your fingers. Rest them on my hand. Please don't squeeze." _Oh God, please don't do that! I will flip out, I won't trust you, it'd be totally unprovoked and I'd want to smother your dumb ass in your sleep. Which … well … it isn't that bad between us yet. Oh wow_, he thought with morbid humor_, a new low we could potentially sink to._

He gave a long, slow exhale and stared at Sylar's hand for a moment, waiting to see what happened. He was very aware that he was putting his worst injury rather literally in Sylar's hand. Peter, too, had rules, although they weren't as formalized perhaps as Sylar's. Deliberately inflicting pain, outside of the context of the fight itself, was beyond the pale. Not that he'd never gone there himself - a certain nail gun came to mind. Sylar's punitive slap earlier had been wrong, whereas none of the punches were. Should Sylar hurt him now, Peter would get far more averse to exposing any weakness to him in future.

XXX

Peter directed him to move his hand so Sylar did, laying his hand flat and letting it relax over the other man's. _Squeeze? Why would I-? Oh_. Oddly enough, as good as this all felt, it was making him uncomfortable and he couldn't place it. The question 'why?' was on a loop in his head. It wasn't like he'd probably die of infection so he failed to see what Peter was so bothered about covering his knuckles. Perhaps habit or boredom? But it came right back to 'why do you care?'

XXX

After a pause, he moved on to picking up the ointment and dutifully applying it to the lacerated knuckles one at a time, careful and slow. He followed it with one bandage after another, occasionally tilting Sylar's hand off his own so he could use his right thumb and forefinger to peel the backing off the bandages. Mostly he was having Sylar's hand rest on his merely for balance and so he could, with small motions or pressure, encourage Sylar to turn his hand to more convenient angles.

By the end, he was feeling more comfortable and even went so far as to let some humor creep in. "I dunno about you, but I have exceeded my recommended daily allowance of knuckle sandwiches for today." He gave Sylar a friendly smile. "Don't need any more. Can you switch hands for me now?"

XXX

Sylar felt his hand being positioned where Peter needed it and the feeling was insanely relaxing. Already out of it, tired, aching and drowsy this was not helping his alertness. _Isn't he tired, too? I hope he knows better than to think I'm gonna follow Dr. Petrelli's recommendations to sleep or bed rest, surely he's not that stupid. Better tie me to the couch; he'd have more luck with that. Probably more luck that I want him to have, actually. Yeah, well…_

Any casual touch was so foreign it was like another language, another culture, a lightning rod, in short, to his nervous system and his brain, ironically, couldn't code that. Peter knew the language that much was obvious – this really didn't seem to bother him a bit. The idea that someone would heal him after he'd beaten them was…well, he didn't know what to think of that, but it made him queasy. Peter was not the type to allow that and Sylar knew better that the empath didn't deserve it either. The man was literally a new breed to him and one that required more study.

Peter's fingertips were rough, where they touched, but it was being hit up with narcotics; Sylar found his eyelids drooping a little as he relaxed further, shifting the ice pack to various aching parts of his face. The man's voice, strangely absent for some reason, snapped him a little more awake_. Did he even attend high school? Oh, right – Petrelli._ Sylar gave him a blank look, completely off-balance to the friendliness and humor, not following either at all.

"I'm not gonna die if you don't cover me in band-aids," he said slowly, thinking _Not your problem anyway_. He shifted the pack to the bandaged hand, extending his left hand in turn. "I think its fucked up you're doing this, you know," Sylar informed him, more honest than he otherwise would be.

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, smiling in rising good humor as much as his pained face allowed. "I know. It is. You're not the first person I've been in a fight with and ended up treating, you know?" He stopped to get out an antiseptic wipe and clean Sylar's hand first. This one had gotten dirt imbedded in the small wounds somewhere along the way. _Probably should have cleaned the other, too. But that would have stung. I don't know if he would have let me. I think he will now._ He started speaking quietly, offering a story to distract because he knew what he was doing would hurt. "Hesam and I were working about … it was a couple months ago. We were just getting back into the routine after those problems, right? So we get a call for an intoxicated. It's late at night, or early morning depending on how you call it, and the night tour is always full of weird characters."

XXX

_Well, no duh. There was Nathan. I'm sure you helped out your guy friends after you had a scuffle._ Sylar grit his teeth but otherwise didn't move as he saw the antiseptic wipe zoning in on his hand. An inhale of breath was the only reaction he gave it, recalling the difference between hydrogen peroxide as a child and the official, sanitized packet of wipes Peter was now using. _Which…problems were those again? We all have so many… Weird characters, huh? Why are all these stories of his custom made for me? The violent psycho and now the drunk you beat up and heal? Gee, I feel special._

XXX

He finished with the wipe and picked up the ointment, giving the skin a moment to dry. "I'm not very partial to alcoholics. I …" Peter thought about his father's slurred words that night when he was sixteen: _'If you go back in there, you are no son of mine!'_ They'd been at a country club party and his father, too many sheets to the wind, had gotten in an argument with another attendee. It was a stupid political argument, as much of it as Peter had heard. Threats were exchanged, then blows and the men were separated. Angela tried to hustle Arthur out but he was having little of it. Peter started to go back and see if the other man was okay. His father's words had given him pause, but after a second he'd walked on. Peter apologized on his father's behalf and then left. He often wondered if his words had made any difference, but no charges were filed, nor were there any complications. His father never mentioned it, nor the threat. Peter had always resented it, though.

"So anyway, we see the guy." Peter applied ointment as he spoke, ignoring the conversational lapse he'd created by wandering down memory lane. "He's holding the wall up and he has blood on his face. He's big, tall, beefy white guy, real pale. I send Hesam over to check him while I get the stretcher out. It didn't occur to me that he might be combative. Drunks are, sometimes, but he was just standing there … anyway, next thing I hear is Hesam yelps something and there's a scuffle. I drop the stretcher and run around the van to where I can see the guy has a hold of my partner's uniform and he's … I don't know, trying to grab Hesam's face or something. I go over and start to pull them apart. The guy's laughing and as soon as I break his grip on Hesam's shirt, he clocks the side of my head with his fist."

He moved on to bandaging the knuckles. "I don't know why … it shouldn't have … but the laughter and getting hit just really pissed me off and I hit him back. He acted like he didn't feel it and bopped me in the nose, still laughing, so I hit him again and he fell. By then, Hesam was trying to pull **me** off." He frowned. "Come to find out, the guy was in hypoglycemic shock, which can be worse than drunk. Hesam pushes a couple doses of dextrose on him and the guy's a lot more put together, but he doesn't say much – what can he, really? His recall's probably shot. My nose was still bleeding some, so Hesam drove and once I got the flow stopped, I took care of the guy. He'd fallen a couple times and got scuffed up and hurt, besides, you know, me hitting him. All I could really do for him was clean him up, cover him with band-aids," Peter smiled at Sylar again, borrowing the other man's phrase and being amused by the thought of doing that to him, "and hope for the best."

XXX

The wipes disappeared much to his relief and Peter went on with the story. _So laughing at him while hitting him when he's trying to help is…not gonna make Peter happy. _Peter did appear to be more cheerful, at least, if his chattering was anything to go by. As usual it was an interesting view into Peter's life and profession, something Nathan and the family knew or cared little of. Now if only he could concentrate on it, he'd be set. Surely Peter was not that heroic to want to 'help/heal' out of guilt – that was a fucking joke.

For someone who worked with tiny things, band-aids were an annoyance – one Sylar avoided whenever possible due to the lack of adhesion, flexibility and dexterity required for brain-panning and watch repairs. Sylar supposed he could see how 'covering someone in band-aids' (if that was what Peter was so tickled about) would be amusing to Petrelli, but he personally missed the humor. _Come any closer with that friendly attitude, Peter, and I'll show you what else needs to be 'covered in band-aids'…_And he would…if he somehow wrangled up the energy. Right now he was growing pleasantly comforted having his hand played with. Sure, there was very little touching actually going on, but the idea of it was what counted.

XXX

Peter released Sylar's hand, capped the ointment and gathered up the bandage backings for the trash. "You got any Tylenol or non-aspirin painkillers around here? They'd be a big help to you."

XXX

Some brattier part of Sylar's brain perked up and before he knew it or could care to stop himself, he was blabbing away, "Was that story supposed to mean something? I'm not the first one you've done this to so don't feel special?" If Peter was going to get chatty-Cathy, Sylar felt he should get on the train. "This is all a head game to you, so this is like…a fantasy?" He would leer here, honestly, but his face was uncooperative; Sylar managed a smirk.

XXX

Peter's mouth opened, but nothing came out. _What? A … a what? _His rather pleased mood started crashing and burning as Sylar's accusation hit him like a punch to the gut.

XXX

"Not a very creative one. But that makes it all better – beating on me helps you sleep at night so long as you play medical hero enough to…what? Cover your tracks? You'd need to. If this is mental, you need to expunge your guilt, poor creature, by helping those you've wronged because your consciousness has a visitor and you have nowhere to hide. That explains the fucking band-aids!" Sylar held up his now band-aided hands up for display. It all made sense now.

_Jackass_, summed up Sylar's feelings for Peter at the moment. Hearing yet another story of how Peter abused a patient, didn't report it, went on his way with little to no guilt and still dared to call himself the perfect hero. Fucking Saint Peter. The hypocriticalism was staggering, the nerve. And what's worse: Peter pretended not to see or believe it. A real piece of work, Petrelli was. _Hating is okay to you so long as its 'all in your head!' This is the beginning of the end, I can tell._ Peter would not stop at mere beatings and death threats – guns and knives were all lethal, but there were millions of painful things to do to a body and mind if the abuser was creative enough, especially once that door had been opened. Sylar would know.

XXX

Peter recoiled from the verbal attack, hands up slightly in case it became physical. "No … no."_ I did not want to start a fight with you earlier. I'm sorry I did. It __**hurts**__. I didn't mean to … Why would you think I'd … Is he just unstable again?_ Peter looked at the bandaged knuckles, looking between them and Sylar's angry face. _Do I disagree with him? Argue? I said no fighting. Arguing might set him off. Agree then? I've already said no. What the hell was I saying 'no' to? _"No, this isn't how I wanted things to work out. If it _was_, I wouldn't have lost the fight. Or the one before that."

_He's angry because I'm helping him and I'm the one who hurt him. Maybe I am feeling guilty. Am I? (I'm the one who messed him up. I threw the first punch.) Does it matter? He's still hurt either way. Matters to him. Because if that's it, I'm **using** him. And I'll go away as soon as I get my fix because it's not about **him**. Is that what I'm going to do? Do I really care about him as a person and as a patient, or is it just because he's the only one here?_

XXX

Sylar muttered, grudgingly, practically pouting to himself, "Good point," fiddling idly with the newly acquired band-aids. That went and poked holes in most of his logic. So now what?

XXX

Peter stood up, looking worried, freaked out and off-kilter as he looked for something to do to cover his introspection and indecision. He searched around for a trash can, not finding one in line of sight from where he stood in the living room. He was reluctant to go wandering over to Sylar's bed or behind his desk to look, so he went in the kitchen instead. He dropped off the bandage backings and drew up a glass of water. He caught himself before he walked out with it, having been intending to offer it by way of placation, but all he could see that leading to was it being thrown or spilled if Sylar was still angry. He put the glass down on the counter and came out empty handed.

XXX

"Dude, what are-?" Sylar asked aimlessly, not expecting an answer – he didn't get one. Peter seemed to be looking for somewhere to put the wrappers, moving into the kitchen before Sylar could speak. Sylar wasn't horribly upset. He wouldn't be even if he were not concussed, no…he would be, about the kick and re-jarring his concussion, the whole throwing the first punch for answering a (probably rhetorical) question. What made sense to him was Peter using this as some sort of an angle and the intuitive had pretty much run out of angles to theorize about, aloud or otherwise.

XXX

Peter came to stand before the couch. "I didn't think the story meant anything. I was just talking. I've been … having anger issues, for a while now … ever since the … that … at that hotel, where you were." The Stanton. Peter knew it was called that, but he couldn't get the name out. _Did I subconsciously know about Nathan? Was that it? Or was it all that crap at Coyote Sands and how everyone I want to lay my fists into is either dead or memory wiped or my mother? _"If you need an explanation of why I'm trying to help you, it's because I want to _help you. _I do not enjoy …" He paused, breathing harder and flushing a little, "hurting people. Even you. I promised I wouldn't fight with you any more today. Help me keep that promise, okay?"

XXX

Peter stood near enough and Sylar simply looked up at him, wonderingly. _What now? Just talking? We do that now? Without katanas?_ Sylar ducked his head, too quickly, aggravating his skull again, but bit his lip all the same to keep quiet…somewhat. _PETER having anger issues? What is this? Some sort of cop-out, bullshit excuse? Like he's never had a problem before? I know that's a fucking lie. Like I'm the person to talk to about it? Like we talk about this shit now? Well, we do when Peter has a problem – we talk about our feelings. My god…*I* am his therapist…Please, Peter, hit me again, I'm not hearing this right…_

Sylar couldn't help it, not when faced with that…segue (to phrase it nicely). He laughed; his shoulders shook before he allowed noise to escape, but escape it did, first a few muffled chuckles that he eventually couldn't hold in. Before he knew it, he was laughing outright, craning his head back to the ceiling for a moment and only then did he look up at Peter. _Oh, god…he doesn't like hurting me? Then why don't you stop, son, hmm? Don't bullshit a bullshitter as the saying goes._

XXX

Peter frowned at having his issues laughed at, then made to roll his eyes, which mostly involved looking up at the ceiling in mild disgust because his eyes and injured face wouldn't help him with the expression. His neck complained about the strain anyway. "Fine. Yeah. It's not that big a deal, I know. It's stupid." _I ought to have gone to therapy or something. When Noah Bennet starts telling you you're losing it, a person really ought to listen. Maybe it was just the accumulation of everything. I'm sure Sylar's had worse, so yeah, I'm sure I sound sort of stupid and pathetic, whining about something minor like … not being able to handle my own emotions. Same reason why I almost blew up New York. Doesn't seem so minor when you look at it that way. I wonder if that diabetic would have thought it was minor? Does Sylar think me punching __**him**__ was minor?_

XXX

"Ah, Peter," Sylar said with a sigh, not entirely finished laughing in Peter's face admittedly. Sylar reached out, slowly enough (but still too fast) for Peter's nearest hand, his right. "C'mere…c'mere…I won't bite, I won't fight, just sit." He led Peter around to sit beside him, close enough to mimic their position of earlier before Peter had risen. He put a hand on the other man's shoulder, pulling him nearer. With a deadly straight face, the exact opposite of the laughter, this time much closer to the medic, Sylar dealt with a sense of sarcasm and near-regret, his tone hinting at apology, "You're cute when you lie," and with that he pulled Peter's face closer to eye the untended cut on the empath's cheek_. If this is how we're going to play this…_

XXX

Peter glanced down for what Sylar was reaching for and wanted to jerk away as Sylar took his right hand, but he was too slow to react before Sylar had his hand wrapped lightly around the brace. _Shit!_ It was like leading a bull by a ring in its nose - the nose being such a sensitive part that the bull didn't dare pull away. Likewise, Peter didn't dare to try to extricate his broken hand. He ended up getting led back to sit on the couch, which was harmless enough even if the manner of getting there alarmed him.

Sylar talked to him and Peter listened, though it didn't calm him much. _Okay, what's going on here?_ Sylar pulled him in close and got serious. Peter tensed, sitting up straighter and giving resistance to Sylar's hand on his shoulder. Peter pulled his head back as far as his stiff neck would allow, his face showing his consternation at the unexplained proximity and even more at Sylar's intense, direct eye contact from only inches away. All kinds of signals fired up inside of Peter, most of them related to fear. _Whoa! What? I wasn't lying. Wait, I'm 'cute'? What the hell is he doing? I could __**ask**__, stupid_. "Wh-what are you doing? Sylar?" He stopped pulling away when Sylar's gaze shifted to Peter's cheekbone and probably to the re-opened tear. _It's not bleeding again, is it? _He found himself asking again, _What the hell is he doing?_, with no better answer than before.

XXX

_I can be the hero, too, Peter_, Sylar thought. His head was a fucked up space at the moment otherwise he'd never have deluded himself with that type of thinking. What it boiled down to was 'anything you can do, I can do just as good if not better.' He supposed, as an afterthought, that probing and poking Peter's cut wasn't going help any; so he turned aside partly, keeping an eye on Peter in case he decided to squirm off somewhere. Reaching into the tote he took out a handy, stinging wipe, fiddling with the packaging until he ripped the top portion off, muttering, "Cleaning your filthy face."

XXX

_My face is not filthy! Bloody, yeah, but that's because you beat the crap out of me. Don't be punching me in the face if you don't want it to end up that way_, he thought crossly. But mostly Peter was starting to clue in that Sylar was seriously not all here. Peter remained tense, baring his teeth a little when Sylar brought to wipe to his face, his right eye (the only one he could see out of at the moment) narrowing down to a slit in case Sylar got too free with wiping that stuff around, or deliberately tried to poke him in the eye with it. Peter was still trying to sort out what Sylar was _doing_, the man's answer to Peter's question aside. He wasn't sure he believed that answer and was waiting for the other shoe to drop – for Sylar to make the injury worse, push him away like he did earlier after messing with Peter's jaw, maybe sneer at him … _something_.

XXX

Sylar began gently patting the cut, which was oozing slowly now, both a clear-ish yellow fluid that would make up a scab later as it dried and some residual blood, enough to make him turn the wipe over. Meanwhile he held Peter's face still, his thumb under the man's chin, fingers over the ear. He didn't really give a crap about whether or not Peter liked it or minded. Peter's skin was soft with a hint of stubble under his palm, although the empath generally didn't grow enough in a lot of places to be mistaken for a grizzly any time soon. His head hair was very soft, somehow he knew it would be, less thick than Sylar's own, but very healthy and nice.

"I told you to stop bleeding all over the place." _Don't you know it distracts us mentally sick people? I'm pretty sure I said as much. _The wiping took longer than it needed to in reality, but it was the guy's face and Sylar wasn't exactly paying attention to the clock because the process was more interesting. Any squirming that went on wasn't tolerated and Peter was immediately brought back into place, albeit gently and firmly. Placing the wipe aside, he leaned over slowly for a band-aid, chuckling, "My turn!" as if Peter had it coming somehow. Sylar mostly just hated to be left out of anything, the whole reindeer games thing. He noticed that the band-aid in question wasn't big enough no matter which way he turned it, so he put in on vertically and deduced another bandage was in order. Procuring that, he repeated the same steps until the cut was covered.

XXX

_He's really doing this? _Peter remained stiff and difficult, what facial mobility he retained showing that he was not keen on this whole thing. The first time he jerked away and Sylar pulled him back over, Peter's breathing sped up and his left hand rose as though to interfere, but he stopped short. He wasn't _actually_ being hurt … well, aside from the inevitable little pains of having an injury cleaned and worked on, but that was par for the course. He'd tolerate that. It was the manhandling and the proximity that he was reacting to, but that wasn't quite enough for him to push Sylar away. Peter's hand brushed Sylar's shirt at the elbow and left it at that, a sort of reminder that he could be doing something about this other than wriggling and being tense.

He watched Sylar's face. The expression wasn't as intent as it had been when the man had looked at his jaw towards the end of the fight. Or maybe after the end, depending on where one drew that line. _Lousy bedside manner. Needs to make eye contact. Needs to ask, or at least inform._ Peter felt himself relax a little as his mind started to classify what Sylar was doing as just … bad people skills and not real danger. His lip quirked a little at the 'my turn!' comment and he watched as Sylar tried to apply the wrong size of bandage. _Get a two-by-two_, Peter urged mentally, without actually saying anything._ They're in there. I saw them. Get one, double it over and tape it down._ Instead, Sylar applied the band-aid sloppily and vertically, so the upper adhesive patch was too close to the corner of Peter's eye. He cringed a little and tried to pull his head aside, intending to reach up and adjust it, but Sylar firmly put him back to apply a second bandage. _Just … let him. He's fucked up. He's … trying to help. I think._ Peter still blinked too much out of reflex.

XXX

Moving on to the unmentioned eyebrow, now scabbed over darkly, Sylar didn't clean the cut itself, but did a preliminary swipe of the skin surrounding the scab before placing a band-aid over that, too. Leaning back all of an inch, Sylar surveyed his work with a tilt of his head. "You know…you're the only one who really uses my name. Why's that?" His face was curious and a little wondering as he crumpled up the wrappers. Most users stuck to 'here boy, sit, stay, don't kill anyone' or used the wrong moniker, label, night terror, or a psychological term. But not Peter. Which was funny given that there was no one else the medic _could_ be talking to here, so why was the name so necessary? The hero didn't even really spit his name out like everyone else did, either, which was even more strange.

XXX

By now, Peter had eased a bit further. _Fine. Sylar wants to cover me in band-aids. Payback. Whatever. Maybe he thinks he's making fun of me_. His brows drew together slightly in puzzlement at the man's question. "That's … that's your name, right? Isn't that what you want to be called?" _Gabriel._ Peter caught himself, face shifting in realization and memory. He immediately followed with, "No, sorry. What do you want me to call you?"_ Maybe he wants to be called Gabriel? I'm the only one who uses his name? What's that mean?_ He scooted back a little, turning and looking around for where his bag of peas had gotten to. He frowned at the bag's lack of frozenness, hefting it in his hand after leaning over and recovering it from the other end of the couch.

XXX

Sylar glanced up at the man, his eyes narrowing a little menacingly before his head lifted up at a more normal, conversational angle, "Yes. Yes," he replied calmly. _What's he sorry for? What's 'no' for?_ The faces Peter was making…but then the medic moved on, looking around for his own ice pack. _Weird_.

Blinking once, he took a second to think the question through, not in terms of…his desires_. 'What do you want me to call you?' Is that like saying he knows- What else is there to call me? He knows something I don't here or he knows what I know and won't say? What kind of answer is he looking for here, Bozo the Clown? Ass Face? Hey, Good Lookin'? Darth Sylar? Hannibal Lector? Oh, that's a good one, we'll really go for that. (Well, there's always 'Mr. Gray' if we wanted to be kinky…)_

"There's…more than one option to choose from?" He frowned, putting some emphasis on grilling Peter now. "You're the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not 'hey, you' or…something." Really the list of 'or somethings' was pretty long so he aborted the rest of the choices. And, yeah, being called by, not only a real name, but the one that he preferred…it was a big deal.

XXX

Peter set the somewhat-thawed bag on his knee so he could reach up and rub under his chin, then brush the spot over his ear – both of the places where Sylar had been holding his head. It felt funny there – sort of warm, like a phantom sensation lingering on his skin. He tried to ignore it, running his fingers across the spots and giving himself something else to feel. Now that he was a little apart from where Sylar was sitting, he let his fingers move on to the band-aids, feeling out where they were._ That's got to be the lousiest bandaging job I've ever seen. Certainly it's the lousiest I've ever had._ He suppressed his smile. It was … cute … to use Sylar's own word. _And a hell of a lot better than fighting._

He looked up as Sylar resumed speaking. "Yeah … ha, um … in the future you asked me to call you Gabriel."_ And I kind of doubt your parents named you 'Sylar', though I thought that was just your last name. But you say 'yes', I should call you that?_ He wasn't sure what to think about Sylar not getting the basic respect of even being addressed as a person by most people. Actually, no, Peter knew what he thought about that: _that sucks_. It was partly that, and the previous warmth at Sylar's attempt at helping him that prompted Peter's next words, but more than that was how he delivered them.

XXX

Sylar mentally amended himself as he remembered: _I suppose Mohinder calls me Sylar…but he's using it…wrong; he says it wrong._ Sylar nearly choked on his own saliva. _I did what? I never…wait. Future? He's seen my-_ The momentary natural shock and light sting of 'why didn't you tell me?' faded fast as it had been trained to do. "What?" Sylar growled out, aiming for a penetrating gaze that probably fell short, damn headache. _What did he see? Shit, he probably won't say. Or maybe he can't say. What, was I dying or something and asked him to put it on my headstone? I wouldn't even get a headstone, what are you talking about. What would ever induce me to ask him to call me that? _

The possibility of his future being seen (and not divulged) and having some of his original identity on the loose, perhaps even common knowledge…that was pretty horrifying. But what was there to do about it? He'd have to experiment with hitting Peter hard enough to make him forget. "That's not my name," he graveled out, deadly serious. That would wind Peter up in the hospital, apocalyptical world and no medical staff irregardless. Sylar had never been good at…delegating punishments or 'sticking up for himself' in any vaguely constructive form. All or nothing were his methods, violence and power. All the same, something was poking at his consciousness, something he'd forgotten regarding his semi-lie about Gabriel not being his name.

XXX

"You know, I don't know _how_ we missed it," Peter said, fighting an amused, warm grin that was hurting his face, "but I don't think you and I were ever properly introduced." He looked over Sylar's face as intently and with as much friendship as Peter would anyone he was meeting for the first time in a formal social setting – with a charisma and genuine interest in who Sylar was that Peter had a natural aptitude for displaying, as well as plenty of training. "My name's Peter Petrelli. I'd offer to shake hands, but …" He shrugged lightly, lifting his brows and indicating his injured right hand with a small wave. The well-practiced (for Peter at least) ritual tickled him and for some reason struck him as more of a peace offering than any amount of doctoring. He waited with an expectant expression for Sylar to carry out his end of the rite.

XXX

Peter's mood appeared to shift right back to perky (what was this boy on?), smiling and grinning. Admittedly that was much preferable to grumping, growling and accusing or that blank face, but it was all those were all understandable. What did Peter have to smile about?

_How we missed what?_ Sylar thought before Peter explained it. He was following Peter's every move and word, waiting for the light bulb to go off, not realizing that, impaired as he was, he might not have the mental electricity available. Sylar froze and went still, then his head slowly tilted back a little. _Introduced? But how did we meet again? /They let me hold him in the hosp-/ No!...Homecoming. We didn't have time for that! _While his mind raced through all this, both people in his head pinged that this might definitely be a sick joke, ongoing. _I know who you are_…, he thought, quiet even in his own mind. _After everything we've…that's happened, you still want to… with me?_

Nathan recognized the look, had been on the receiving end many times as a lawyer and congressional candidate. Sylar was left floundering at what looked like a friendly, serious introduction, having never received that kind of attention – he'd never been deserving of it (introduction or attention of that nature), so why would it come his way? It screamed of manipulation because Peter was fucking with the natural order of things. People like Petrellis didn't so much as glance at people like him. Why now would he get something…unexpectedly nice? He absolutely couldn't deny whatever game it was, it was working – something twisted painfully pleasant in his chest and wound up feeling a little fluttery and luke-warm (while the rest of his nerves fought fires with chilled apprehension).

Sylar was left to blink, once and slowly, gauging the unfamiliar social scene directed at him. "Sylar. Just…Sylar." He quickly redirected his mind from how goddamn cheesy it sounded not to 'have a last name' but it wasn't like his watch came with a baby name book or a how-to-Villain's-guide. The damn thing hadn't even come with working insides. Glancing at the motions of Peter's braced hand, his own appropriate fingers twitched in social sympathy and habit, but he didn't move otherwise, though the fingerprints were now hooked on all things Peter-Petrelli's-face. Perhaps waiting for the 'and you killed my brother!' finale of violence made sense?

XXX


	26. Anger Issues, part 2

Day 9

Peter made a small bob of his head, still smiling warmly. He could see he'd flustered and thrown Sylar. The damage control he opted for was simply to continue with the predictable pattern: "Well, Sylar, how do you do." It wasn't inflected as a question because it really wasn't one, not even rhetorical. It was just what was said. He waited a beat anyway in case Sylar had a response and then held up his left thumb, fist curled loosely. "Hey. We got through introductions without anyone getting punched in the face or horribly pissed off, right?"

_Maybe there's hope for us yet. Maybe we won't kill each other._ He hoped, sort of forlornly in the recesses of his mind. But Sylar wasn't responding in kind, an absence of friendliness that at best left Peter feeling socially awkward and at worst threw Sylar back in the 'might be an enemy' category. Peter made a formless gesture towards the man, what might have ended with a shoulder pat had they known each other better, but without that bond it was just an abbreviated motion of intention without carry through. He was reading from Sylar pretty clearly the man's unease with Peter's … _(introduction? attempt to be friendly? trying to help?)_ … presence.

XXX

_But I'm a murderer, Peter…and you know that. And you want to be introduced? How-? How do I do? You do this NOW?_ Sylar missed whatever tonal usage Peter had or hadn't employed, opening his mouth once to answer, but what could he say? _I'm in major pain because of you and my life's fucked up and so is the world. I killed your brother and here you are, treating me and introducing yourself like we haven't killed each other a dozen times? I never got any of that from geneticists and scientists, so why you, why now?_ Sylar closed his mouth, his emotions raging yet oddly contained, probably numbed by the force of them, which wasn't as unlikely as he'd like. _Why would he try to make me feel special now? What's the point?_

His gaping finished, he just stared at Peter in dazed wonderment or maybe dazed befuddlement. His face pinched in, his eyes briefly following Peter's 'thumbs up' as if he'd done something gold-star-worthy. Then he tracked Peter's gesture as it came close to him. What had that been?. _I just had to get a concussion to get an introduction? All…all we've been through to get that? And even then only from someone who's fucking ability is predisposed. This may never happen again. Someone looking at you like that, fully knowing what you are and using the right name that way. He must think I'm not going to remember this…_

XXX

What confidence Peter had been exuding began to flag in the face of Sylar's muted response. The idea that Sylar couldn't respond appropriately to a basic introduction was difficult for Peter to deal with. Not because he couldn't imagine that Sylar might have such a problem - that was part of the problem, Peter **could** imagine it, but instead because of everything it might imply about Sylar's history and his internal logic. Maybe Sylar was a murderer because he couldn't get past 'hello, how are you doing?' And Peter had no idea if that was cause or effect (despite how the angry part of him wanted to believe it was cause, the rest of him suspected it was more complicated than that).

It was deeply unsettling, leaving him sorry for Sylar and yet very wary about what it might mean to be trapped here with him. One thing was for sure - he wasn't treating Sylar like Sylar expected and that cast all manner of uncertainty on the possible reactions as a result. They were in uncharted territory.

"There's uh … you know, it might be that I, uh, have a lot of preconceptions about you." _Wrong ones, probably. I'm not saying you're okay, but … the dream seemed to indicate you __**could**__ be and you saved my life that once and … _"I don't know." Too uncomfortable with the words coming out of his mouth, much less the direction of his thoughts, Peter stood up abruptly. Sylar had had moments of being good and Peter knew it. He knew Sylar had the potential to be a decent person for long periods … hell, maybe he was a decent person **now**, which was just too much cognitive dissonance for Peter to process so soon after losing Nathan.

Standing so fast was a little too quick for his sore body, but he tried to ignore the stiffness. He gathered up the bag of peas and took them into the kitchen for delivery into the freezer before they were too far gone. _Just … change the subject. I don't want to talk about any of that anyway._ "Um, I think I missed your answer earlier. Do you have any Tylenol around here? Aspirin is off-limits for concussions, but Tylenol won't hurt you."

XXX

What was there for Peter to be preconceived about? Sylar just shrugged. _Everyone has them. They're not worth correcting because you won't believe a word I tell you. You can't test or check- up on anything I tell you, so I have no solid proof and the only thing you have to go on is your own memory as a witness. And victim. Besides, Peter didn't want to talk._

"Yes, I've got Tylenol!" Sylar tried to snap and failed as his voice cracked and dipped into a whisper. He was badly stung that Peter…gave up, all the same, on the conversation _and_ the proximity. Sylar had no right to be hurt. Peter's behavior made no sense, not a lick. Sylar hadn't kept up the conversation, but it was like speaking Mandarin – he had no idea how. How could Peter do it either? That didn't mean 'Mandarin' was…so bad…

XXX

Peter, too, felt like he was speaking a foreign language to Sylar, who was only getting bits and pieces and misunderstanding the rest. So Peter, at least, tried to shift things back to a subject he was more comfortable with, something where he was in control and felt like he was contributing something worthwhile. He could try to alleviate pain and try to make things better. Sylar would want that, right?

Peter walked back out, giving Sylar a look of concern for his brain injury. "Your head has to be killing you. Tylenol will help. And even if you don't want it, I'll take some." He adopted a slightly different voice like he was quoting someone, "'Pain management is an important part of medical treatment.'" He looked at Sylar's blotchy, bruised face and felt a strong urge to be helpful somehow, rather than useless and the cause of someone else's misery. "Can I …" He gave himself a little shake. 'Can I help you?' and 'Can I get you anything?' were too open-ended. He didn't know what he'd get as answers and … well … this was Sylar. Peter was still way too wary to even speak freely. "I should just go get the pills," he muttered grumpily.

The previous small twitch of Sylar's fingers like he might have been willing to shake hands nagged at Peter's mind - how abortive it was, and how he'd apparently unsettled his companion just by trying to say 'hi' the wrong way. _Why am I so fucking insecure about this? 'You're the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not 'hey, you' or…something.'_ That was bothering the hell out of Peter, but he had yet to be able to consciously articulate it to himself.

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter like he'd lost his marbles. This was a hallucination, that was it. _That_ at least made sense. _Get me outta here_, was what he thought of the situation. _He cares about my pain now?_ Peter stood there, bugging him still about the damn pills like they mattered, so Sylar lurched to his feet. Angry and confused, he was too weirded out to direct Peter to the bathroom. Keeping a hand along the couch, he half hoped to do just what Peter claimed to fear – bash his brains out on something.

His hands were on autopilot and so they caught him at the bathroom's doorjambs, leaning in over the sink and scrabbling to open the mirror cabinet. _Just give him the pills and make him leave, he's only here for the pills!_ Looking at the blurry boxes and bottles, he spotted one with a big yellow-and-red 'T' on it and snatched it up. Absently he'd wondered what the difference was between aspirin and Tylenol…something to do with fevers or blood pressure? Turning he held it (the Tylenol) at arm's length as he leaned back out from the bathroom. _Stupid Peter, surely knows his way around here by now to get fucking pills. He hit his head again, I hit him too hard. Of course my head fucking hurts! _

When Peter was too slow for his taste, he rattled the box at him – he would throw it but the top was opened and that would get pills everywhere.

XXX

Peter felt an almost tangible discomfort at the expression on Sylar's face. _We're not understanding each other. He's pissed at me. I'm not making sense to him. Hell, I don't make sense to myself! At least, not really … What the hell am I supposed to do, Sylar? Give you a fucking do-over? It's not happening. I can put a polite face on it for however long it takes, but in the end, you still killed Nathan and no telling how many other people. I can be nice. I can act nice. But inside I'm still too fucking angry to stay that way!_

Peter winced and raked his hand through his hair, his unhappiness beginning to take on a desperate edge as the desire to hate Sylar for being a monster conflicted with the need to treat him as human. Belatedly, he followed Sylar in case the man fell, though he was already staggering into the bathroom. _What's he doing? Going to the bathroom?_ Peter tried to assess Sylar's stability and hoped the man had enough sense to give up on urinating while standing for a while. Bathrooms were generally a whole collection of hard, unyielding, dangerous surfaces. Peter hadn't been a hospice nurse for very long - a mere six months - but it was enough time to help plenty of people with getting up and down in bathrooms and from beds to portable commodes. He didn't think Sylar needed the help as long as he took it slow and respected the limits of his balance.

At the moment, though, the toilet seemed to have no interest for the other man. Sylar was pawing through the medicine cabinet and it took Peter a moment to realize why. Sylar jammed the box of Tylenol in his direction and Peter hesitated, not sure how to respond. He was reading the anger. He felt guilty for having caused it even if he wasn't sure what he should have done better. Sylar rattled the pills patronizingly and Peter reached out to take the box immediately, looking down for a moment and exhaling.

"Come on … Sylar, come on," he said gently, stepping forward and putting his hand on Sylar's elbow, still more afraid than he thought he should be that the slightest misstep was going to put them fighting again. Or rather, put Sylar fighting. Peter intended to surrender and give up completely if attacked, retreat maybe, but he'd promised not to fight and he intended to keep that promise. He tugged at Sylar's elbow, offering to support him on the way back. "Come on. Let me get you back to the couch. I'm sorry about earlier. I guess I was rude. I didn't mean to piss you off." In a voice that was contrite, sincere and even more heartfelt than he wanted it to be, Peter said, "Can you just let me help you? Please? I want to help. It's either that or go … away. Let me help, okay?"

XXX

Great, now Peter was annoyed with him. The man had no idea how lucky he was that Sylar wasn't up to acting on his own frustration, although screaming was still an option. Sylar remembered how Peter had been inside Jesse's body before Sylar killed the inmate for his ability – that type of scream was what he envisioned and he was sure it would be most gratifying. Instead Sylar sighed quietly when Peter urged him with the hand. He released the doorjamb and took a step with Peter.

To the apology (that seemed to come from out of nowhere): "Whatever. It isn't as though you're unentitled. I'm a big boy, Peter," he looked at his momentary support, "I'll manage." That was as much to say 'I understand'. Then the medic was threatening to leave if Sylar didn't…what? Play the role of the patient? He stiffened, but not dangerously, at the implication as they walked the short distance back. _Do what you want, clearly, its not like I can stop you. I can't sleep, piss or eat with you here and there's nowhere in my apartment for you to get comfortable. I really just want to know what you want from me!_

XXX

Peter was looking down as much as he could manage while still being aware of Sylar's expression, still trying to be alert for a mood change or a reaction that might be dangerous. Worse than the physical threat was the emotional. He'd beaten Sylar up. Even if Peter had taken blows in exchange, he knew what he'd done was wrong; he felt sorry for Sylar's state, he knew Sylar needed his help, Peter felt lousy for having put Sylar in the position of needing his help especially when Sylar so clearly didn't want it and would rather suffer than allow it … and Peter felt worthless and dejected that he wasn't even good company. He wanted to do what he could to fix that.

XXX

What Sylar wanted was his cot, his bed, but Peter completely stripped away any comfort it might have and it now presented more hazard than safety. Sylar turned them back towards the couch and another round of annoying conversation._ I can see why you annoy your family. And why none of us would get along at the holidays_. It almost hurt his eyes for the muscles to keep his lids open and the sliding ricochet of pounding pressure in his head was officially redundant. He sat and left Peter to his own devices.

"What do you want me to do, then, Peter?" he parroted back without much inflection, some time passing between Peter's declaration to help and Sylar's reply; that honesty again biting him in the ass. _He asked for pills, so I got them._

XXX

Feeling chastened by Sylar's flat tone and the man's obvious acquiescence under duress, Peter squatted down in front of where Sylar was sitting on the couch. He ignored the little warning bells that told him he could get kicked here. He grimaced and shifted, unable to ignore as easily the pain from his hip. He held onto the arm of the couch for balance and looked up at Sylar, getting eye contact and putting himself in a lower, subordinate position relative to the other man. That was his nurse training at work, but it also suited what he was trying to do, which was not exactly an apology, but at least an explanation, and an answer to the question Sylar was asking.

He started to speak, then shut his mouth and looked - really, really looked at the guy. It was probably rude as hell, or something, but … the face Peter was looking at was human, very human. Not a caricature, not a villain, but a human being, a patient with regular, even features, blotchy skin and forming bruises, unhappy, stressed and pained. He distantly noted that pupil size was equal - that was a good thing. All Peter was doing was looking, with a slightly puzzled expression of interest. His eyes slowly drifted over Sylar's face until Peter swallowed, blinked and looked down at his left hand on the arm of the couch, his fingers twitching restlessly because of his complicated emotions. This was someone **he'd** hurt; it was Sylar and he **still** wanted to hurt him; and it was someone who needed his help, someone who was hurting and not just physically. He felt sorry for Sylar. He felt angry at himself. He was still, of course, angry at Sylar. That last wasn't going away any time soon.

XXX

Peter crouched right before him as he sat on the couch and his eyes went wide and stayed that way. Was Peter going to break an ankle or cave in his knee this time? That entire bullshit about not hurting him was…well, it was completely overlooked as untruthful. Besides, what good would that so-called 'promise' do him the next day when he woke up? Twelve hours of truce, perhaps, but when the next dawn came around…Peter would be in his apartment while Sylar (most likely) slept. Talk about a free-for-all.

To make things totally better, Peter stopped himself from speaking to stare at him. "Sorry, next time I'll wash my face, too." _But you told me to stay down._ Sylar was all-too-clear on the fact that this, his original face, could provoke violence of its own accord. _Violence on sight. Huh_. Prolonged staring was…what was it? He didn't and wouldn't know. The 'I'm-checking-for-foaming-at-the-mouth' look wasn't strictly limited to Peter or Peter as a medic so it could mean anything. He was well and truly sick of those looks – the ones in Level Five. Rabid dog seemed an accurate, expected description.

Peter's…posture strangely reminded him of being a child – being sat down and delivered some sort of speech from an adult and it was never the 'I'm proud of you' type of thing, it was always bad news. It was that same kind of false positioning (that illusion that he was bigger, taller than the other person) that was designed to make him feel better, feel in-charge, right? That wasn't really the case.

Sylar could feel his face stiffening up from the fight, but his mouth tensed and his jaw locked shut anyway as he stared back at Peter. The empath, if anything appeared questioning and had, as yet, asked nothing. It wasn't a disappointed, disgusted or even an angry look which would have made since given Sylar's last words. One of the medic's hands had caged him in on his right side and suddenly Peter was looking that way. Just like that. Inspection over. No further interest. No wonder no one could keep up with Peter, he was like a freaking whiplash.

XXX

The right corner of Peter's mouth curled slightly at Sylar's comment, but then his face returned to soberness. "Sylar," he said in a low voice, looking back up at him and being sincere. "If I was getting what I wanted here, you'd trust me when I tell you that I'm not going to hurt you anymore today. You'd let me try to help you. You'd relax a little and get some rest. I've …" Peter's eyes lost focus as a vision of Nathan, curled around a bottle, slumbering fitfully in Peter's bed, flashed before them. _That was __**him**__ the whole time, Sylar, who I sat with in Nathan's office, flew with to that storage center and then on to Texas. That was Sylar who sat there at my dining room table and told me I'd never be able to look at him as Nathan without seeing … this face instead_. Peter twitched with the force of it, trying to shake it off because of how uncomfortably _brotherly_ it made him feel towards Sylar. It was like they'd had some really bad times, but relied on each other and … pulled through? But the sin had already been committed - Nathan was already dead. Neither of them had known it and that left Peter feeling lost as to what was appropriate. He just knew that he'd had moments there with Sylar when they hadn't been at each other's throats and that gave him a bitter sort of hope.

He focused once more on the man in front of him. "I've watched you sleep before. Here … and _before_. You were safe. I promise you you'll be safe now. I didn't come here to kill you. Or to get revenge. Or to torture you or mind-fuck you or drive you crazy. I came here because I'd been shown that you would save people and … I believed that was possible. So here I am. I'm an idiot sometimes." His eyes fell and he looked aside rather than at Sylar's belly, knees or groin. He was a hopeful, too-hopeful idiot who thought he could change the world (Sylar included, himself included) if he just tried hard enough.

"Or maybe a lot of the time." He pursed his lips, his rising dissatisfaction with himself prompting him back to 'nurse' mode where he felt he could do something worthwhile. Standard bedside manner included telling your patient what you were going to do, so he did. "I'm going to get you some water. I'd like you to take some Tylenol. I'll bring you a new ice pack. And then I'll back off and stay out of your hair unless you n- start moving around." _He's not going to admit he __**needs**__ me. For someone who's gone through whatever he has, and most of it alone, he's probably right and he doesn't __**need**__ help. But that's kind of like saying you don't need it to be comfortable in a room - sure does make things better if it is._

XXX

_Trust you? Like Nathan did?_ Sylar immediately began grousing what he, apparently, couldn't voice. His eyes glazed over as he did absorb Peter's words, yet they were too…He disbelieved them. _I AM letting you help me! That's why I asked what you wanted! You can play hero, fine, but you are not rescuing me, got it? Then you want me to relax while you sit there and stare at me like a bloodstain you'd love to be rid of and can't figure out how? You must make all your dates feel this special._

Peter jerked at something, probably just a twingeing muscle, Sylar assumed, and then dropped something that would have been amusing. _You pervert, watching me sleep. Thanks for clearing that up cause I was real worried about my virtue. _At the same time, Sylar knew Peter's word was…as good as the poor empath could generally live up to being. The guy was still human and an empath with a murdered brother. Sylar decided he had little choice but to trust it, but he did not, by any means, trust it very far.

_How many more bullshit, contradictory phrases can he lay on? _Sylar was appalled to think that there may be no end to them. _So this isn't revenge? Or torture for what I've done? You just…felt like it? Oh, right, anger issues. You're already driving me crazy – have done since Stanton, you little prick. Just say you don't know why the hell you do shit! That's the truth!_

Sylar just nodded, mostly answering the 'I'm an idiot' part, but it covered his blanket emotions. He felt a tingle throughout his form anyway as Peter keep shifting his gaze around, down and then away, aware that he was a little bit vulnerable sitting here like this. "The second one," he chipped in quietly, helpful as always.

Peter's whole attitude of…nurture was only making Sylar's natural response that much more resistant; he was getting 'Mom' vibes but Peter was phrasing things specifically to be polite. And Sylar _had_ asked. He wasn't being left with much choice – Peter could decide for Sylar to choke on said pills and force him to drink the water.

XXX

Peter patted the arm of the couch (another intention motion of kindness where he should have been patting Sylar but remained averse to touching the man for no reason other than soothing) and stood, moving off to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water he'd drawn up earlier. He returned with it immediately, offering it, trying to make himself useful, trying to win Sylar's _approval_ of all things through humility and service even though he knew that was stupid and probably futile, maybe even counter-productive.

Peter rattled out a medium-high dose of pills, thinking about Sylar's probably mostly-empty stomach. _And he likely won't want to eat anything for a while due to the concussion, aside from the fact that his mouth probably hurts. I tagged him a couple times in the face. Maybe he could eat some crackers or bread, because this many Tylenol might give him a stomachache? Wait, that's when he threw up last time … when I started eating those crackers. Huh. Yeah, definitely no food for now_.

He offered the pills to Sylar and tried to sweeten it with a peace offering that might matter more than some pills Sylar already owned and had fetched himself, or the looking-after Peter didn't think Sylar wanted even though Peter was desperate to give it. He offered something he thought Sylar **did** want. "Maybe we can play one of those board games tomorrow. The ones you mentioned the other day. I think you said Clue, like, three times."

XXX

Sylar felt his muscles tense as Peter patted the couch, again, one of those basic parental gestures that just didn't, well, sit well with him. Sylar was left to sit and stew some more with all this would-be goodwill going on. _He is real guilty about something._ He didn't need Nathan to spot that, although why Peter need feel guilty was beyond him. _He's sure as hell not sorry he endangered your life, why would he be? He'll do it again tomorrow because, oops! He forgot._

The other man returned with water, which Sylar took when it was offered, and stood there and portioned out the pills. Incompetent and childish described his feelings at waiting to be served his medications – Oh, Peter was getting a kick out of this, surely. Sylar's lips pursed up like he'd been sucking on a lemon because Clue was just the final straw.

"Think I'm up for that?" he asked, half-rhetorically with some sarcasm before his voice shifted to firm, "You need to relax, Peter. Guilt, your hero itch, buttering me up, having a laugh, maybe I hit you too hard, whatever it is. If anything, I'm not thrilled to have you trying to kill me when I've done nothing on the level of that. Because you are reminding me of my mother with this hovering and if I'm relaxing, _you_ are relaxing or no one's getting relaxed." Of course he'd like to play a game with Peter, but the timing coincided with whatever weird behavior the man was displaying – the motives stank of a rat. Probably a guilty one.

XXX

Peter blinked at him uncertainly. Sylar's tone was coherent enough, but the words weren't making sense to Peter. His mind snagged on what was, to him, the most important thing: "I'm not trying to kill you." He looked at the pill box in his hand thinking Sylar must have thought Peter had given him a dangerous dosage or something, recalling the single pill Sylar had reluctantly taken when Peter had offered them days before. "It's Tylenol. You're not going to die from Tylenol. It's aspirin that interacts badly with a concussion – prevents clotting, increases brain bleed, that sort of thing. All these should do is decrease your perception of pain a little, sort of dull it out and make it more bearable." Peter felt he was being unfairly accused of something that was pretty serious. If Sylar thought he was trying to kill him, then that explained the continued defensiveness and disjointed, odd read he kept getting off the man.

Peter remained confused. Even now Sylar's voice didn't sound alarmed or upset like it should if he thought Peter had just fed him poison (and if he did, then why had he swallowed the pills?), or was waiting for him to go to sleep so Peter could … what, suffocate him? Peter's face drew together in lack of comprehension as he considered what else Sylar had said. _Relax. Fine. I can relax if that makes him feel better._ He looked around the place, settling on the chair behind Sylar's main work desk as the most comfortable looking place to sit, aside from the couch. He expected Sylar to stretch out on the couch and if Peter sat on the opposite end, that would make that impossible. It would be more convenient if Sylar would move to his bed and let Peter have the couch, but he wasn't sure how he felt about racking out on it in the same room as ... _I suppose I'd be safe enough …_ the more he thought about it, the less settled he was.

He shoved that out of his mind and went to retrieve the desk chair, moving it out to where he could sit opposite Sylar.

XXX

All there was to do was close his eyes – he couldn't roll them. Sylar tried rubbing his face, but grimaced and left off with a hiss due to the hurt. _Good God, Peter…He's fucked up, too. He's fucked up, let it go._ Of course Peter would misunderstand, whether on purpose or not – Saint Peter was no murderer. "My God, Peter…just…go sit. Sit and…_shut up_," Sylar's tone was exasperated, his last words were close to pleading as he pointed in the direction of the chair/desk/bed, never mind that the man was already moving towards them. To himself he muttered, "To think, I need you to tell me what a painkiller does."

XXX

Peter took his seat, trying to 'relax'. Now that he tried, consciously, to settle down, he realized how incredibly wound up he was. He had to fight the urge to get up and go get himself a glass of water so he could take some Tylenol, to go to the bathroom and adjust the band-aids on his face, to go to the kitchen and get a new ice pack. He didn't need to do any of those things, but they sprang unbidden to his mind the moment he tried to calm down. He fidgeted, frowning, looking at his own knees as his left hand gripped the arm rest anxiously and his right rubbed back and forth uneasily. He wanted to be _doing_.

XXX

Peter relocated the chair to sit a few feet from Sylar on the couch and he saw the medic's muscles unlock and only after he saw that did he allow his own body's tension to ease somewhat, gradually decreasing the strain over the course of minutes. Any words of comfort he would offer would leave his state or intentions vulnerable: 'I'm in no condition to hurt you; I'm not going to kill you.' He could tell Peter to relax…and stop that fucking offbeat twitching he was doing. Sylar's posture slid into what could be described as a sag in the couch, fully intending to later turn and lay semi-comfortably.

Doing his best to re-scan the previous topics in the conversations, Sylar alighted on one of interest. Peter seemed happy when talking so maybe that was the trick. "So…" he said lowly into the otherwise-silence that descended, "Anger issues, huh?" His gaze was kept purposefully lenient and centered at Peter's sternum, occasionally glancing to his eyes. _Weird…once I lay down, this is going to be a reverse of 'lay down and tell me about your childhood.' I know a thing or twelve about anger. It's not something really…describable._

XXX

Peter let the silence pass as Sylar didn't immediately speak. His many aches and pains spoke louder in the quiet. When he'd been on his feet moving, focused on the next thing he needed to be doing, it was easier to ignore them. His thoughts kept turning to an ice pack, or taking another dose of pills. He stayed in the chair though. When Sylar sagged, Peter finally gave himself permission to relax as much as he could, which was downright painful. He wasn't surprised at the visceral reminder of how much his mood and state fed off of and was linked to that of another. He let out a deep, slow breath and leaned back in the chair, settling in. His eyelid drooped, but he wasn't feeling sleepy. He was just echoing Sylar's posture.

"Anger issues," Peter repeated. _Sylar wants to talk … now?_ Peter had been desperate for it earlier, rattling off his story and then trying to recover from whatever offense that had caused. Relax, go sit, shut up and now an invitation to talk? It wasn't nearly as nonsensical to Peter as it looked on the surface. His mind strung those words together and came up with the explanation that Sylar wanted control. Peter had stripped that from him and the man had responded badly. First time now that Sylar had told Peter what to do and Peter had complied - and things were settling back down. It didn't seem like a coincidence. _Control issues?_ He pondered it, trying to figure out how to make the jigsaw pieces he knew of Sylar's personality fit together.

Of course he had his own issues to worry him, but he didn't puzzle over them. Peter knew what was going on there. Maybe Sylar didn't, though. So he decided to tell him. It probably wouldn't screw things up any worse than anything else he'd done.

"You know my life. Or part of it, at least." He scanned over Sylar's face, then looked off to the side, as though perusing one of the many stacks of books. "I always wanted to do something with these abilities, to make a difference. A good difference. Sometimes it doesn't seem like there's any point. To trying." He'd put all those newspaper clippings of people he'd saved on his wall to remind himself that there _was_ a point. He _was_ saving people. He _was_ helping. Every day. It was just so hard to internalize that when he was doing it alone and in secret. He exhaled heavily. "Who could I talk to about it anyway, and try and figure out what it is I'm supposed to be doing? Nathan?" He chuffed a laugh, which hurt his face. Peter grunted and gave a grimace that turned into a snarl, an expression much more due to his anger at his brother than the pain. "We've already seen _his_ answer to abilities," Peter growled out.

"Ma?" he sneered. "Her idea of a sound moral decision isn't anything I'm on board with." He stared up at the ceiling, trying to shed the anger before it got too deeply entrenched. "Who else is there? Claire? She's got her own problems. She doesn't need mine. And then … no one else. Just people who don't know me real well." _Like Emma._ "It's gotten to where I just … don't talk to anyone. Not about anything that matters." He gave a forced exhale.

"Didn't talk when Ma started having dreams about Emma. I didn't press her about it; I didn't try to talk it out; I didn't try to reason with her. I just took her ability, without even asking, over her objections, and used it. I did the same thing with Matt. I didn't ask him what you were doing here or what he was trying to do. I didn't ask him how to get back out before getting in here. Didn't trust him. Wasn't listening. Didn't try to understand. I just jumped right in, and here I am. Nothing else to do now but talk, I guess." He sighed, defeated by the situation. His eye wandered back to Sylar's. "That, and beat the crap out of each other."

XXX

Sylar tilted his head after Peter had looked away. The man was acknowledging it; how interesting. He kept his mouth shut as there were lots of things to say to what Peter spoke or felt, doing his best to absorb the information. He felt a surge of…anger and, strangely, disappointment at Peter for…well, losing faith; Sylar knew how important 'a good difference' could be and how rare it was. He reined in on the desire to smack sense into Peter for daring to think that, because, geez, if Peter went nuts, how would Sylar fare? Peter and his efforts were more pivotal than the poor guy realized. Hell, look at how well the little pest had gotten in his way time and time again through sheer, dumb, flying-by-faith luck. So help him if the kid ever got smart and actually planned out his moves.

Sylar made a sour face. Nathan and his plans, ha. Problem was, the idiot meant well, he really had. Public service was, in its own way, helping those who could not help themselves because they lacked the backing and money and experience to be lawyers and senators. So in a way…Nathan had tried to do what Peter was trying to do, just in a different way, very different. Nathan looked so far ahead, he forgot the details; Nathan's problem was having his head stuck so far up his own ass that…Nathan's problem was not listening to those with more power than himself. Namely Peter. In the real world, Peter was a pretty low schmuck compared to Nathan, even for all their money the younger man refused to take. But inside, in that annoyingly simple-yet-mystifying brain of his…Peter held, debatably, more power than anyone save Arthur and Sylar himself. And his heart was in the right place even if he lacked…the occasional glimpse ahead for personal risk-taking. Peter looked around only when it was in the moment. Yes, Sylar knew about his life.

Sylar cast a baleful glare, the strongest he could muster (which wasn't saying much) at Peter, who was checking out the ceiling, at the mention of Angela. He agreed so much it was scary. That woman…well, she never took her head out of the clouds to see the world below. A woman who would, quite willingly, kill her own sons and abandon them in their moments of need was hardly a mother at all. When said woman had the power to see the future? Well… All three men, the two Petrellis and Sylar, were, to varying degrees, irate at Angela for her favoritisms and her neglect of Peter and testing on Nathan…and then there was the lying at Primatech and brain-rape at Stanton.

Claire? Dear God, that idea was laughable and Sylar choked off his chuckle. That girl chose to be in her problems. The world revolved (quite literally apparently – "Save the cheerleader") around her and if she chose, she could very well halt it – Bennets, Petrellis and all. The only insight he'd ever managed to….manipulate from her wasn't aimed at him; it hadn't been thought out, it was a stream of psyched out, terrified, warped, overly-emotional blonde-gushing intended for (of all things) her "girlfriend." One thing and one thing only had that girl ever had to say of substance and that was AFTER four years of him trying to get help…more or less. Noah and Matt, Mohinder maybe? (now there was a thought), this Emma girl…friendships could be cultivated, right?

Peter kept on, so he listened some more to a truly familiar tale, only the empath's had more viable options in it. "Funny how I'm supposed to get therapy when you can't even get someone to listen to you about your feelings. And they like you," Sylar snorted, shaking his head. His voice was observing, no more, although he'd nearly said 'when you can't even talk to your own mother …' but they had that very much in common as well.

"About that…" Sylar was easily segued into something he'd meant to bring up. "Apparently this is my second concussion in a week. You wanna flex your testosterone, I'm all for it. But I swear to God, Peter, if you try to kill me again, and I count things like breaking knees and concussions, I will retaliate. I have been on what you heroes like to call 'good behavior,'" Sylar made a single, slow pair of air-quotes, quirking an eyebrow up mockingly, "you know, the non-homicidal gig. You'd hate for me to change that." _I am pretty good at killing people without powers. Just not so hot with the brawling._

XXX

Peter's brows tried to rise at Sylar's threat. It made his forehead hurt. He looked away instead and gave a small nod, giving in and agreeing rather than taking umbrage. He still felt that deep-seated urge to 'flex his testosterone' or whatever in response to it. Peter waited for several seconds, keeping himself calm and mulling over what Sylar had said rather than reacting to it immediately. He smiled slightly at how thoroughly skewered he was with that therapy comment. Feeling in possession of his reactions (or at least as much as he ever was), he shifted forward and said quietly, "I'm going to get an ice pack for myself and take some of these pills. Do you want anything while I'm up?"

XXX

_There's a lot of things I want._ Sylar thought on it for a millisecond and decided no, an icepack wouldn't help his brutal headache. He would wait for the drugs to kick in. He waved Peter off lightly, sinking further into his seat at the offer, "No."

XXX

Peter rose stiffly and ambulated slowly into the kitchen, consuming an over-sized dose of Tylenol before liberating one of the extra ice packs he'd stowed in the freezer. As he walked back, he said, "Touché. About the therapy - touché. You've got a point there. You're just winning time after time today." Peter was being dryly sarcastic here. Sylar had won the fight - but he was far more messed up by it and hurt than Peter was. Sylar had a point about the therapy - but that only meant he was even more beyond help than Peter had tried to believe.

XXX

Sylar merely gave the equivalent of a facial shrug – acknowledging and moving on. It was sad and true and there was nothing to be done about it. He would admit that the wins were satisfactory but they meant so much less than it would have if the there were people still in the world. It felt like survival and as such there was no standard – it was just…them. It sucked more in that all they had to rely on was the past and all the negative encounters. However, without crowds and standards, maybe it left room for actual conversation. Case in point.

XXX

Peter settled back into the chair, carefully and slowly due to his aching muscles and a desire not to make any fast motions that might upset his companion. "I appreciate … your 'good behavior'," he said sincerely and he actually did appreciate it. Other than Sylar's mouth and the hurtful words that came out of it, Sylar had largely conducted himself fine. That had slowly been sinking in. Peter leaned back, applying the ice pack to his left eye. "Despite my opinion that if I got killed here, it might not be a big deal, that's a 'might' and there's no way for me to prove it without taking a huge risk. Which I'll take if I have to, but … if I was that suicidal, I'd have killed myself a long time ago. Well …" He tried to stifle a chuckle at the ridiculousness of the past, "more than I have."

XXX

Sylar scanned over Peter's face, taking his time as the man spoke. All he was doing was looking. Again, there were inconsistencies in Petrelli 'appreciating good behavior'. Sure that was probably natural, human self-preservation and all. Still kind of felt like a dog being patted on the head. "You mentioned that before," he stated quietly. Or at least that was the read Sylar gained from it, the potential for suicide or bad types of risks. God, no wonder Nathan was paranoid when it came to Peter – it was usually true! And the idea of Peter's death being somehow uneventful or missed somehow was stupid and funny. How many times had Sylar been in body bags, coffins or storage units, buried in the forest off some interstate, left to burn or rot, been someone else or been experimented on all while dead. James Martin, the shape-shifted dummy clone had not gotten what anyone in civilized North America would call a funeral or grave marker. The guy had been burned on a pyre as fucking Darth Vader as you please and all because Petrelli and Co. thought the corpse was Sylar's. Regardless of whether he liked the stuck-up jerk, Sylar would be having his own mental breakdowns if Peter died here and it would not be pretty. It was adding to his list of Things to Hate About Hell.

The manipulative side of him new exactly which angles to strike should Peter get…risky: remember the mission, and, perhaps, I need you/your help. Sylar knew he was playing with so much less than a full deck of tricks here; there were only so many things Peter needed or wanted now. In general, it would be safe to say that whatever method he chose to soothe the empath with would be a lie. Because he was not enduring another three years alone and that was it.

XXX

Peter shut his one remaining good eye and took a few breaths to try to center himself. He said, "But honestly, I wasn't trying to _kill_ you. I was trying to _hurt _you." He hesitated a moment and said, "Okay … well … yeah, I didn't really care if …" He shook his head slightly. "Once we got to fighting, it was just anything goes, whatever it takes." Peter gave it a longer pause and cracked his eye to regard Sylar evenly through his lashes. "It doesn't have to be that way?"

XXX

The man across from him looked liked hell; he really did, now they were both calm enough to notice. How Peter made a swollen-shut, black eye with bruises, lacerations and some pretty wonky looking band-aids look good was beyond him. _Must be the bone structure._

"Hmm, right, of course," Sylar murmured, quiet and light but deeply sarcastic if Peter heard it at all. Sylar canted his head in almost a bowing nod of 'I told you so'. He knew Peter, in the heat of the moment, wouldn't care if he killed. Somehow the message that Peter needed him had yet to register but it was only a little over a week into the man's new confinement and he had yet to adjust. _Anything goes? You want me to rack your nuts and strangle you because 'anything goes'?_ Truth be told, Sylar would have to refrain from the true extent of his desires if it came down to Peter taking things too far. He planned on maybe tying the man up and humiliating him or something similar if pushed in the direction of living up to his threat. Clearly, Peter's fight-or-flight instincts were unreliable so using that as motivation would be unpredictable.

Sylar had no idea what the look in the man's one good eye meant, but the guy was so honest and open sometimes it almost begged to be fucked with. Catching the glance, he eyed the glass of water in his hand. _Water's probably okay_. He took a drink, aware that he hadn't had any liquids since he took the single gulp for pills a moment previous and his throat was a little rough. After that, Sylar just smirked at Peter, moving slowly to readjust his position on the couch, taking his time towards horizontal. He wasn't going to answer the question seeing as he'd already laid everything out. Then again…maybe seeing Peter sweat a few things would make Sylar's life interesting.

XXX

Peter waited … and waited … and waited for a response, a confirmation, an affirmation - something, something positive, something he could feel hopeful about. He got nothing. He was so disappointed in that, and angry at himself for looking for cooperation from _Sylar_, of all people. He felt like he was offering a basic social contract and Sylar was refusing to sign up. "You are _**such**_ an asshole," he said finally, voice heavy with disgust. He shut his eye and leaned back a little further, adjusting the ice pack. He didn't care if Sylar knew his opinion of him, or since he probably already guessed, had it confirmed out loud. _I can't trust you. There's no reason why I should and that's basically what you're telling me._ Hate surged up in him and burned dully. Nothing much was going on to spike it higher - he was too tired and hurt to act on it without some outer provocation so he just sat there and let his thoughts wander.

'I will retaliate', 'good behavior', 'the non-homicidal gig' … Peter mulled it over with a sour expression on his face and didn't make much sense of it except that Sylar considered the beating he'd given to be okay and within bounds and something about the way Peter had fought had not been. It seemed possible, probable even this was just Sylar's own personal bias at work - 'what I do is right and okay, what you do is wrong and unjustified.' Everyone was like that to some extent. That Sylar might have an exaggerated case of it tied in with 'control issues' pretty well. _But how to work that? It's not like I'm going to lay down and let him win._

It kept irritating him, like a bad smell he couldn't quite find the source of. "Your idea of good behavior isn't working." He appreciated that Sylar wasn't physically assaulting him, but there was a lot more to 'good behavior' than that. _You insult my family, threaten me, taunt me about Nathan's death … _Peter growled slightly and shifted in the chair, fidgeting because the emotions that came with those thoughts demanded action. "Maybe we should … just … talk about this another time, okay?" _Like tomorrow, when I can beat your asshole face in. _He didn't seriously intend to visit harm on Sylar again, but the man's failure to answer his question had really set Peter off. Peter was seeing it as a declaration that Sylar wouldn't play ball, or like Sylar was saying the next time they had a fight, it was still going to be knock-down, drag-out, fight to incapacitation. Peter would have liked the idea that he could cry uncle at some point (not that he tended to do that, but it was a nice option) and get a reprieve instead of beaten to death. He didn't have that assurance and it alarmed him, leaving him even more sullen and uneasy with his companion than he'd been before.

_God, why am I trapped here with this guy? Is this a lesson about patience or humility or something? Why can't it be a lesson about wrath, huh? Come on, God … _He sighed and gave the tiniest shake to his head. He wasn't being blasphemous - he actually wanted an answer to that one. If he just had a purpose, a goal, a mission, something he could hang onto … but he didn't. Not really. Everything was in limbo awaiting deliverance from this place, which was so distant as to may-as-well-be never. _Didn't Matt say something about 'you go in there, you'll never get out'? Great. Rest of my life trapped here. Maybe eternity._

XXX


	27. Couch Surfing

Day 10

After mutual glares had been exchanged and Sylar had adjusted the pillows on the couch to his liking, he'd settled in and dozed off fairly quickly. The doze turned into a much deeper sleep, even though it was anything but comfortable or restful. The nightmares were back. They had been spotty ever since Peter showed up but it was official – they were back.

At the end of whatever wacked-out sleep cycle he now kept due to the nap earlier, Sylar jerked awake and regretted leaving the nightmare for the pain his body still felt in reality. A loud groan escaped him as he partly rolled on his back before he noticed/remembered his "guest" had failed to leave. He glanced at Peter, still in his chair, and clammed up. The last thing he needed was Captain Moods on his case again. If the guy wanted it so damn bad, all he had to do was play doctor and frisk him up. Not that hard, right? (Heh). He could barely recall what had torqued the medic off the other night and he hardly cared.

Glancing at his watch for longer than he needed to he saw that it was the next morning unless time now stood still (he doubted it even if it seemed to). _Wonderful_. Peter was only dozing and so he woke up as Sylar did. _Even better. I don't want him here, especially if he's just going to be a prick, which I know he will be._ There were things that needed doing in the morning and he was anything but comfortable doing them with Peter IN his apartment. Peter the worst fear of every doorjamb in the place.

Sylar simply rolled back to his side, facing Peter and put on as calm (and arrogant) an expression as he could with pain radiating up and down his form, literally head to toes, but the pain centered in his braincase. "Awake, Sleeping Beauty," Sylar groused, his voice completely graveled from waking. _And don't expect any fresh kisses._ _Saving damsels is your shit. _Peter had offered him soup last night, which he'd refused since he wasn't hungry, but he was sure he was rank enough not to be cuddly. He cleared his throat, making a face. He'd slept in his jeans and coat and both were rather rumpled and dirty. _Ugh, on my couch…damn, Peter._

His voice a little smoother now, but still deep until he got some water in him…while he avoided all thoughts of water, Sylar flicked his eyes over his companion and purred, "Or are you the prince? I forget," and smirked a smirk that made his face ache. "Have you always been prone to breaking and entering? There are easier ways, Peter," he said just to annoy and insinuate. _Never had a sleep over before…Wasn't what I had in mind…_

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Peter had been more active than Sylar knew. Shortly after Sylar had conked out in the evening, and hoping sincerely that Sylar stayed that way, Peter had gone home, cleaned up and gotten some shut-eye of his own. Concussion victims tended to sleep a lot, so he wasn't surprised when he returned to Sylar's apartment in the morning to find the man still asleep, mouth hanging askew. Peter figured Sylar's sinuses were probably giving him hell.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked around the place, letting his eyes roam over the books, the clocks, the paperweights, jars of gears, and collections of small tools. It was interesting stuff, following a theme and not nearly as haphazard as it looked at first glance. Peter wasn't exactly burning with a desire to check everything out (since the most interesting thing in the room, from Peter's point of view, was Sylar), but it was intriguing all the same. He took his seat, tuning out the noisy time-keepers and listened instead to Sylar's breathing. Lulled by the regular, soothingly human sound, Peter's lids drooped. Sylar groaned, twitched and made a few small, distressed sounds in his slumber. Peter cracked open his best eye to observe for a moment. _Bad dreams. With his life? No doubt. Poor guy_, he thought muzzily. He let his eye fall shut again. There wasn't much he could do about Sylar's imagination and hopefully guilty conscience.

A louder, more purposeful groan caught Peter off-guard and he jumped, realizing he'd fallen asleep. He blinked rapidly and jerked his eyes to the source of the sound, who was awake and rolling over. Peter held very still, getting his bearings. _Nothing to worry about. Sylar's just waking up. Calm down. _His heart was hammering a little too hard for his liking, because being asleep in Sylar's presence was not something Peter was comfortable with. Sylar checked out his watch and issued a greeting. Peter made an ambivalent grumble in answer and stretched a little.

He smiled at Sylar's comment on B&E._ I like the sound of his voice._ It sounded especially deep to Peter's ear. _Not so sold on the arrogance._ "Well, you know, we paramedics have the authority to break and enter if we think someone's life depends on it." He had a lot of guidelines for what constituted an emergency befitting such a response. Cranky concussion victims didn't (quite) qualify. Though theoretically, if he thought Sylar had actually fallen and hurt himself, then kicking the door down to check was within bounds. "Don't worry too much though. If I get the urge to redecorate my apartment with clocks and books, I'll go find my own. What do you feel like having for breakfast a little later?" Peter had found some crackers to take with his morning dose of painkillers, but other than that he hadn't eaten.

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The smile was cheering, genuine (from what he could tell – Peter's 'I'm fine' smile sucked). "I take it my life depended on it. You probably just wanted to snoop out my awesome apartment while I was out," Sylar gestured around the room. _He could have done a lot of things while I was out._ A host of evil and perverted things flashed through is head. Sylar ran an exploratory hand gently over his face and then through his hair to be sure nothing was there._ Feels normal. Need a shower, though. Great company I make. Like I care, I want him to clear out._

"You're such a charmer," he stated dryly. A glare was thrown Peter's way at the mention of doing things with his clocks and books; Peter was poking fun at the objects' existence, naturally. That wasn't an amusing joke or even an anecdote to someone dealing with the man who'd broken-and-entered his house twice now. It was a threat – 'I might come in the night and steal from you'. He was about to snark what he owed Peter for playing hero when the man continued to surprise him.

"Breakfast…" he said slowly, feeling out the word. /"You gonna make me some more eggs?"/ _What? But now how does this work? Offering to make me breakfast?_ "Um…" Sylar went on to stall, trying to feel out angles while inside a sphere – an apt description when it came to all things Peter. Breakfast…a good question. "I don't keep any arsenic in the apartment," another partial stall, "I'll figure it out when I get there," he waved it off vaguely. By that he meant 'I'll get something much later' and also to imply that he didn't want Peter fixing him food and not just for poison control. That would be awkward as hell, what was he supposed to do, lie there and wait? Peter was overkill on the whole hospice nurse kick, what's worse, where it came from, he didn't know.

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A lot of quick quips in return about doing drugs and picking your poison came to Peter's mind, but it seemed wiser to keep his mouth shut. Sylar moved the conversation on anyway, saving him from temptation.

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To distract…one or both of them, Sylar reached across his body to push against the couch enough until his trapped arm's elbow could brace him. The world twisted and the aching everywhere took on a new note of intensity. Sylar inhaled and closed his eyes against the dizziness. _Shit. Bad idea…what else am I gonna do? I have to go… _He stayed still for a moment, letting it pass before he pushed off the armrest and sat upright. With his heart beating faster now, his body heat rose even though the room's temperature was less than toasty and Sylar suddenly felt dirty and uncomfortable in his over-night coat. Grunting to himself, he tilted his chin down, too fast, and raised his fingers to begin unbuttoning it. That done, he began the task of sliding out of the coat whereupon he discovered his balance would suffer or he would get stuck.

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Peter watched quietly as Sylar sat upright. For the first few seconds he didn't think much of anything, then noticed Sylar taking too much time to be attributed purely to stiffness. _His balance is off._ Peter shifted forward, coming alert, watching in case Sylar tried something dumb like standing. This was mainly just training - Peter wasn't thinking of Sylar so much as 'Sylar', but as his patient, whom it was his job to keep whole and unharmed as much as possible. He'd only been a hospice nurse for five or six months, but that was plenty to be aware that his patient's biggest danger was falls. He'd been called on over and over as an EMT and paramedic to take care of those whose guardians had not been quite vigilant enough.

He watched as Sylar tipped too far for Peter's liking while trying clumsily to free himself from the jacket. With a grunt at the soreness of his own frame, Peter got himself out of the chair. He had a second, no more, to figure out how to handle this. There was a host of complicating factors here. Sylar didn't like him and didn't want his help. He was prone to be violent and Peter didn't have the option of calling in someone Sylar might be more cooperative with. It was very likely Sylar was not competent to protect and advocate for himself. Peter was afraid of him and didn't like him, yet he still felt obligated to help.

"Hey," Peter said gently as way of announcement as he stepped closer. Sylar didn't seem to have noticed him rising, Sylar having his head down and struggling with the outfit and all. Peter put a no-nonsense left hand on Sylar's right shoulder to help with balance while he bent to reach with his right for Sylar's cuff. "I'll hold you. You get it off." He didn't bother to ask permission because he didn't think it would be granted. The time the day before when Peter had gone directly and (somewhat) fearlessly to help Sylar stay upright, then walked him home, Sylar had surprisingly cooperated. Same with helping him back from the bathroom after Sylar retrieved the Tylenol. Asking seemed like an invitation to fight over it. Peter hoped that a matter-of-fact approach would work.

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_Eh?_ Sylar looked up, a little dazed, at the firm touch on his shoulder. He felt he could hardly breathe through his nose, as such his mouth hung open to catch the occasional breath he couldn't get through his nostrils as he paused in his squirming out of the hot coat. Blinking up at Peter, he swallowed just for some moisture in his mouth. No, not from Peter (Ha, Peter wished!) but from the mouth-breathing.

Fleshy fingers brushed his wrist to hold his coat's cuff. _Well…this is…not what I pictured_. He chuckled and that hurt, shook his head, leaning forward, and admittedly, it was awkward. He was putting his face nearer to Peter's abdomen in their positions, angles and heights. The tilt allowed his shoulders room to swivel and roll until the shoulder and left arm of the coat inched down his limb over his shirt. Sylar shook that half off, breathing harder than he should for such a simple task and that was embarrassing, but what was there to do about it?

He took a breather, disguised as pain – God, and he was sore, the motions triggering his bruised hip and gut. "I think I get why you do this," Sylar hinted, softly, conspiratorially._ He gets off on this, doesn't he? Literally. All this touching, gratitude? The guy even said, he's got legal rights to break into my apartment. He'd got access to medical equipment, drugs…Peter has a medical kink. So this is…flirting? What does he, well, want? Or expect?_

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_Oh? Well … you do? That's cool._ He was wondering if Sylar was saying he understood helping people out. But his tone was weird, though. The probability of real understanding faded as Peter thought, _He probably thinks it's a control issue_. When Peter had reached out to steady Sylar, the man had been essentially straight-jacketed by his own coat. It was part of why Peter had expected resistance. He'd gotten none, which surprised him. If it happened to Peter, a little panic wouldn't have been out of the question. Peter shifted a half step to the right, which put him so he wasn't directly in front of Sylar anymore, and made it easier to reach around him for the other cuff.

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Peter's hand was still in place, the other shifting across his body to grab the remaining cuff and assist that off. Again, more contact when his neck met the man's hand on his shoulder or his wrist and hand met the guy's fingers. It still felt nice. _I mean, helping me out of my clothes is a pretty clear sign_. "You want the shirt off, too, while we're at it?" he inquired, half-seriously, staring up at his 'hero', keeping his expression wide and somewhat innocent and it wasn't a total act. It wasn't like any- Peter would ever know._ I think I'd asphyxiate if I tried to blow you right now, though, man. This breathing thing is overrated. _

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Peter's mouth opened as he started to answer that with an indifferent negative, but his voice failed him when he glanced down to Sylar's face. 'Oblivious' was not one of Peter's core traits. Even though he was pretty average in perception, Sylar's face was unmistakable in what Peter was taking as an invitation or a come-on. It was either that or actual gratitude, which would have hit Peter even harder. Sylar's expression made Peter's chest tingle and surge as whatever words he had been intending to say got jumbled. "Wr, nn-"

This wasn't helped at all by Sylar's scent wafting out as Peter helped pull away the man's jacket. The wash of warm, humid air was redolent of that unique odor of sleep. It read as: comfort. It reminded Peter of waking up next to someone, a more-intimate-than-expected association. More than that connection was that he hadn't had that particular pleasure in years, not since his memories had been blotted out. He'd ended up in Caitlin's bed out of lust and ignorance, his empathy dragging him into a relationship without consulting him – not that he would have been much help, to be honest.

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_That does not get old_, Sylar thought of Peter's reaction. It gave him a rush to be cause of it. It meant he was on top, in the driver's seat, in control, running the show, calling the shots, however one chose to put it. And for a moment… the poor sucker had no idea what hit him. That was the best part. Peter was smarter, though, than the majority of Sylar's…past experiences. An empath, too, and that part was going to be tricky to get around. _Does Peter's ability even work now?_

His expression didn't change until Peter replied, or started to. Then he tried for a slight, brief grin. Peter was definitely caught off guard by it, given his stuttering. He was left staring up at Peter intently, keeping vast amounts of his own personal reactions caged behind his eyes. The rest of his jacket slipped off and he felt cooler air assault his shirt. Sylar was not in, what any average, rational person would call the sexiest state – unwashed, dirty and injured with a healthy side of 'psycho' and homicidal history. If anything, he seemed to detect Peter's body heating up, at least his hands did where they touched Sylar. Or maybe that was his, Sylar's, reaction or even the contact itself. _Interesting_…Sylar crushed memories of Mama Petrelli helping him out of his Company jacket years ago in Level Five. Just no thanks.

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Peter's head buzzed. He was very aware suddenly of his hand on Sylar's shoulder. It tingled, too. He was never so glad he had on a long-sleeved shirt, because he was pretty sure he had goose bumps. _Jesus, Peter! Get a grip._ "No, no, that's fine," he said, his voice tightly controlled as he attempted to discourage whatever it was Sylar was getting at. He cleared his throat slightly, aware of how obvious it was that he was flustered. He was embarrassed about how Sylar would take that, but there was nothing to be done about it now, so he soldiered on under the aegis of professionalism. "How about I help you to the bathroom and you can take care of things while I make breakfast, okay?"

_He's just fucking with you. That's all he's doing. It's a joke. It's a ploy. We beat each other up yesterday. He accused me of trying to kill him. Just a few minutes ago he was talking about me putting arsenic in his food. He is not offering … whatever it is he's pretending to offer._ It was at least the second time Sylar had thrown something out there Peter interpreted as a pass. _It's just innuendo. It's meaningless. And even if it isn't … it's Sylar._ He eyed Sylar and swallowed, his face becoming more distant and wooden as he said, "I'll make some toast."

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_Huh_. The man declined, but his tone wasn't something Sylar could place. Disgust, discomfort, hidden interest, insult, it could be any of those things. All that might tell him was that Peter just refused to get into things with him specifically. Sylar couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. It just meant more frustration because the majority of his go-to options had been exhausted. Peter had reacted and that boded well. For later, of course.

More frustration layered on him. He was again told No, but also suggested that he clean up. Breakfast afterward made no sense unless Peter was…somehow into sex-then-breakfast. The apartment was not the Ritz. Many replies filtered through him: _How about you just take my shirt off? Screw breakfast. You aren't my breakfast? What, you don't play with your food? Sex in the bathroom? Isn't that unsanitary for an EMT? Can't say I've ever done it in a bathroom__._ Peter was pretty stupid if he thought Sylar was just going to "clean up" and let Peter…do whatever – breakfast or breaking in.

Sylar's grin just widened until it neared smirk territory at the definite withdrawal and he reached out to brush his fingertips against Peter's wrist now in guise of taking his coat back. _All's fair_… "Are you sure that's what you want? Toast?" He purred lightly, taking a brief second to eye Peter's mouth. He was fairly certain this was a fifty-fifty shot, but what the hell? He hadn't even turned the heat up on Peter yet and the poor guy was squirming. He couldn't wait to tease him with it.

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Sylar's fingers stroked across Peter's wrist. _Oh wow, that feels good_. It didn't matter, though, and if anything, Sylar had moved into even such a slight intimacy too fast, given all the other complications. Peter's expression passed on from 'wooden' and headed over towards 'hostile' as his lips tightened and his eyes (eye, really, since the other remained swelled shut) narrowed. He pulled in air at Sylar's touch in a quick but steady draw. Peter gave a quick glance down as Sylar took the coat, and then looked up at his face. "Yeah," he said, his tone clipped and unwavering. "I'm sure that's what I want." He took one measured step back, removing his hand from Sylar's shoulder and putting himself mostly out of reach. It was a firm shut-down.

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Sylar knew that answer was coming so it was of no surprise. It secretly stung the same as always but this time was a little worse. It got worse every time. This was someone whose regard he wanted. As if he could do anything appealing in the eyes of Petrelli's kind. Whatever libido he's been attempting to wrangle was crushed and that was probably for the best.

"If you say so," was his reply in spite of those thoughts, tacking on a heartless smirk, aiming to insinuate that they both knew better. He had not missed the change in expression. It was a more expected one anyway.

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Peter gave Sylar a wary once-over before turning and heading into the kitchen with strides that were stiff due to his hip, not his mood. He would have rather sauntered to show that he was unbothered and that Sylar hadn't gotten to him, but his body wasn't up to it. Over his shoulder he called casually, "But if you want something else, I'll see what you have in the kitchen. What did you have in mind - cereal maybe? I have a history of burning oatmeal, and you should probably stay away from anything greasy or heavy like sausage or eggs." Peter's performance was pretty inconsistent with pancakes and waffles - besides, he wanted to avoid from anything that would take two hands to prepare well and the mixing of batter was probably beyond him.

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While he would have been prepared to let Peter walk away from that without much anger, because he did understand, the dismissive glance Peter flicked over him had his blood boiling. And on top of that the man walked away. What's worse, if Sylar got up to go after him he'd not only get punched, probably somewhere unsavory, but he'd be nagged for getting up. Peter wanted him clean, had passed him up like a mangy mutt; and was now leaving him to his own devices, go ahead and fall for all the medic cared, so long as Peter was there to clean up the pieces.

Sylar got the feeling the rug had purposefully been yanked from under his shoes as he stood and he was literally left staring, now glaring, after the man. "I'll have whatever you're having," _apparently,_ Sylar grated out loudly between his teeth. _Son of a bitch. I had him_.

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Not that Peter's thoughts were lingering on batter. _He's messing with me. Definitely._ Peter opened up the refrigerator and checked out the contents. Helping Sylar to the bathroom had mysteriously fallen off the menu, skipped over as an option as Peter had moved on to something that put him in the kitchen and not where he was available for Sylar's cheap amusement. He knew concussion symptoms could include lowered inhibitions and impaired judgment, to go along with mood swings, so anything was possible here. He tried not to let it interfere too much with treating Sylar as a patient, rather than an asshole, but that didn't mean he was going to let himself be toyed with. That, ultimately, would be far more dangerous to Sylar than any normal fall and Peter knew it.

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If Peter desired so badly to play nursemaid, Sylar could more than play the needy patient. Besides, anger appeared to make his head hurt worse anyway. Staggering up, he ignored the waves of nauseating dizziness and made a few assisted quick-steps to the bathroom where he shut and locked himself in. Suddenly clumsy fingers struggled with his zipper as he hurriedly tried to take a leak and stay standing while swaying as fast as he could before Peter came looking and broke down his _other_ door. _Doors_. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, getting his underwear to obey finally. Geez, it hurt to look down with his headache and he was probably making a mess of the bathroom. All the reflective light and mostly-whiteness of the bathroom hurt his eyes and smarted badly.

_Why do I suddenly feel like the gay freak who has to watch his back for this crap?_ Yes, he was paranoid of getting his head bashed in before breakfast in his own fucking bathroom! Once relieved, he washed his hands, quietly turning on the sink and fairly collapsed back into the couch. After another rest break, he rolled up his jacket, puffing it under his head he eased to lay back down.

_Just for that, I'm not cleaning up_. He had plans for making Peter's life hell. Although he should go take a shower to be rebellious, maybe moan Peter's name loudly enough while he did it just to be crude and see if Peter cared as much as he claimed about threats of falling. _Bastard wants me to fall…down the fucking stairwell. The worst part is not being able to hit him. _Sylar lay quietly, fuming in his own thoughts while Peter screwed around in the kitchen. _Won't need any goddamn poison if he's that bad a cook._

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_He'll have whatever I'm having, huh? I guess I'm having toast, then, because that's what _he_ needs to be eating. _Peter puttered around, slowly calming down as he got out bread. _Oh! He has bagels. I love bagels. _Peter worked his jaw slightly. Chewing toast was going to be difficult enough and he suspected it would be more along the lines of 'gumming toast'. Bagels were just out of the question, no matter how much he liked them. He stuck two slices of bread into the toaster and fiddled with the butter, preslicing it. The toaster was still toasting. Only then did it occur to him to check the settings. He looked at the knob. _Huh. Should I change that to something else? No, wait, that's dumb. He probably already has it set at whatever he likes. Yeah … leave it._

He got out glasses and plates, wishing there were paper plates or plastic. He had a concern that Sylar might fling his dishes, but that, too, seemed dumb. If Sylar wanted to throw things, his apartment was not short on objects. Besides, they were **his** objects. He probably wasn't too keen on breaking his own stuff. He heard Sylar exit the bathroom and Peter leaned out slowly to see Sylar sinking down on the couch. Peter went back to his preparations.

By then the toast had finished and he popped in two new slices after removing the two he intended for Sylar. Peter applied butter and a very little bit of the strawberry jam he'd found. He didn't mean to be stinting, but continuing nausea was a normal problem. He poured up a glass of water and put the box of Tylenol to the side of the plate, where it sat in a V formed by the two pieces of toast. Peter glanced out to see where Sylar was, then tried to work out how he was going to get the plate and the glass at the same time. He swapped the glass with the box of pills. He could manage the pill box in his right hand – it was light enough for it. Hopefully he could keep balance with the glass on the plate. He carried them out and it seemed to go okay as far as logistics went.

He had no idea what he was going to get – angry-and-possibly-violent-Sylar, sulking-and-annoying-Sylar, Sylar-of-the-sexual-innuendo-and-weird-come-ons, or perhaps Sylar-who-has-completely-forgotten-what-just-happened. _This really is a fucking nightmare. Stuck somewhere having to nurse _Sylar _back to health_. He pasted on an unconvincingly polite face (he didn't care if it was convincing or not). Sylar had laid down. He was going to have to sit up to eat. Peter paused, couch-side, looking at him and trying to think of a better solution than just putting Sylar's bread and water on the floor for Sylar to get whenever he got done with whatever act he was pulling. Doing that, for Peter, would be petty; it would be wrong. He wanted to be better than that. _So what can I do that respects his dignity as a human being while letting me weather him being a jerk? You know, Peter, he might stop acting like a jerk if you respect his dignity as a human being. _He sighed because, yes, that was the solution. He knew it. He just didn't like it. Hate was easier.

The face of false politeness fell as Peter regarded Sylar steadily, shallow furrows forming in his forehead and around his eyes as his expression took on an aspect of, if not interest, then at least concern. It was a lot more empathetic than he'd been a few seconds before. It was more of an effort than Peter thought it should have been. In a dry, tired voice, Peter said, "Breakfast is served, Sylar. If you'll sit up, I'll hand it to you."

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Sylar lay there nicely, keeping his body mainly relaxed by force of will, eyes closed for the moment just because it hurt to keep them open all the time. His headache had since tripled from the rush to and from the bathroom and the bruising and rashes on his stomach and hip aggravated by his jeans. He heard Peter shuffle up and pause, his eyes opening and staring ahead, giving the man only a cursory side-glance before looking straight again. From the angle he couldn't actually see Peter but the look was mostly to let Peter know he'd been seen.

Sylar's fists clenched, tightening briefly before relaxing his hands and using them to push himself up without comment, not caring if Peter saw that. He felt like he was on Level Five again, a prisoner, injured, dealing with his captor, who was now ringing the breakfast bell as it were. The same as before, he had no powers. He was angry as hell and powerless to act on it…for the moment. Sylar's "silver tongue" had always seemed to enrage his opponents almost more than his presence or his sins so he took this inaction as an opportunity to plan barbs to irritate Peter.

When he'd managed to sit up and quell the world's spinning for all of five seconds, he took the offered plate and glass, knocking the pill box over onto the toast, but whatever. From somewhere deep inside he garnered up a grunted, "Thanks." _I did not ask for any of this. Not the fight, not busting into my apartment, not the TLC. You're here because you fucking wanna be._ Sylar otherwise kept his focus directed elsewhere because looking at his nurse would only get the man's groin crushed right now. Feeling like a beat-up, filthy whore which he supposed he was in a sense wasn't a new experience, neither was being turned down for those reasons. But the heroes were so, so good at slathering on a sense of unworthiness that burned like a criminal brand. _Who came looking for whom for help here? Huh? They always come running to me._

Situating himself, plate and glass while Peter went back to the kitchen, doubtless to tend to his own meal, Sylar's nostrils were accidentally filled with the smell of toast. "Ugh." Sylar held it at arm's length as his gut churned in both hunger and repulsion. Instead he dug out three Tylenol and swallowed them with a large gulp of the water. Like it or not the pills had helped him sleep before and that's really all he wanted to do again now. He wondered why Peter seemed tired and angry at his secondary offer. There were a few answers, none of them pleasant.

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"You're welcome," he said quietly.

Peter returned to the kitchen to see that his toast was ready. He set up a second plate identical to the first, including the glass of water balanced on it. He'd seen the fists. Sylar was angry. Given that Peter had rejected whatever advance Sylar had been making there, the emotion certainly made sense. And then there was the lack of desire for Peter's help, which sucked because Peter wanted to give it so much. It was Peter's primary way of being friendly - rejections all around.

_He's a loner. I wonder if he's always been that way? Is he a loner because he's so anti-social, or is he anti-social because he's been a loner? If it's the first, then if he could just pick up some social skills, he might be okay. If it's the second, then he's probably happy like he is. But yesterday … he was fine the other day - talkative, friendly, so chummy and buddy-buddy that it freaked me out. So he has social skills. _

_Of course, he doesn't seem to have any recognition that I have a right to be really fucking pissed at him for everything he's done. No … he does recognize that. It just doesn't matter. Like I was thinking day before yesterday, it's like coming onto the scene of a murder and the killer calmly admitting that he got upset, stabbed someone seventeen times and he knows it was wrong. 'Lead me away, officer,' complete with letting himself be cuffed and taken in, then just as calmly confessing. He told me, 'They had it coming.' 'He's dead, I made sure of that.' '…this is my thank you?' _

Peter sighed, letting his thoughts flow around and through those lines, trying to pull them together and figure out what was going on in Sylar's (probably black, shriveled excuse for a) heart. If he was going to see him as human, frail and failure-prone like anyone else, then he had to figure out where the guy was coming from, even if that meant tackling some subjects that moved Peter to rage.

Peter gathered up his plate and glass, moving out to his chair across from the couch because he was a social creature who sought the company of others, present company included. He could see Sylar had opted not to eat his toast so far. Peter sat, not addressing it, but filing the information away. Sylar hadn't eaten dinner and he was skipping breakfast (so far). He needed to get something in him to counteract the stomachache that might, or might not, be caused by the Tylenol. Peter decided to keep thinking rather than nag. He had his own meal to eat first before getting into it with Sylar over something that would be uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Peter set his glass between his legs and leaned back a little. He chewed gently and slowly at his toast due to his still-quite-sore jaw. He tugged the bread apart carefully with his teeth so he could mull over small bites as he kept pondering his companion's mental make-up.

_How was he expecting me to respond to everything he said to me? He seemed genuinely thrown when I told him he had provoked me on purpose, like he didn't think he'd done or said anything wrong. He never answered me about that. Why was he bringing that shit up like that if it **wasn't** to set me off? What did he expect me to do, say, 'Yep, you're right. Thank you so much for killing all those people. You're a real hero, Sylar!'_

Mostly, Peter was staring at the wall over the couch, but occasionally he glanced down to Sylar, acknowledging his presence without any particular reaction to it. Peter had his 'thinking face' on, complete with an unfocused look as he tried to make sense of things.

_He knows it's wrong, but he doesn't care. How does that work? Or is it just that he doesn't __**seem**__ to care? Or has he convinced himself he doesn't care, like Nathan always did? Like Ma ..._ Peter frowned, no more happy about his mother's rationalizations than he was about Sylar's. _So frustrating. They cared, but they hurt people anyway. Both of them. Well, three, with Sylar._ He glanced down at Sylar's face and gave him a small, fleeting and sympathetic smile, his brain having managed to put Sylar into the category of other people who irritated and frustrated the hell out of him, but whom he could do nothing about: Peter Petrelli's Penalty Box for Bad Behavior. It was a step up from 'no one wants him dead more than me'.

XXX

Peter sat without comment, surprisingly, and started in on his own food. Sylar had settled with his back to the armrest and his side and cheek pressed to the back of the couch, idly staring into space once he'd discerned that Peter was of no consequence at the time. _Wow, I'm not even going to get nagged_, he thought sarcastically, _Nurse Petrelli falling down on the job_. Lack of eating was not caused by lack of hunger, but lack of taste buds and stomach calm. The toast looked fine, great even, and he knew he should eat. He just couldn't fool the food past his tongue.

His head was back to its bone-deep throbbing, making his vision pulse in dull red waves and the position was wrinkling the skin of his hip against his jeans. It was at times like this and only at times like this he missed his regeneration. Anything that might have set and begun to heal in its painful way had been shifted and agitated by the trip to the bathroom. He was a head-to-toe aching mess and he assumed or maybe hoped Peter was no better off. _The important thing was that I won. Twice. And I didn't start it either._

Not comfortable enough yet to drift off and wary of a lack of promise of truce today, Sylar considered the things he wanted to know: _Why did he turn me down? Why does he think I provoked him? He acts like someone is watching us most of the time; does he know something I don't? The Germans in World War II knew how to tell lying informers from truthful ones on whether they were hiding traitors based on the preparation and repetition of their story. There's always pupil dilation. I know he's not giving me the whole story._

"Why are you so guilty about all this, Peter?" Sylar murmured without his usual energy, his voice still carrying some sting. "You've never been guilty about…" a pause to consider how to phrase it, "what goes on between us before." Code for 'pummeling me to a pulp.' _Something in him acts like this is all new…and yet he still goes at it like he doesn't care if I die….but he doesn't go all the way. _Sylar purposefully ignored the whole 'this is all in your head' bullshit, which Peter sadly believed. But if it kept him alive, he would use it. Granted…they'd never been forced together this way and Peter had never stuck around to play hero for him. _Could seeing the damage bring that much change? _Sylar pondered it honestly and curiously. Evidence was to the contrary.

XXX

Peter shut his eyes and set his plate on his thigh, holding it with his right hand. His left he used to rub very slowly and carefully across his face, not really exploring, but just brushing over it, finding comfort in the touch of a hand even if it was his own. "Beating you up here is stupid, and it's pointless." _Not the real reason. _"Always before, I was …" _What __**was**__ I doing? He attacked me at Odessa and then in Mohinder's apartment. He was the one who started it at Kirby Plaza. But after that, it was pretty much me doing it at Pinehearst and Primatech, because he was in my way and I was pissed. He started it at Mercy Heights, even if I'd intended to find him and start something. Maybe that one counts as mutual?_

"I was trying to stop you from killing people, or I was messed up with your ability and not thinking straight." _Still not the real reason._ He sighed and got a little closer to the core of it: "Hitting people and hurting them is wrong, no matter who they are. Self defense is one thing, but …" His voice took on a strained, tired tone. "I'm not defending anything here except someone's reputation," he grated out, angry and uneasy all over again.

XXX

Had Sylar been up to it, he would have pounced all over the man's explanation, if he called it that. He longed to tilt his head and stare Peter down, but right now, the couch was more appealing. '_Stupid and pointless' isn't stopping you so far. You admit you were messed up and not thinking straight. Of course it would be okay to pound the murderer because he's opposing you. You did no better with my ability and you still, to this day, treat me like I'm the only one with the fucking problem. _

_Hitting and hurting people is wrong, tell that to the nail gun, Peter. Tell that to the glass in your skull…which was…pre-self-defense habits. Its always been okay to everyone I know….No matter who I am, huh? If I was Nathan would you hit me? Or is just because I'm so…special, I get "special" treatment? You're defending a dead person's reputation, Peter. _Sylar did have to stop and think if he would defend his mother so fiercely…He decided it would vary based on topic. Then again…Sylar knew all about the Petrellis and Peter knew nothing of Virginia and so was likely to make a lot of assumptions just like everyone else.

XXX

Peter pressed the heel of his palm briefly against his forehead before dropping it to the armrest with a small shake of his head. "Beating you up over words is wrong, but so is letting you get by with saying those sorts of things about the people I love. There's no right choice here." He made an empty, open-handed gesture with his left hand, a sort of 'can't you see' emphatic hand-wave. _Actually, there is a right choice. Stop beating him up and take the high road. But I can't let him disrespect Nathan and Claire and whoever else he decides to bad-mouth!_ Defending one's family honor was too important for Peter to let it pass. Perhaps he was just too stereotypically Italian, but it was one the values he'd been raised with and probably the most important one. Comparatively, any doctrine of nonviolence was a recent adoption.

Peter pushed around his second piece of toast on the plate, fitful and restless because he couldn't find a solution that satisfied him. "Why do you keep forcing me to make that choice?" _I can't believe that you don't know what you're doing. You either want to get beat up, or you want me to agree with you that my family is shit. You want to drag me down into that pit with you, where you hate everyone and that justifies everything you've done_. The situation was only exacerbated by Peter's agreement that his family had done wrong, but that didn't make it any easier to handle Sylar running them down.

While all of what Peter was saying was true, it was the reason for the anger, not the guilt. The idea of not hurting people, of respecting them, and the like was an extension of his concept of honor and the primacy of familial love. Peter had extended that 'family' to all of humanity, with something of a priority scale - his mother most important, then his father and Nathan, then other female relatives (like Claire, Heidi or Meredith), then other male relatives, then his friends and people he had an obligation to, then the helpless or exceptionally vulnerable, then the rest of the world. Sadistically beating someone up went against all of that, but it was what he wanted to do to Sylar. He wanted to hurt Sylar. He wanted to make him pay for what he'd done to Nathan and it burned inside of him like a well-banked fire, just waiting to flare up. **That** was where the guilt was coming from.

XXX

Sylar frowned a little bit. _So…defending his family in ways that he feels violence solves in necessity…makes him guilty?_ He didn't buy it; that theorem lacked historic evidence. Shrugging lightly with a shoulder, he said, "Entertainment maybe? Or I think it's a choice you need to make. Because I'm telling the truth." _Your family's screwed everyone over, including you, especially you. I'm against abuse of specials, the same as you. We are, sort of, basically on the same side, then._ "Hell, maybe to see what you'll do. Maybe make you eat your words. Maybe to corrupt you, who knows," Sylar droned without much inflection, his sinuses becoming obvious now.

Sylar turned to Peter and opened his mouth to begin on a tidbit of wisdom about family, betrayal and how-to-deal but stopped himself. Somehow he doubted Peter could grasp it. And it was personal. It would give Peter numerous openings for mockery, teasing and blame, not to mention it would increase the man's sense of disgust. _My dad tried to kill me. For an ability no less; immortality. I doubt he'd have let me heal and live to fight another day. That was after I spent the day with him, trying to reconnect. He would have turned on the Petrellis for their power bank. He was my father and I let him die. So that makes me a heartless, murdering patricidal monster, right? Don't even get me started about killing my mother. _Sylar shut his mouth and faced straight again. _The same betrayal, but I'm not clinging to excuses or false hopes. I made a choice._

XXX

Peter sighed and considered what Sylar had said. In the absence of much in the way of emotion in Sylar's delivery, Peter was left to weigh the words themselves, which was like reading with every other letter missing. It could be done, but it took more effort. He gave it a few moments of thought and then set it aside, taking a drink of water. Frowning slightly, he regarded Sylar in profile, noting the faint bulge of the goose egg over his brow from where Peter had head-butted him. Injuries aside, it was a good face – very distinctive and striking, if less imposing from this angle. Peter didn't feel so skewered by Sylar's full, unadulterated focus while looking at him like this. The man's cheeks were darkly shaded by a day's growth of stubble, standing out sharply against skin that was a little paler than it would have been at full health. Peter's frown faded as he wondered idly what Sylar shaved with: electric razor, safety razor, or a full blade?

XXX

The other man was silent for a while. A while dragged into too long and, much slower than he would have liked, Sylar became aware that Peter was staring. When he looked back in response, Peter's face was neither desirous nor angry. Not even a little bit confused. Strange as what Sylar had said was probably something Peter took great offense at, the whole 'just to screw with you' angle. _See something you like, Petrelli?_ He wondered, the least bit curious.

XXX

He noticed Sylar had detected the scrutiny. Without any guilt, but recognizing his social faux pas, Peter redirected his eyes to his toast. He took another bite of the bread, rolling it around in his mouth and gumming it to death rather than chewing. His jaw was getting sorer the more he used it. _Definitely soup for lunch._ His thoughts returned to what Sylar had said.

"Entertainment." Peter huffed out. "You don't _look_ entertained." He paused for a moment, choosing his words with care even though he knew Sylar was operating at reduced capacity here. Maybe Peter was asking because of that. Sylar was less intimidating this way. "This isn't a choice I'm happy making - picking between making you answer for your words or letting you say whatever you want about the people I love. Can you tell me why you think I _need_ to make it?" He was genuinely asking. For now, he ignored the truth angle. It was irrelevant and a lot of people clung to the idea that 'it's the truth' justified hurting other people. "I know Nathan and Claire are no saints, but that's my _brother_ and my _niece_." _I'd be a pretty lousy brother, uncle, whatever if I didn't do __**something**__ about the crap you were saying. Can't you just be polite?_

He waited for Sylar's answer, listening intently, paying attention and trying to understand. He knew that not everyone shared his sense of familial loyalty, but it was a common enough trait that Peter didn't feel inappropriate in asking for Sylar to avoid speaking ill of them. Sort of like how, if Sylar had expressed a morbid fear of spiders, then it would be foul play of Peter to get a toy one and harass him with it. On the heels of that thought, it occurred to Peter that Sylar might consider that sort of conduct to be completely fair.

XXX

"Hmm, I look like I got run over by an angry Petrelli, the one and only." Sylar substituted 'a mac truck' for the man's last name - by now the event (being beaten by this particular one) was commonplace enough. "I look ready for the asylum, same as always," waving a tired hand at his own words indifferently. _Why is he asking the hard questions now I can't think? What's with that? _His thoughts were annoyed, a little flattered and understanding.

"Oh, that's good to know. Here I was thinking that was your happy face," he said of Peter's purported happiness as to choosing. If he sat and thought about it, which he was being forced to do, he would have eventually concluded that it was a test for Peter. As to why he was performing it…remained largely a mystery even to him. That meant it was an emotional decision as he was almost always very aware of his motivations and goals. That also meant there were things he wanted emotionally from Peter. It wasn't a course he was eager to…continue on. Sylar was quite uncomfortable with that prospect.

He'd been silent while he thought on it for a moment or so. He counted the heartbeats that ached throughout his form absently, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in and force him to sleep, promise or no promise of truce and safety from Peter. "Because you're different." That was all he could sum up and to him, it really did summarize. The Petrellis, the Company, Bennet, Mohinder, Matt, they had all been evil; they had all been 'bad guys'. It didn't matter that Peter had been related to or friends with them. Because Peter had once possessed the Hunger and been possessed by it. Peter clearly wasn't damaged enough to value safety over love, right over wrong when it came to relatives so he stayed and allowed the abuse and kept loyalty with the snakes. _Because I am the hero – I'm fighting you. _"Because I think you're weak and stupid for not punishing them…letting them off the hook time after time only enforces behavior, you know. Besides. They're all dead anyway."


	28. Soup du Jour at Cafe Gray

Day 10

'They're all dead anyway' pulled a severe frown from Peter, but it faded fast. That was Sylar's worldview here and while Sylar had said a number of things that made it sound like he might believe Peter's version, it also seemed possible he'd said that only to improve relations. It was the same reason why Peter kept making his own slips regarding the 'reality' of the world they were in. Peter wasn't interested in arguing about it at the moment. Instead, he thought about the rest of what Sylar had said.

"Different." Peter leaned forward, intent on that, trying to work out what Sylar meant by using that particular word. 'Special' had a lot of meanings between them, but this wasn't the same thing. _Different from …? 'You're the only one who really uses my name.' Different like that? Different because I respect him more than other people do? And do I? That's sort of sad. But let's run with that. So is he provoking me because he thinks I must be weak or stupid because I didn't stop Nathan, or Ma, because in my place, he would have? He thinks I should have found a way. _He pondered that, leaning back in the chair. _I did my best. Maybe I could have done better, but I did what I could figure out._

"I didn't let them off the hook. I tried to stop Nathan a bunch of times. Pinehearst didn't burn down on its own, you know. Ma … If I'd known what she was up to I would have tried to stop her, too. I guess you can write that off as 'stupid' if you like." He sighed, thinking about Claire from the future, who had cut into his chest with a scalpel. "What did Claire do that you think I should have … 'punished' her for?"

XXX

"It's not about trying to stop them; you did more than anyone else would have in that regard. I've never seen a Petrelli in Level Five, have you? Besides yourself, of course." The Petrellis controlled the strings, cutting up any who dared rise up against them and otherwise protecting their own sacred asses when they weren't killing off their family. Sylar noticed and would appear to ignore Peter's leaning forward as a sign of interest. He was pleased he had the man's attention so raptly, although it was weird to be taken so seriously. With anyone else Sylar would have been written off as a psychopath on the bloody trail to glory, as delusional and broken, in need of a cell block or a tranquilizer…not an answer or a listening ear.

Sylar scowled at him. "Claire hasn't done much of anything 'wrong' that I know of. She does lots of stupid things, but nothing 'wrong'. Sure she got in Nathan's way a lot…yours and Noah's, too…she crashed that plane with all of you on it. Who's to say that's wrong?" Sylar intoned dismissively. Claire was not a big player in his book. She was a scared teenager who'd had some rather terrible things done to her and her actions towards him should probably be filed under self-defense. He'd healed; it wasn't like there was permanent damage done.

He didn't want to talk about her for just those reasons, but also because he was bound to say something 'provocative' without really being aware of it. Tilting his head after a pause, he went on anyway, "Don't discount what goes on inside that perfect, precious head of hers…there's more evil thoughts in it than you'd give her credit for. It's not all sunshine and rainbows." _That_ Sylar knew as fact. "So if you count evil thoughts as something needing punishment, well…" he smirked a bit, glancing aside knowingly at Peter, the star of many of both Sylar's and Claire's evil musings.

XXX

To Sylar's smirk, Peter gave back a forced smile that was trying very hard not to be a snarl. Peter did not appreciate the deep upwelling of anger he had to some of what Sylar had just said. Sylar had just dismissed Peter's experiences as unimportant. _(I'm the only person here and I still don't count!) _That was hardly new in Peter's life, but Sylar was cherry-picking events to suit his continued sullying of the Petrelli name, ignoring all evidence contrary to his aim. Nathan's life had been nearly as much a mess as Peter's, costing him his health several times over, his family, his career, his reputation and eventually his life. Peter picked up the last of his toast and used his fingers to tear it into tiny pieces before eating. He took his time before responding, trying to breathe and vent his anger as much as he could on the bread instead of on his companion.

When he'd finished the last of his food, he said in a somewhat clipped tone, "Claire didn't crash the plane. That was me. I was still drugged and out of it, couldn't control my ability. It was my fault, not hers. She was trying to save us. She was doing something really good." He wanted to correct the record - not only on his mistake, but also on Claire's heroism. She'd taken a risk to help others and put herself in danger. Peter thought a lot of that in people. She'd known the whole 'free pass for being Nathan's daughter' had been crap. She'd gotten a free pass; Peter had been betrayed by his brother. And Sylar expected him to swallow that the Petrellis never ended up on the wrong end? _His envy has blinded him._

"You think my family's privileged. I get that." A rare dip into sarcasm thickened his voice. "I suppose I had it pretty good compared to the average special who only gets abducted the once and then goes back to a fairly normal life. After all, I only got stuck in level five twice; and then there were those months in that long-term facility being lied to and electro-shocked by your- Elle; and the memory wiping; draining my abilities; and the trying to screw me up enough for me to blow up New York; Nathan selling me out, neutralizing me, and then shipping me off. _Nathan_ didn't even make it. He got chewed up and spit out! The Petrellis are such a swell bunch, what with all of that wonderful family loyalty we've got going on. To hear you talk, a person would think we hadn't been killing each other all this time."

With an upset grunt, Peter took his glass of water and his plate, levering himself up out of the chair. He stomped off towards the kitchen, disappointed in himself that he'd said so much and frustrated that it was there to be said. He wasn't even touching on the news that his mother had tried to kill his father, or his father putting her in a coma, or any of the other myriad sordid details of Petrelli family life. _I know my family is fucked up! That's why I don't want to listen to you telling me about it!_

XXX

Sylar turned to look at the man on hearing his tone. _No sleep til Brooklyn_, he thought of the sleep he would not be getting now with Peter's aggression. He glared as Peter turned facetious, but a goodly amount of what was said passed right over him. _Wait, twice? What? Elle?_ "My _what_?" There was no way Peter was pinning any of that on him. "What?" Sylar finally asked in general, way behind.

His memories of Nathan were rife with possibilities and Sylar's hackles rose at the possible insinuation that he had somehow horribly wronged Nathan in killing him. The bastard had come looking for a fight, ill-prepared; actually, he hadn't been prepared at all, and had paid the price for fucking up everyone's lives. Peter would really have to elaborate which time or times, specifically that Nathan may have…done all that to his brother.

Peter marched into the kitchen, his every line reading anger. "Well, haven't you?" he said in normal tones to the other's parting shot about killing off relatives._ Could've fooled me. I'm going to do him a favor and NOT count the times I've had to play sides, stick my neck out or recover from otherwise fatal injury when we thought I was one of them._

Sylar just shook his head; he was not about to yell after Peter, certainly not in his current state. _I have no idea what I said this time, none. He asks me questions, so I answer them; he gets pissed and might hit me. What am I supposed to do; demure, bat my eyelashes and say, 'oh, whatever you think an understanding psychopath would think, dear'?_ Sylar grumbled and cuddled himself deeper into the couch.

_Who gives a shit about Claire? She needs emotional help not babysitting. She needs therapy, like the rest of you. I'm the one with goddamn anger issues with you popping off at an honest answer? You know what they say: Ignorance is bliss. Gee, Peter, you must get off so light since you're related to that nest of harpies, while someone like me, with no Petrelli blood, gets my just deserts, is that it?_

"My point is, if you're suffering so badly," his own light sarcasm tinged that part, "you, their own son and brother; how do you feel about them fucking up complete strangers?" again, his delivery at a normal tone. Peter could listen in or pout. _Wow, way to take the fall for Claire's dumb decisions, Peter. I said I didn't consider it necessarily right or wrong and you feel the need to defend her anyway? That either says something about how you see me or your family. _Sylar wanted to growl at the man to sit his ass back down so he could sleep, that or take a shower or read a book or even work on his watches, but no.

"Change the subject," he demanded crossly when Peter reentered the room, not sparing him a glance, "Better yet, don't talk at all; you need your beauty rest."

XXX

Peter stomped back in from the kitchen, bristling and fully prepared to give an answer to everything Sylar had said, but was cut off preemptively, and essentially told to sit down and shut up. He opened his mouth again to argue about that, too. _Sylar doesn't get to tell me what to do. Fuck him!_ But the words died in his throat with nothing but the "Wh-" coming out. He blinked and really looked at the other man. Sylar looked … miserable. And sort of pitiful, actually.

Sylar took up a very small space on the end of the couch, legs drawn up as he hunkered in the corner. The posture struck Peter suddenly as cowering, huddled against an assault that could easily transgress from verbal to physical, without warning. For hadn't Peter attacked him three times already here in the middle of Sylar talking or teasing? They were all attacks that Sylar professed to not understand and not to have expected. Sylar was making no eye contact, his head drawn down a little. And yes, maybe he was tired and in pain. Maybe his head was killing him and the way he was sitting was more cause for that than Peter's presence, but the other interpretation rang too true. Peter's patient was afraid of him and while a little bit of him said, '_Good!_', the greater part was horrified at how their roles had reversed. The stack of cans Peter had put in front of his own door at night came to mind. _Poor guy._

Peter's face struggled for a few seconds on the path from angry and self-righteous to shamed and apologetic. He opened his mouth a third time and then shut it, once more without speaking and this time without a sound. He thought about what Sylar had said. _I don't need rest; obviously he does. He's just not willing to say it, to admit he needs something, to ask me for anything. He's telling me to rest so he can. I need to pay more attention to him. I'm getting too wrapped up in myself and that's never good._

"Okay," he said simply, looking down and then off to the side briefly, chastened. His shoulders slumped as he let go of his tension and anger. "Okay." He glanced over at Sylar with a quick flick of his eyes before looking away again, this time beyond Sylar and forward into the room. Peter swallowed and walked across, past Sylar and over to the man's bed. He picked up the blanket and pillow, carrying them back and offering them to Sylar. "I'm sorry. You're trapped in here with a violent nutcase who has a history of …" Peter's throat tightened and he coughed slightly. "Here," he proffered the bedding and said contritely, "I am _truly_ sorry. I'll sit in the chair. I'll try to rest."

XXX

There was a silence after Peter cut himself off, during which Sylar sat and waited. The man's entry had been angry, the pause and then he'd moved behind Sylar and grabbed something up but he didn't move. Sylar was not stupid enough to strike the first blow, not when he was clearly injured as badly as he was. Which was probably why he was mouthing off so. What he really needed to do was stop blurting out his thoughts – generally questions involving Peter's….strange behavior and the actions of his family. There was only so much Peter was going to withstand, that much he'd learned if not taken to heart yet.

He stiffened as much as he could, lifting his head some, all this time not looking at the man as he passed. Peter appeared in his view again, holding… his blanket and pillow? It was Sylar's turn to pause, glancing up at Peter, then staring at the objects. Slowly reaching out for them, grasping them gently but firmly to see if he would be allowed to bring them back to his space or…what, he didn't know. The empath gestured for him to take them, releasing them to his hands so he gathered them up. But on top of all that surprise, Peter was apologizing. For what?

"Why are you sorry?" while his voice was quiet, his question held some heat, accusation, stunned shock. "Don't flatter yourself – you may be a medic but you've never been diagnosed as a violent nutcase." _That's my title, remember? What does that make me if you're a violent nutcase?_ Sylar cradled the pillow and blanket, not quite sure what to do with them yet. "You're entitled." _Not to be sorry. To be angry…I expect it, I wouldn't expect less of you in that way…I…I don't know why I keep doing it. Habit, I guess. You're acting so weird…_

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar hugging the pillow and blanket to himself – half insecure clutching, half as though he expected Peter to change his mind and snatch them back. Peter _did_ want to take the pillow away, but only to put it behind Sylar's head. He wanted the man to lie down and relax instead of being curled up so defensively, a posture which made Peter feel guilty. _What kind of ogre do you have to be to scare __**Sylar**__? He's just a man, though. If he wants control, Peter, then give it to him!_ It seemed like a better idea to let Sylar manage on his own. Being 'forced' to relax was never relaxing for anyone. Peter backed off, doing what he'd said he would and what he had interpreted that Sylar wanted him to do. He sat down and leaned as far back as the chair would go, trying to look at ease and putting himself in a position where Sylar would at least have plenty of warning if he got up. He tried to think of what he'd want Sylar to do were their positions reversed, but it was tough to work that out with the different psychology involved.

He moved on to answering Sylar's question, since taking the time to make sense of things would leave the man seemingly ignored while Peter thought. "I'm sorry that of all the people who could have come for you, it had to be someone with an ax to grind." _But does Sylar __**have**__ anyone else who might have come for him?_, Peter wondered. _If he did, wouldn't they have done something while he was impersonating Nathan? No friends, no family? Though even a total stranger might be better for him than someone like me._

"I'm not entitled to be an asshole. And it's not just to _you_. I broke into my friend's apartment and busted her cello." He sighed, looking up at the ceiling, remembering Emma's confusion, dismay and indignation. "I saw it in the dream - Emma was at the carnival, playing a cello. So I went to her apartment. I didn't even let her say hello. As soon as she opened the door, I pushed past her, picked up her cello and smashed it down on the floor. I thought that would stop it – stop the future from happening - but the next night I had the same dream all over again except this time you were in it. And you saved her. So here I am."

He reached up and touched his face, wanting to rub it but that hurt too much. He hadn't thought things through before going to Emma's apartment any more than he had before jumping into Sylar's mind. That was the problem – what he'd already mentioned – he'd stopped communicating with people about what was important. None of them would listen and he kept getting betrayed, so Peter had ended up with his heart as defensively curled up as Sylar's body.

"It was a beautiful instrument. Someone had given it to her as a gift. She was really happy about it, and I tore it apart without even telling her why first." It occurred to him that Sylar was listening. Peter had a grouchy, oversensitive, misunderstanding listener … but he had a listener. Realizing that, Peter immediately asked softly, "Do you want me to be quiet and let you rest?" He was unable to keep a little disappointment from his voice. He remembered his elation from a few days prior when he realized that Sylar was really paying attention to what Peter had to say. Peter had stuck his foot in his mouth almost immediately thereafter with the bit about the memories, but it had been nice while it lasted, he supposed.

XXX

Sylar was quiet even though he had thoughts he could add to the other man's words. _No one else would have 'come for me'. You're the only other person with telepathy….give or take. Or you had it, according to your story. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who lacks an axe for me, Peter._

Peter then spoke of his friend, this Emma girl. Sylar watched him after he'd settled in and watched as he listened to the rather personal story. The empath wasn't ashamed, per se, or embarrassed, but regretful. _He should have explained it to her. If she's your friend, why would you take away a gift she'd been given? Rather, you should have taken it away after you'd talked to her, not destroyed it. That's…so unlike you, even if you think you're doing the right thing. That's overkill._

_The sad thing is he's just proving my point. He'd do that to his own friend? Why would the Petrellis fuck him up, too?_ Sylar didn't comment, perhaps in gratitude towards the other man or because he was still thinking it over. The story, the sharing calmed him. It must have been an effort for Peter to muster that after what Sylar had said of his family. That was nicer than he deserved at the moment or at all probably.

"I don't know," he answered, confused now, but not dangerously so. Against his will, the more human part of him desired to make Peter more comfortable in whatever way he could since he was allowed to relax. He was at a loss how to do that, however. Sylar slowly began to spread the blanket over his upraised knees, more lost in thought and stiff than anything else. Easing his butt further down into the middle of the couch he began to lay back. "I've got extra blankets under the bed," really, it was under his cot, which wasn't an actual mattress as such. Meanwhile he dug up the couch's pillows and tossed them in gentle arcs towards Peter and the chair. "Don't drool on anything," he warned. The guy refused to leave and he was letting Sylar sleep when he had little reason to.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said to the drool comment with a slight, agreeable smile. He shifted up in the chair to look at the couch pillows, not all that sure what to do with them. _Apparently, Sylar wants me to sleep. Time to mime sleeping, Peter_. His smile curled a bit further in amusement at the thought that this time it was Sylar's mood feeding off Peter's, not the other way around. _He has some empathy after all._ Peter got to his feet with a pained grunt at his hip and walked over to Sylar's bed again. _Why does he sleep on a cot? He has a zillion other choices, and he chooses a cot. Of course, I stripped my apartment as bare as I could get it, so who am I to criticize?_

"Do you want a second blanket? While I'm getting one for myself?" He suspected that Sylar was trying to cast them as equals rather than caretaker/patient. If Peter got him a pillow and blanket, then Sylar was going to try to reciprocate. Peter would play along with that. Another layer of psychology that Peter figured was going on was that Sylar couldn't or wouldn't relax until Peter appeared to be occupied in a non-threatening activity. Sylar couldn't kick him out, but he was going to try to bully Peter into inactivity. Again, if it helped Peter's patient, he was up to a little acting.

As he returned, Peter sent a pointed glance down at Sylar's untouched toast, trying to pick a time when Sylar was looking at him to see it. That was as much nagging as Peter was going to do for breakfast, though. He'd save the big guns for lunch. He picked up the pillows and settled back in his chair, squashing on the pillows for a while and then spreading the grey, fleecy blanket over himself. _I was more comfortable without the pillows. Oh well. He'll drop off pretty soon and then it won't matter._

XXX

"No, I'm good," Sylar replied firmly, intent on seeing Peter's ass kiss the chair and stay there. He took his time settling in slowly to the couch, not rushing due to bruises and rashes and otherwise stiff-and-soreness. Once horizontal he caught Peter's gaze glancing to the toast and Sylar awarded him with a single, clear blink before ignoring it.

XXX

Peter settled back again and pretended to sleep, or at least doze. He let his thoughts drift. _I have no idea what to do about my family. _He worried he'd been abandoned again and it seemed so realistic and likely that it was depressing. _It's been, what?, nine, ten days that I've been in here? Ma knows where I was going, but she's the one who put me in a coma in level five; she's the one who thought it was a good idea to let me find out about my abilities all by myself and then try to manipulate me into blowing up everyone and everything I'd ever known._

_I talked to Sylar about who might have come for him, but honestly - who is likely to come for me? Really? Emma, maybe Hiro, Claire, maybe others would want to, but how would they find me? How would they get me out? Obviously Matt isn't any help here. Either he can't get me out, or he doesn't want to, because I'm still here!_ Peter was frustrated, at the world and at himself. He'd thought that by coming here, he could do something good, something worthwhile, because that was all that was left in Peter's life that motivated him - a desperate search for how to be a hero in an increasingly complicated and confusing world. Now he was trapped, felt like an idiot, and Sylar wouldn't help. He wanted to lash out. He wanted things to work right in the world. He wanted someone to _care_ and to help him, but that wasn't the way the world worked anymore.

_God, I'd love to think that Nathan would never let me down like this, if he were still alive. I'd love to think he'd move heaven and earth to make sure I wasn't … here. But he **did** let me down. He hugged me in my apartment, told me it was all going to be okay and then had me tasered. He sold me out for … his career, his twisted scruples. You don't sell out your own family! He crossed a line - a line Ma had already crossed. And then there was Dad's idea of a 'hello, son, I'm back from the dead,' which was another hug from hell. Sylar hugged me in the future, then gave me his ability and everything went to hell again. Maybe I should just stop hugging people!_

Peter grinned at the dark humor of that, eyes shut, as he was still leaned back in the chair. He didn't think about how his expression might be seen. It faded a few moments later anyway as his thoughts moved on. _That's a pretty sad joke. When __**was**__ the last time I hugged someone that it didn't go bad? Caitlin? Of course … there's how __**that**__ turned out._ He sighed unhappily. That was someone he'd abandoned, a choice made semi-intentionally, which made it at least partly his fault. _Simone? Same thing. _And the same guilt, because he'd had a role in her death as well. _Claire, maybe. She's never screwed me over. Yeah, I think … I think she's the only one who hasn't._

_Really, what has Sylar done that my family hasn't? I'm not even immune from myself!_ Peter's thoughts ran through the pain the future version of him had brought into his own life - shooting Nathan, imprisoning Peter on level five for the first time and just generally jerking him around and putting him on a self-destructive, pointless path._ You know, maybe I am better off stuck here._

XXX

Some time later Sylar was started out of his uncomfortable haze of rather deep sleep by the sounds of someone moving around stealthily. It was that sixth sense all sleeping persons had when things just got too purposefully quiet, the lack of silence actually triggering waking rather than any normal noise would have. Unless of course the person was a light sleeper, but that was beside the point. His heart pounding with sudden wakefulness and awareness, he kept his eyes shut until he was sure he could squint them open enough to feign sleep.

Peter's chair was empty, the couch pillows distributed on the seat, the spare blanket draped over the back. This time he knew he was retracing an old path, but mustering up the correct impulses to fire seemed to hurt his brain. Motion caught his eye as Peter stood over to Sylar's right, near his bed, but the man's head was tilted to read some of the book titles on the shelves. That raised a question or two, nothing immediate because Peter might just be bored, certainly was bored, and curious.

Sylar lost track of time, either to fugue, memory lapse, dozing or some kind of open-eyed sleep he'd heard was possible. He awoke again when Peter walked passed him on the couch, stirring up cooler air and sound on the way to the kitchen. He lazily tracked the man, but didn't feel like stirring himself, safely burrowed as he was with pillow and blanket.

At the kitchen-noises Peter was making, a rumble emerged from his stomach; again, thinking back to when he last ate was more effort than he wanted to undertake. So he amused himself by deciphering the different sounds from the kitchen, doing his best to place them to location (when he couldn't see Peter moving around) and object. He was doing pretty good so far, concussed or not.

XXX

Peter opened the cabinets one after another until he found a pan. Then he opened the drawers one after another until he found a can opener. He wasn't making any great attempt at being quiet now, unlike earlier. If he woke Sylar, all the better, because he wanted the man to wake up and eat. He opened the can of soup he'd already set out and spooned the contents into the pan, then filled the empty can with water, stirring it around with the spoon. He poured that on top and stirred a little, dissatisfied with the lack of dissolving.

He fiddled with the stove settings until he was sure it was on. He spent another restless moment stirring, then set the spoon aside as he remembered something he needed to do before he got too involved. He walked out to the couch. At least to casual observation, Sylar looked asleep. Peter bent carefully for the plate of cold, stale toast and, more importantly, the Tylenol. After he stood with the plate, he said at a normal, conversational volume, "I'll be serving lunch pretty soon." He paused for a moment to see if Sylar responded.

"Do you want to eat at the table, or out here? It's tomato soup." He wondered how dizzy Sylar was and whether he could manage sitting unsupported for an entire meal, but that uncertainty was why Peter was asking.

XXX

Sylar was awake when Peter came back and still admirably faking sleep even as the man got very close, leaning down for something. The toast. And painkillers. Neither were of consequence. Peter's voice would have woken him anyway, seemingly louder than normal. Cranking his eyes open he locked them onto his companion, pausing for a moment to see how Peter would react before answering calmly, "Table's fine." _I can make the table, right? I totally won't fall over and face-plant into the soup. (What if I can't? What if I do?)_

XXX

Peter took away the plate and pill box to the kitchen, trashing the toast and setting aside the pills where they were out of easy sight. He agitated the soup a little more, then got out bowls, spoons and glasses, setting them on the table for the time being. He put out a box of crackers, too, along with, eventually, the warmed soup. What he didn't set on the table were the painkillers. Peter wasn't going to give those up without Sylar actually eating something. He hoped Sylar would be cooperative about that, but the look from earlier about the toast was why Peter was engaging in subterfuge.

XXX

The other man buzzed away and Sylar began to work at sitting up which came before getting up, pushing the blanket towards his feet. The world spun as his blood pressure and heart rate adjusted themselves. Blinking to clear his vision and swallowing to try to soothe his suddenly cranky stomach, he inched towards the edge of the couch. _Okay….I can do this. Just a brief walk to the table. Don't think about the smell, don't think about passing out, don't think about your leg or falling or otherwise humiliating yourself. Ignore Peter on the way in and sit down. If it's poisoned, it's poisoned. _

That decided upon, he pushed himself up to stand, swaying and very dizzy as his lack of blood sugar made itself known. "Hmm," he said to himself in displeasure. _Get it together_. When the black tunnel vision faded, he took a few wobbling steps to the kitchen, using the wall like a prop as soon as he could. Just his luck Peter would turn around quickly and splash him in hot soup and burn his face off or something. Sylar remembered catching a near-boiling bowl of watery green beans all down the front of him as an eager, would-be helpful child. The bowl had tilted onto him from where he'd been taking it down from the counter. But he hadn't dropped the bowl, that much he remembered and he hadn't gotten burned.

He tugged out the nearest chair, feeling the pulsing vessels in his skull complain mightily and with a roar, but he sat. "I'm usually more useful in the kitchen," he murmured, his voice again low and rough from sleep, his face too stiff to bother to yawn. Sylar scratched at his scalp lightly, wincing when even that hurt, so he shifted the motion to shifting his mussed hair back in an attempt to be someone presentable and polite_. I must look like crap, though._ He snorted to himself although Peter might have heard. _No duh he doesn't want to fuck you, and on top of your look, you smell._

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's progress from couch to kitchen with an exceptionally attentive eye, but although Sylar was holding onto the wall and then the back of the chair, he seemed to be making it alright. The big deal was that Sylar did not seem to be overestimating his capabilities, whatever they were. He wasn't trying to 'tough guy' it out and act like nothing was wrong. "It's no problem," Peter murmured in reply, ladling out soup into a bowl and moving it in front of Sylar, along with a spoon. He turned and poured the rest out into his bowl. "Like I said earlier, I like helping people." He added with a smirk, "And I managed not to burn the soup."

XXX

This was all incredibly humiliating to Sylar. He felt like a child being called to dinner with all the expectations that came with it. "Thank you," he said when Peter placed the bowl before him, forcing himself to remember his politest manners. He didn't bother to fret about remembering not to put his elbows on the table; it wasn't like Peter would care. But wasn't soup one of those crazy table-manner dishes anyway? Scoop away from you and don't slurp and all? It was very strange to be fed in this way. Sure he'd eaten at restaurants and diners while on the run and been served by waiters and waitresses, but that was their job. This wasn't Peter's job. Hell, Peter could barely cook.

The aroma was calling him, though, queasy stomach or not. Indeed, Peter hadn't burned it and he gave a gentle snort in acknowledgment and praise, passing by the opportunity for a snide comment. He didn't feel one was necessary right now.

XXX

Peter slid the other bowl in front of his seat and set the pan aside for the moment. He took the two glasses to the sink and filled them with water. Again, he would have preferred milk, but he was under the impression that Sylar was being sensitive (oversensitive, probably, but Peter being Peter was reluctant to label it as that) about who ate what. It wasn't that big a deal to serve the same food, from the same dish, with the same drinks. The arsenic comment was still lodged in Peter's brain.

He set out the drinks and paused for a moment, looking at Sylar. Peter reached over with his left hand and gave the point of Sylar's shoulder a single, lingering squeeze. "I'm sorry you're all banged up. I'd rather that when we fought, it would hurt for a little bit and then go away, instead of this," he said, gesturing to indicate his right hand. He smiled wryly as he sat down and mused, "It's a funny sort of place when a dream world is more realistic than the reality we're from, huh? I wonder what that says about us."

XXX

Sylar waited for Peter to dish up and bring back the drinks he was preparing, fiddling with the spoon whose every reflection seemed too intense. He was paying attention to the last glass Peter set down, which was Peter's drink, and didn't notice his companion's pause. He didn't know what he thought the man was doing, but it didn't seem to be anything of consequence and he didn't look over to find out. Adjusting his brace maybe, but Peter hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

Sylar started and jangled the spoon, looking at Peter as fast as he could manage – his gaze traveling from the man's face to his good hand resting on his shoulder. He wasn't aware that he'd leaned away, probably preparing to take a hit, however he saw that the hand on him was Peter's left, his good hand. Peter was not going to be doing any decking with his right for a long while, just as he said.

He gave the man a glare for startling him, angry that he'd been so caught off guard, but then modified his face and looked away as his doctor sat. That gesture was horribly familiar…to Nathan. A sign of comfort, betrayal, loyalty, love, friendship and brotherhood, trust, apology, anger, farewell and greeting. The gesture practically had a life of its own and Sylar had gone so far as to give it a name ('The Petrelli Shoulder-squeeze') for the amount it came up in Nathan's memories.

It had no place on Sylar's shoulder. "Stop apologizing," he grunted and took up his spoon, switching it to his left hand from his right, slipping it into his soup and stirring unconsciously. _Its just weird. I heard you the first dozen times. I'm not gonna lie and say I forgive you and I think this fucking amuses you to see me like this for some reason, so….whatever._

XXX

Peter stirred his soup around, noting it still hadn't dissolved completely, which was because he hadn't gotten it hot enough for long enough. He might not have burned it, and it was certainly warm enough to eat, but was still a little lumpy. _Well, at least he's not going to scorch himself._ He turned his eyes back to his companion.

XXX

Wondering if he was losing his marbles for considering soup-aroma therapy for his sinuses, Sylar braced his right forearm on the table, he gave Peter a possessive look as if to say 'what are you gonna do about my elbows?' Taking hold of his utensil firmly, he raised it slowly and inched forward to put it in his mouth, giving it a cursory sniff before opening his mouth wider than he wanted to due to his facial bruises. It couldn't be helped though.

As soon as the soup touched his taste buds, although both taste and temperature were fine (if a little colder than he preferred), his stomach rebelled and he clamped down on making a face. Instead, he finished the mouthful and swallowed, replacing his spoon to the bowl. His guts were trying to crawl up his esophagus for more food even as it protested. Sometimes biology just bit itself in the ass. _I'm hungry! And sick!_ He demanded of his stomach, _Let me eat!_

XXX

Peter considered whether he should have pulled over a trashcan or something to work as an emesis basin. Doing that now would draw attention to it and by that very attention might cause Sylar to lose it. Peter glanced at the empty soup pan still on the table. He supposed that would work, if it came to it, despite the almost instinctive urge not to soil a cooking utensil with waste. It was metal and could be easily washed and sterilized. He reached over discreetly and rotated the pan slightly so the handle was more reachable. Then he went back to watching Sylar's obvious queasiness.

Sylar had paused after the first bite to marshal himself. He didn't look like he was getting worse but instead just taking it slow. Peter took a spoonful himself and then a second. As tomato soup went, it sort of sucked, but it was bland and nourishing and warm, which were all pluses for Sylar's condition. And loaded with salt, which wouldn't hurt the man's possibly out-of-kilter electrolytes.

Sylar's posture, crouched over his dish and putting his arm up as a barrier to Peter's possible interference reminded Peter of something he'd seen on TV. It was a habit of prisoners and others who had reason to believe their food might be taken from them. He'd had one hospice patient with a similar affectation whom he had manipulated into eating more of his meals by threatening to take his food away prematurely. Like many things in health care, it seemed cruel even though the purpose was benign and the result beneficial. _How much would I harm Sylar's trust doing something like that? Probably a lot. He's eating. Slowly, but he's eating. I should just leave him alone about it as long as he does the minimum._

But there was something he wanted to clear up: "I wasn't _apologizing_ for what I did. I was showing _sympathy_ for your condition." _There's a difference! Important fucking difference! _Even though he was sure he **should** apologize for what he'd done, and he may well have done so earlier when he was feeling guiltier, but that hadn't been his intention now. Peter blew out air slowly and changed the subject slightly to something that didn't piss him off (at his own waffling inconsistency more than at Sylar), following Sylar's suggestion from that morning. "I've never had a bad concussion. At least not one that lasted more than a few seconds, given regeneration. I've had a few mild ones, though." Mostly through fist fights, though there had been that one time when he'd fell off backwards from a dirt bike.

XXX

_Oh_, Sylar thought, _So you're not sorry, but you're guilty?_ He played it cool and didn't react to the other's tense response. Peter had to have been paying a lot more attention than he'd appeared to be because he'd picked up on a lot of Sylar's signals. He hoped that was only because of the concussion, but Peter had read him well enough and backed off as Sylar had desired, when he had desired it. As he had time, and Peter didn't press the issue, Sylar actually sat and thought about what the difference was. A known, unrepentant killer, Sylar supposed he himself was aware of the difference. _Is it like killing Nathan? I'm not sorry, but I'm a bit guilty feeling? Of course I'm guilty in deed; no one questions that. _

After a moment, he just shrugged a shoulder, once again hefting his spoon. _I jumped the gun, I guess, hearing the word 'sorry'. Of course he wasn't apologizing – he thinks I started it, he thinks he served justice. Is justice always this guilty? He's beat up and betrayed Nathan and not felt a lick of guilt before, not always, but it has happened._

Peter claimed he'd never had a severe concussion; Sylar frowned and looked up at that, his mouth opening to ask about Odessa when the man clarified. He'd pieced together in Mohinder's apartment that Peter could heal, obviously, and that had answered the mystery.

XXX

Peter didn't think Nathan knew about that one so he offered a distracting story in a calm tone of voice. "I think the worst one was when I was nineteen. I went with Justin to this dirt bike track out near Poughkeepsie. He was going to take me around the trail before I went on my own, so I climbed on behind him on his bike. No helmet, because we were just going to go real slow while he talked about the track. Never happened, though. He wasn't used to having a passenger and he gunned the engine a little hard. I didn't have a good grip and went right off the back. I hit my head on the parking lot pavement - cracked it really hard. That was the beginning and the end of motocross for me." He laughed a little. "It felt like my thoughts were wading through cotton for days after that, but I didn't have any other symptoms."

Peter wondered if Sylar would return with a story about himself, or better yet tell Peter about how he was feeling right now. So many indicators of head trauma were invisible to the eye.

XXX

Sylar wasn't thrilled to hear about Peter's injuries – it was a molecule's nudge away from shifted to 'Remember the time when you…?' But Peter seemed in good spirits about it, laughing once and that drew Sylar's gaze up to his face from where it had been on his spoon playing with his lunch…or was it dinner? Peter said lunch.

Still watching his companion, a little curiously, he nodded a few times. "You got off lucky, then. You're always supposed to wear a helmet," perhaps his inner Virginia speaking up there. It didn't hit him that his statements were obvious and Peter was a grown, smart adult who already knew that before and after the incident. He ignored wanting to tell this 'Justin' a thing or two, the idiot; nineteen was old enough to know better. _Boys will be boys and what's more, Peter will be Peter._

Something that Peter said stuck out at him and it took him a minute in keeping with the phrase, "I know the….cotton feeling," he said slowly, by way of sharing. The cotton feeling wasn't just limited to concussions for him sadly, not when his Hunger entered the picture. It was the only sharpened thing in his mind, really. He had the cotton feeling now, his gray matter growing throbbing red fuzz or something that impeded his thinking. Sylar frowned again and thought some more or perhaps tried to while he stirred the soup. Was there something else he'd wanted or meant to say?

Sitting up like this wasn't comfortable with his abdomen and leg and wrist. His head was unsupported except for his neck, eyes exposed in the kitchen; he'd felt better earlier. "They're just really painful…take forever to go away," Sylar dismissed the condition with a wave of his right hand. Telling Peter any more, even when speaking to his 'doctor', was probably unwise. Turning his attention back to his food, Sylar lifted up a spoonful, wishing to inhale the odors without being weird or impolite to assure his guts, instead placing the liquid in his mouth and holding it there.

XXX

"Yeah, sucks," Peter said in response to Sylar's comment about concussions being painful. There wasn't much to say to that, anyway. He could point out that the painkillers would help and had probably worn off, but Sylar wasn't done eating yet and there was no reason to bring it up until he was. Peter intended to stay with Sylar (or at least check in on him regularly) until he thought Sylar was well enough to take care of himself. Making a point of that was also something best left unsaid so he moved on to a more neutral topic.

"I know about helmets, man. _**Now**_, of course. Then I was a teenager and yeah, I was lucky. There was this one call I went on a couple years ago, motorcycle crash right in front of a fire station. No helmet. He was probably only going 45 or so but …" Peter looked down at his soup - red, or reddish-orange actually, with lumps and flecks. He remembered the mushy way the man's face - top of skull, cheekbones, jaw, everything - was loose and sort of free-floating on the front of his face. Peter swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Well." He was silent for a moment, forcing himself to eat a spoonful of soup before continuing, "I heard they managed to save one of his eyes. I wish I'd known about that healing ability a long time ago."

XXX

Sylar gave him a blank look, his mouth currently occupied with soup he was trying to acquaint his tongue with. _He just said he's never had a bad one and he thinks they suck? Oh, Empath, heal thyself,_ Sylar thought to himself sarcastically, yet with some affection. Just as he was working up the nerve to swallow, Peter dove into another paramedic story and even before he'd finished, Sylar's imagination had done the rest. It appeared he wasn't alone in being queasy on that one. It got so bad as the man continued he was forced to make the choice between vomiting or swallowing to keep everything down so he swallowed the mouthful of soup, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the rest of the bowl. _Neat, Peter. Let's talk about this over tomato soup, shall we? What part of that is smart? This is gonna take forever if you keep this up._

XXX

He'd given up that ability - that most prized and life-giving of abilities - to take flight from 'Nathan' and keep up with him after whatever mental transfer or reversal happened between Matt and the man Peter had thought was his brother. He'd surrendered the precious healing power in a heartbeat, thinking Nathan needed him, only to find out it wasn't Nathan at all. Peter frowned. It didn't seem to be a good thing to ponder. There was nothing intentional on Sylar's part to cause Peter to lose the ability, nor, from what Peter could tell, was Sylar acting 'badly' at that time. Lost, confused, perhaps having an identity crisis? Yes. But also, the identity crisis - not Sylar's fault. At least, not directly. Peter gave a small head shake to throw off the disturbing contemplation.

_What were we talking about? Oh yeah, motorcycles._ "I don't even know how to drive a motorcycle. Every now and then they talk about recruiting for rescue riders around the fid-knee for downtown access but I have no interest in that _at all_." Peter looked at Sylar blankly for a moment, realizing that sentence was probably about as understandable to the man as Sylar relating watch functions was to Peter. "So, uh …" _I need to shut up_. "Crackers?"

XXX

Taking a few, subtle deep breaths, banishing both his overactive mind's eye and his own memories of open brain cases and bloody gray matter, Sylar got out, "I don't know how to either. Can't imagine it's all that difficult." He felt as though he gave some kind of a jerk, but he couldn't be sure, part of him hoped he had, given the foreign nature of the thought – Nathan recalling Peter mentioning rescue riders while the lawyer focused on his own affairs. With effort, he replied, "Really? I didn't know that." _Because there is a distinction between Nathan and I_, he told himself. When Peter stared at him, he went on, assuming Peter was waiting for something, "That sounds-" Sylar had been going to continue in that vein of conversation before Peter piped up, again about food.

_Crackers. Of course, so this lumpy red liquid will get all chunky and have texture and be more edible, right?_ Sylar closed his eyes with something of a mildly pained expression, his stomach working itself into and out of knots. "Uh…I don't think so, not for me."

He realized he couldn't exactly ask Peter to stop talking about blood and guts while they ate. That would just seem odd and rather stupid, given that Sylar was the "Brain Man", given that Sylar had sliced open Nathan's throat. Given that Sylar had tried to kill Charlie the waitress and handle her brain tumor while eating. All those times, he reasoned, he hadn't had an upset stomach to throw off his appetites. On the other hand…Peter wanted him to eat.


	29. Mental Exam

"How's the hand?" Sylar asked to distract them both. An idea occurred to him, belatedly, "On second thought I will take some crackers." _I'll eat them dry_.

XXX

"The hand hurts. Even when I'm only moving my thumb and index finger, but it's worst when I bump something accidentally." Peter fiddled with the box of crackers, pulling out an unopened sleeve. He looked at it briefly, considering the various ways to attempt to open it one handed, or without having to put much pressure on his right hand. Nothing came to mind that wouldn't hurt more than the attempt was worth, or was unacceptably rude like using his teeth. He handed over the sleeve to Sylar, hoping he'd understand. It was an obvious problem.

XXX

Sylar nodded, unsure of what to say to Peter's response about the hand. The other man brought around the box of crackers, although Sylar was barely paying attention, more focused on getting the soup into him. While Peter fiddled with the box, not opening it, Sylar quietly swallowed down a few more spoonfuls, cluing in moments later when the sound and motion of 'opening the bag' didn't occur. _Oh, yeah. He can't open it with the hand we just talked about._ He thought on the dilemma for five seconds than decided he'd see what Peter would do.

The empath answered the question not long after, pushing the bag towards Sylar, who merely blinked at him. He had no idea how to take that, said nothing. _Peter Petrelli seriously just handed me a bag of crackers so I could open it for him. Because he couldn't. What's that joke about tall men and pickle jars on high shelves? Something about useful husbands. So that makes him…?_ Sylar's lips fought a grin at the presumptuousness, taking the bag and digging his fingers in for a grip. _Wait…or is this like the "I'm the handy can-opener" thing? I'm sooo useful that Peter Petrelli is here to beg of my help? I'm not a fucking swiss army knife anymore!_ The grinning smirk he'd had on faded into a darker look as he took a handful of crackers, handing the bag back, considering his thoughts. _Or does he mistake me for Nathan?_

XXX

Peter ate quietly for a while, retrieving the sleeve of crackers after Sylar was done with them and taking a few for himself. The closed box and unopened sleeve had kept Peter from getting any earlier, not that he'd really thought about it. _Huh. I just used Sylar to open the crackers for me and didn't even notice it. _Peter's brows and the side of his mouth quirked briefly at the small, internal joke.

When his mind started to go back to the motorcycle victim, he reined it in and instead focused on something more immediate, reviewing what he needed to do for Sylar. _He looks like a mess. I'll bet he could sit for a bath, but I don't think a shower would work. _He pondered for a moment. _I can't think of how to do that without playing into that same thing that happened earlier with taking his coat off. Getting him undressed for a bath … no. There's no way to do that without giving him ideas. He'll be fine for another day, then he should be able to manage undressing on his own maybe. _

_What's more worrying is that from the way he's breathing, he's got some obstruction going on and swelling in the sinuses. He sounds alright otherwise. Maybe I could get him to go along with a cycle of cold and hot compresses. That would help him. Yesterday I was too fucked up to be competent. Speaking of which …_ Peter eyed Sylar's hands_. I need to check those out. If they've clotted up and sealed, then I need to get the bandages off him if all he's going to do is rest. They'll heal faster that way._

_I need to check __**him**__ out, and not just his knuckles._ Peter's contemplation held nothing of lewd intentions, not even considering the optional meaning of his thought. His mind played back through the events of their fight. _I hit him in the face, then pulled … kicked him in the leg, he fell on me, then got on top of me, I head-butted him and … yeah, I think that was it. He can walk - leg seems okay. Where did my knee hit him when he fell? I was kind of out of it, but my knee hit something hard. I must have hit his hip because my knee's bruised up too much for just a gut shot. Could it have been his ribs?_ Peter's legs shifted a little as he tried to recall their exact positions. _I might have ruptured something in him, though obviously he's not dead. Jeez, what if he can't breathe well because he's got diaphragm problems from taking my knee too high? No, I think I was trying to rack him. He must have been lower, but there's still a lot of stuff in that region that doesn't take well to being landed on. I really need to make sure._

_Hm. How do I manage that without setting him off?_ Peter's spoon came to the bottom of his bowl as he finished his soup and then set the implement aside, regarding his companion with an analytical eye for a moment. There was something else he needed to do before any examination, though. He rose and walked over to the counter, reaching behind a canister to fish out the Tylenol. He counted out a dose for Sylar and set it wordlessly beside him, then Peter counted out his own pills, put them in his mouth, set down the box, and washed the pills down with his water.

XXX

Sylar was now mostly disregarding the soup, instead munching on the crackers, slowly to suit his face. He took gulps of it via the spoon when the crackers made his tongue too dry, switching between water and soup for nutritional versus fluid intake. Peter was quiet, also hard at work masticating. Sylar's thoughts wandered to his next move – ideally getting clean. His companion had given him the impression that he would be leaving as soon as he thought Sylar was fit enough and now, to complicate things, Sylar was bothered by the prospect of the man's departure.

To some degree he enjoyed being fussed over. It had been a long time since he'd had some of that, but he was aware that it was temporary, probably a one-time occurrence, so he enjoyed it and didn't linger or pine for it's loss. It made him feel funny, though. Sylar didn't look forward to chasing after Peter, hounding him down for attention and conversation, companionship.

Peter got out Tylenol after he finished his meal and set a dose before Sylar. Moments after that, Sylar had filled up as much as he was going to on soup and took the pills. Placing his hands on the back of the chair and the table, Sylar levered himself up, waiting for his body to adjust to standing before he again assisted himself back out to the couch using a bit of wall. He bit back his grunts at the walking part, his limp more pronounced as he ran out of wall to support himself with, but he made it to the couch and sat down with a sigh. At least his stomach felt better.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar navigated his way back to the couch, of two minds as to whether he should stay in the kitchen and let Sylar have autonomy (and also where Peter had a better view of his mobility) or whether he should stay a pace removed in case he needed to grab or brace Sylar if he had a balance problem. Ultimately, Peter moved to the door of the kitchen and otherwise stayed back. Sylar seemed to accept his help grudgingly at best and had made it very clear he wanted Peter gone. It was a common problem with patients - displacing their upset about their condition onto their providers. At least, that's what Peter hoped was going on, although he had to admit there weren't many reasons why Sylar would want him around anyway, except as a distraction or source of entertainment. Sylar made it to the couch without issue, so there was that, at least.

Seeing Sylar had sat, Peter turned and rummaged around in the kitchen for a bowl, finding a plastic one - Tubberware or something like it - and then a washcloth. He looked the cloth over and wet it, thinking about germs. _This place … I guess it's sterile. Or … maybe it's sterile because we think it's sterile. It's his mind after all. If trash isn't a big deal, I can't see how routine infectious agents would exist. _

He washed his hands anyway out of habit, but it kept him from obsessing about hygiene as much as he would have in the real world. Certainly he wasn't going to go through the normal protocol with gloves and protective barriers. He carried the bowl, with the wet cloth in it, out to the couch with the intention of catching Sylar before he got all settled in. His patient had eaten and taken his medications without complaint. Peter would see if he could help him with self-care and try to segue that into a better patient assessment than he'd done the day before.

In a matter-of-fact tone, Peter said, "Sylar, scoot over. Let's get your face cleaned off." Peter gave him a once over, noticing the bloodstains on Sylar's right cuff. He recalled Sylar holding Peter's neck with his right, prompting Peter to grab Sylar's wrist with his bloody left hand. _It's not even his blood on his wrist. But that's his on his face, under his chin there and on his jaw._ _I'll have to have him take his shirt off after all._ Peter wasn't sure what to think about that, what with Sylar's come-on that morning about it. _Maybe he's forgotten about that?_ Amnesia was never so convenient, though.

"If you will _let me_, I'd like to do an examination on you, so I'm sure I understand what's wrong. I didn't check yesterday." _I should have. I was too messed up. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm concussed, too. Or was. Whatever. Just not nearly as badly._

XXX

Sylar reacted to his name before the man's presence became known, turning with a somewhat expectant look on his face. It dissolved when Peter continued, telling him to move, allow him room and get his…face cleaned off? Again he was reminded that he wasn't exactly squeaky clean and that he looked like he'd had his face kicked in. _And I smell, let's not forget that one. C'mon, Pete, __sidle__ on up._ It did nothing for his confidence. His expression took on a much more neutralized, arrogant expression as he eyed Peter right back.

Sylar didn't move immediately, either, instead taking stock of the objects Peter had brought: a bowl filled with water he presumed and a washcloth hanging a bit over the side. The implication was unmistakable – Sylar was filthy enough to need a bowl, water and a cloth and Peter had noticed. Once more he felt like a child whose fingers weren't coordinated enough or a child who was too unruly to be trusted. He felt like throwing a tantrum or whining, too, which didn't help his assessment.

_First my hands, now my face_. This was (or would be) a level of just plain weird. Suddenly grimy, bloody, sweaty and smelly were preferable, safer. But Peter wasn't stopping at a facial. Sylar's face shifted to try to allow his eyebrows to raise slightly, but it hurt and he wound up grimacing. "A what?" He almost choked. _He didn't check? He didn't check what?_ Sylar tried to quickly review what could possibly need to be checked without an MRI. _What's wrong? Nothing's wrong…._

Peter was pulling a card that made Sylar uncomfortable – a "good guy" medical man all but demanding to examine him, his head, his brain most likely. It wasn't going to be "stick out your tongue and let me whack your knee". Sure Peter had handled his previous concussion "examination" alright, but this was a more serious injury and some of the damaged areas were beneath his clothes. _Does he have abilities?_ Was his immediate, paranoid fear, clearly remembering Mercy Hospital and before that Stanton. He stayed still, not moving over as directed, unsure that if he let Peter sit if Sylar would remain some control over the situation.

XXX

Peter ignored Sylar's lack of movement and crowded onto the couch anyway. Pushing Sylar around was getting him what he wanted and so he kept doing it. He sat down on the end nearer the kitchen. With Sylar still in the middle, this meant Peter was in easy reach of him and in fact, Peter was kind of crammed into the corner of the couch. He was turned to face Sylar directly and sat to the man's left. Peter set the bowl down between them where it touched both of their legs. He hung onto it for a second to establish possession before releasing it. He used his left hand to pick up the washcloth (the bowl was a quarter full of water) and wrung it out clumsily and one-handedly.

Peter looked directly at Sylar, leaning forward a little and speaking in a calm, low voice. It was a little more companionable than his usual paramedic voice. "I want to give you a patient assessment to be sure I understand why you're limping, why your balance is bad and why you're nauseous. I need to work out how bad your concussion is. Sometimes you're uncooperative and I can't tell if that's because of the concussion or," Peter smiled a little painfully, "or because of … everything else." _Because you're an uncooperative asshole, traumatized history, serial killer, all that. But right now you're my patient, combative or not, and that's what matters. _The smile faded as he glanced down and wrung out a little more water from the cloth. Peter's voice dropped a little to be quieter and deeper as he looked back up. "I'm trying to be your nurse here. I'm trying to help you. I hope that if our positions were reversed, that you'd help me. And at this rate, one of these days they might be." _And what will happen then?_

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened as Peter had the audacity to sit when it had been pretty clear Sylar didn't want him there. _Damn Petrellis, you think you own everything_. He glared, putting plenty of heat into his gaze, hoping to sear and scare off this annoying pest. While being pressed up against another human body was nice, it wasn't under acceptable circumstances. He gave a loud grunt to signal his displeasure, obstinately not moving from *his* seat.

Peter went about setting up camp, cool and as welcome as you please while Sylar was seriously considering striking him, his fists going so far as to ball up. He had no idea what he was going to do when Peter reached for his face, but he didn't think it would be pretty. All he felt was confusion – he would like to be touched, but not like this. Peter's reasons, each and every one, were bogus and vague and now the medic was getting pushy like Sylar knew he would. There was no truce; he was defenseless and useless. To top it off, he'd tried to proposition Peter earlier, so where did that leave them now?

XXX

Peter was silent for a moment as he thought about that question. Despite his expectation that he'd be an even worse patient than Sylar had been, there were a lot of little signs that his fears of further mistreatment at Sylar's hands might be overblown. He hoped they were, but that was the thing about doubt and uncertainty - he wouldn't know for sure until the time came. Peter leaned in further, looking up at Sylar. "When I first came here you told me I ought to pick out an apartment. You invited me to lunch with you. You tried to give me some pointers about the place." He held up his right hand. "Later you offered to tape my hand up. You showed me where I could find a good brace. You even held it and helped me put it on. Yesterday you bandaged my face." He paused before continuing very genuinely, "I've _noticed_. I'm trying to help you right now. It's the _same thing_."

Peter was trying to set up an equivalency, a tit-for-tat, and make it seem like Sylar had been the first to start this process of give and take. He extended the cloth towards Sylar. "If you want to wash your face off, I'll do touch up on any spots you miss." 'You do this, I'll do that' - it was a method that worked with a lot of patients who were particularly touchy about being helpless.

XXX

Peter leaned in and Sylar's head went up, defensive and alpha, staring Peter down. In doing that, he hoped the smaller man would take the hint and back off as Sylar's undivided attention usually had that effect. _Why the hell would you __extol__ my virtues now? Obvious much, Petrelli?_ He sneered in his head. His reward for said kind acts had not gone unnoticed. Concussions were subtle that way. Frowning slightly, but even that hurt, he still watched Peter as he proffered the washcloth.

Sylar almost expected him to pull it back as he reached for it: Ha ha! Just kidding! But it didn't happen, so he took it and made to scrub his cheek with the cloth, wincing and hissing as he hit bruises, ceasing his motions instantly. _Shit! And why can't I use a mirror again, Petrelli? You wanna be in charge_. He gave Peter another glare and went back to attempting to clean his face, this time with a more gentle touch. In trying to avoid the spot he'd just hit, Sylar adjusted his touch by about an inch which helped only minimally as the entire area was sore. _Wonderful. And he's going to sit there and watch the whole time._

XXX

Peter ducked his eyes away from the latest glare to be polite, but otherwise he didn't give an inch. He was beginning to get quite a bit less afraid of Sylar's looks, since he'd had the opportunity to weather so many of them without being killed. As Sylar cleaned, Peter shifted position, adjusting himself with his back against the arm of the couch. He and Sylar remained crammed too close together. One of Peter's many bruises along his spine wasn't happy about how he was settled so he found a better position to be in, grimacing a little as he did so. He bumped Sylar's leg with his knee, wishing the guy would move over but not asking for it again.

Sylar seemed to be doing a pretty lousy job of washing his face, which was about what Peter had expected. Peter reached up and touched at the very sore muscles of his own neck, feeling along them, knotted and tense, while he eyed the matching part of Sylar's anatomy. _I should put some of that Tiger Balm on him. Well, on both of us. Might as well get started on the test._

"Sylar, I'm going to give you three words that I want you to remember and repeat to me later. It's a memory test. You're probably pretty good at that stuff, right? The words are apple, penny and table. Just normal words, but in a half hour or so I'm going to ask you to tell me what the words were."

XXX

Sylar huffed, having heard the memory test before, "Yeah, sure." _Don't butter me up with what I'm good at. I'm so nice, I'm so talented all of a sudden, I'm not being that difficult, am I? That he would need to flatter me…I don't care either way._

He found his breath coming a little faster and not because of the pain of dodging bruises and lacerations as he cleaned his face. His mind was triggering his body to reaction, but he couldn't discern the cause – be it anticipation and anxiety or delight and desire at Peter's proximity. He ignored Peter's hint for more room, ignored it just barely. Digging up the will, he stared back at Peter while he dabbed and rubbed lightly at the filth on his face. In all honesty, his concentration was not on the task at hand. The longer Peter sat there, behaving himself, keeping his hands to himself moreover, the more Sylar saw this as an opportunity…to do what, he hadn't planned for yet. _Stupid brain, keep up!_

XXX

Peter watched for a moment as the clean-up proceeded. Part of what he was doing here was checking Sylar's ability to perform a simple two-step task: take this cloth, clean your face. Was Sylar mentally there enough to automatically add other steps, like rinsing the cloth and doing a good job? Theoretically, Peter should be giving him a single prompt for other steps, but it wasn't like he wouldn't have other chances to test him on that front. Part of why concussion victims liked to sleep so much was that they couldn't think more than a step or two into the future. It was exhausting, given their limited capabilities.

"Can you tell me what year it is, here?" He waited for an answer, honestly curious about that, too. Peter didn't actually know the date, but right or wrong answers weren't as important as whether or not the subject could give an answer that was reasonable-sounding.

XXX

After some silence, filled with only the sounds of their breathing, moving clothing and Sylar's face been cleaned, Peter spoke again. Hygiene paused, Sylar's face grew massively confused, and inside he was suddenly frightened but he hoped that part didn't show. _What….year? Doesn't he know? Wait…wait…._ "Uh…" he replied. Sylar couldn't remember back that far. Peter was recent…being alone was…Was that new? Peter was the only one here, too, that wasn't new. Sylar couldn't recall how much time he'd lost as Nathan or with Parkman or God only knew when else he'd lost time. The Carnival maybe?

_Oh my god…I'm losing it. I can't remember! Is it happening again? What if I can't ever remember? What does that mean? Why can't I remember? I tell time, I should know this! I knew it before…Was it something Peter did? What happened to me? What's he going to do if I don't answer this right? Or answer at all?_ His eyes flicked to Peter's face then away multiple times, his face fluctuating between a frown and confused worry, the washcloth held loosely in his left hand.

XXX

"How about the season?" Peter waited again. "What month is it, Sylar?" Another pause, and a check for whether the season matched up with the month.

XXX

Peter continued so whatever he'd said had been…somehow acceptable. Sylar swallowed and tried to think again. "Its cold…Winter?" he hedged, eyes locked to Peter's for any sign that he might be right. "I remember thinking something about your birthday…so…December." This time the answer was more sure, more firm; yes, it was December. He didn't know how that had come to him, but it did. Hopefully Peter wouldn't press for details on that.

XXX

"How about the day of the week?" That was another one that Peter would be purely guessing at.

XXX

"Um…" Sylar's face scrunched up some as he thought. "Sat- no, Sunday. It's Sunday!" He got out in a rush, relieved he remembered and praying that effort was enough, but still Peter kept up.

XXX

Peter followed up with, "What's today's full date - day, month, year, everything?" The order of the questions was important. The mind was trained to focus on small things and go bigger. Requiring the largest unit (the year) for his first question and going progressively smaller required mental agility that was simple for someone in possession of all their faculties, but was difficult for someone operating at reduced capacity. The trick, with Sylar, was going to be telling when he was refusing to answer because he was intentionally difficult and when he was refusing to answer because he couldn't manage it. So Peter watched him carefully, attentively, trying to read him. Peter noted that his own ability to concentrate was already being taxed by the task, which was a simple questionnaire he'd administered scores of times in the past.

XXX

Blinking once, he nodded once jerkily. _Okay, obviously that's the pattern, but I don't…I don't get it. Its pissing me off!_ "Sunday, December, Winter…uh…" he replied, his words delivered as a recital, not including the year as he still couldn't name it. He felt something dripping slowly down his left wrist and glanced at it as it had tickled a bit. A wet washcloth. _Oh yeah! At least I remembered something. _

"What year is it?" his gaze went back up to Peter's, wishing he were looking at a lovely, kind, soft-voiced black woman for some reason, one who'd stuck up for him and kept her promises. Of course her name was fuzzy at the moment, too. Sylar regretted that. Or maybe he wished for his mother and her red coats, manicured nails and pearl necklaces. Hell, maybe even his one-time tattooed lover with her long brown-blonde hair and revealed, tan skin. There were two other faces, both feminine, but they didn't jump to assist him even though he wished they would. One was another named 'Mom'…how strange.

XXX

_He is way more messed up than I thought._ Peter shifted to being less cranky and more gentle with Sylar, getting a better idea that a lot of the man's recent uncooperativeness was due to impaired mental state rather than deliberate. Peter let go of his irritation at Sylar's 'stubbornness'. He reached out slowly and carefully took the washcloth from Sylar's hand, then put it in the water, swished it around a little and wrung it out. "I don't know. I guess I should have asked before. But let's see if we can figure it out." His voice softened up, too, like they were having a quiet, introspective conversation just between the two of them. It was a relaxed tone and Peter's body relaxed with it. He wrung the cloth out clumsily a second time, shaking off errant drops. "When I first came here, you said you'd been here for years." He lifted the cloth up, leaning in, pausing his dialogue to watch Sylar carefully and see if he'd allow Peter to clean him up. "Tilt your head a little here. You missed a spot under your jaw."

XXX

Again, he was relieved, unexpectedly, by Peter's response. _Okay…okay…_He tried to calm himself from the brief interrogation he'd managed to pass. Still he felt like there were things he was forgetting about his situation. Peter took away the washcloth, rinsing and squeezing it as best he could and that was fine with Sylar. _Oh, wait…did that mean…?_ Yes, it did. Sylar's eyes widened as he leaned back a fraction of an inch as the other man drew closer. _He's really going to clean me? That's…that's…_Concussion or not, he couldn't think of a word to describe this oddity. He ignored his instinct to move back and give the man more couch space.

He swallowed and exhaled a forceful breath before angling his head back. It left his eyes unable to follow the man, but Peter moved in again and gently rubbed the cloth over the spot just to the left side under his chin. _How'd I get dirt there?_ He thought, trying, for some reason, to focus on that other than the sudden warmth flooding his body. It felt weird to be so purposefully exposed, literally baring his throat. It felt so very nice, though.

The meds began to kick in so he grew more relaxed, fighting to keep his awareness and self-defensive nature up to speed. He listened muzzily to the soft scraping sound of the cloth on his significantly dark, thicker stubble, swallowing again from Peter's singular focus.

XXX

Peter went on conversationally like he was talking with someone familiar and friendly, "You had to have left at the end of 2009 so that would make this … what?" _Wouldn't be the first time I've lived in the future. Even if this time it's a fake future._

"The next questions I'm supposed to ask are about location. I know you and I had a disagreement about that before, but it's not important. What's important is where you think we are." _And that you can give me a location, a sequence, that shows some awareness of where you've been recently._ "What country are we in?"

"How about state?"

XXX

"Left…" _Left? I didn't leave anything. Who would have noticed? __It's__ not like the__y__ keep great tabs on me. Did Matt squeal? 2009 was a long time ago, Pete._ "Um…" with his head tilted up, Peter probably missed his blinking as he calculated. _I dunno….Don't really care to be honest._ Sylar held back his hum of approval on being pampered. It felt good.

He came out of it a bit when asked about the country, frowning. For some reason it struck him as a trick question. "United States," he answered a bit quizzically. Sylar was remembering Illusions of Hawaii in Mexico. Hallucinations, dreams, nightmares, comas and illusions were still things that came to his mind despite being powerless for so long. Since Peter was busy he decided to test to be sure, flexing his fingers and attempting to access that part of his brain to move the blanket Peter had placed on the back of his chair. No luck, not that he expected any.

A second time the question sounded like Peter knew more than Sylar did somehow. He _had_ mentioned an argument. "New York, this is my apartment." He asserted that a little stronger because he was sure this was his apartment.

XXX

"Do you remember the neighborhood, the district or the names of any buildings around here, like the one we're in?"

"Do you know the mailing address for your apartment? What is it?" _I'm supposed to be keeping track of his points for this, too. But … fuck it._

XXX

This was seriously taxing Sylar in every way, everything but the grooming, that is. "I don't…" he growled, leaving off in frustration, tempted to duck away from the contact on his face to make a point of his displeasure in the questioning.

XXX

"It's okay. It's okay," Peter soothed, wringing out the cloth and tilting his head one way and then the other, examining each side of Sylar's face as best he could without getting up. He looked okay, other than splotchy bruises and a healthy growth of bristle. They'd at least gotten off the blood, which had been worst around his chin and neck. His hair was a mess, but that was hardly fatal, nor worth trying to steer an unsteady Sylar into the shower. _I ought to bring over that electric razor for his face. I think I'll do that tomorrow morning._

"These are supposed to be kind of hard questions," Peter said. _For someone in your condition. For anyone without brain problems going on, they're really easy, which is exactly what the test is for - to tell the difference. You're not faking on me, are you?_ Peter considered that, but couldn't see what purpose Sylar could have in it. True, Peter might be suckered into treating him more nicely, but that was hardly a big deal. If anything, Peter felt that should that be true, **he** was the one who should feel embarrassed that he was such an asshole that his patients had to resort to conniving and manipulation to get good treatment.

He shook off that line of thought, saying, "This next one throws almost everybody at some point, unless they're really focused and don't have any distractions. I want you to count backwards from one hundred by sevens, until I tell you to stop. So that's from one hundred to ninety-three, then …" His mind briefly blanked on him. _Um ..._ "Eighty-six," he struggled out. _I am going to be shit for scoring this. But he doesn't need to know that._ "And so on. So start at one hundred and count backwards by seven." Peter worked his scene presence, acting professional and attentive. For the moment he set the washcloth in the bowl to soak while he leaned back and gave Sylar some room to think.

_Next step - getting his shirt off, or finishing the MMSE? Probably need to finish the MMSE. Don't distract your patient in the middle of the assessment._

XXX

Sylar blinked, bringing his chin down after a time of Peter's ceased hygiene, face to face with the man again. _You're not distracting at all, Peter, practically sitting in my lap. _The longer the touching (or near touching) had gone on, the harder it was getting not to blush; so far he'd dodged that bullet. He wasn't looking forward to whatever next test that was tricky as apparently he'd been struggling with the lead-up, semi-normal questions. "No more sponge bath?" he asked wistfully, disappointed, but Peter pulled back.

He sighed. He didn't see the point of any of this. A concussion was a concussion and he hadn't been attempting to cover up his symptoms – they were what they were; painful, ugly and obvious. And right now, his head was splitting. Peter had given him a few freebies in the questions, "One hundred, ninety-three, eighty-six…" A look at his recall of times-tables, quite out of practice, was in order. _Eighty-six divided by…no, no. Eighty-six minus seven is…_ A single tap of his finger to against his opposite hand, "Seventy-eight…"

Formulation was difficult; he managed a few more, "Seventy-one…" That one was easier. "…Sixty-four…fifty-..." One more he found himself trailing off into Lostville. He felt the urge to joke, '_What was the question?_' And then maybe, '_I was distracted by you petting and staring at me_'. Make no mistake, Peter's mere presence, here, now, given the circumstances, given the way the medic was…well, _caring_ for him; it served to make Sylar uncomfortable in forgotten ways.

In a new twist, it occurred to him that he was being led around like a trained monkey. Irony had struck again. _Next he'll have me recite the alphabet backwards and touch my nose while standing on one foot_. "Oh, I get it. Ha ha," he said of the testing, his voice dry, eyes suddenly annoyed.

XXX

'_No more sponge bath'. He liked that? Or is he just messing with me?_ Peter mulled that over as Sylar struggled through the serial sevens. Peter wasn't that fond of it as a test because himself, and so many others, had difficulty with it completely sober and intact. _I think he scored two or four, depending on whether you count the ones I told him. Those aren't supposed to count. So two, I guess. That's pretty in-line with everything else. I think he's scoring down near the bottom of moderate._ 'Moderate' was not a good thing. It meant pretty damn fucked up, which matched with Sylar's symptoms of 'has difficulty walking', 'has trouble holding a conversation unless nothing whatsoever otherwise is going on', 'sleeps a lot', and the most important part as far as Peter was concerned, 'can't manage self-care'. There was no way Peter could leave Sylar to his own devices.

Peter noted Sylar's shifting expression and decided to pause the test for a moment. If Sylar was truly finding the questions arduous, then mental fatigue and irritation were likely. Peter was in no position to walk away or force Sylar to cooperate. He didn't even have much in the way of tools of persuasion. He reached over to take Sylar's nearer hand. "Let me take a look at your hand while you tell me what it is you 'get'. There're only two more sets of questions on the test. We're almost done." He eyed the bandages. Sylar would probably be better off without them, now that the injuries had scabbed over fully.

XXX

A thought bubbled up and out as Peter's rougher, warm hand took Sylar's, even though he had lingering annoyance and frustrations. Dealing in his common ground of gray, the mid-way between serious and jesting, he asked, "Does this mean we're serious if we're at hand-holding stage?" _Gee…there's a thought. Either about holding hands or 'getting serious' with Peter Petrelli. _Sylar meanwhile watched Peter tend to his hand, peeling off the band-aids with uncommon gentleness. _Who knew that would feel so nice? And coming from him…Who knew? _

XXX

Peter glanced up at Sylar with an almost perfectly blank face, no emotion whatsoever on it. He exhaled carefully and ducked his head back down to look at what he was doing. He wanted rather badly to give Sylar a 'oh really?' look, or 'are you serious?' face. He wanted to tell Sylar irritably to scoot over. They didn't have to be almost on top of each other here, which had bothered Peter a little all along, but made his skin prickle now at Sylar's insinuation.

XXX

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were filming this as a 'You Got Punk'd' joke to show your fellow heroes. Pretty funny, I bet. They've probably still got footage or at least records of even more '_fun stuff_' somewhere." Sylar rolled his eyes, "That would explain things about…this," he gestured between them, with his free hand, of course, to signify Peter's current nursing.

XXX

But there was a second level to the comments. _He's soft-balling it to me - maybe unintentionally. Hand-holding, insecure about my motives - he wants to know why I'm being friendly. He wants me to tell him to back off so that he's the wounded party being ordered away. That way he's not responsible. He wants a reassurance that I'm not going to screw him over._

A distant memory came to him of one of his classes for being a paramedic, where the instructor took a session to talk about ethics and the tremendous trust the public put in EMTs, allowing them to strip someone naked, damage property and deal with them, stranger-to-stranger, in some of the most intimate ways. _Sylar knows he's concussed. He doesn't want to be taken advantage of. That's the big deal with trying to get me out of here. It's not that he doesn't know he needs help. He doesn't trust me._

Peter looked up again and said slowly, "You have an injury that I'm taking _very seriously_, Sylar. That's why I'm here. That's the explanation for all of this," he said, making a brief duplicate of Sylar's earlier gesture between them. "No jokes, no stunts, I'm not laughing."

Peter worked his skills of removing tape and bandages without pulling at the skin too much, then raised Sylar's hand to look at it, turning it back and forth. "Yeah, you'll be fine without the bandages, as long as you're not doing anything to get your hands dirty. Let me see the other one."

XXX

Sylar stared him down with forgotten fervor. _So long as I don't get my hands dirty?_ "No!" he proclaimed, snatching his hands back. "You son of a bitch," he blurted out on top of that. Peter had had hold of a band-aid which Sylar had just assisted in removing with a swiftness – the skin tingled and burned and strangely itched in the aftermath. _Trying to rub it in now, huh? I'm just the crazy murderer who can't keep his hands CLEAN is that it? Is that it? _

The move tilted his torso away from Peter, who he kept his eyes on, wary that he might have placed himself in danger just by being contrary, offended and protective. _All that crap he talks about behaving myself, oh, I see how it is_. Part of him seriously longed to scoot away and whack at Peter with his feet_. But we covered this before…I'm the filthy one. Because someone had to make you look good, Petrelli, someone has to. You think I don't know how hard blood-stains are to remove? No fucking wonder no one can see me under all that blood…_

_It takes two to tango, Peter_, he thought viciously of the man's weird kink of playing 'house', his gaze turning into a deadly glare, he hoped it would fool Peter enough into staying away. Or maybe apologizing, one of the two…_Um…isn't he kind of…correct in thinking you're a filthy low-life? Yes, but he won't sleep with one of those. Keeping the status quo and all that._

XXX

Peter's hands came up immediately, first as a visible release of Sylar's hand, showing that he wasn't trying to hold him or grab after him. On the heels of the curse, they came up higher, looking like 'I surrender' but actually just getting them between the two of them to ward off possible blows. Peter leaned back in equal to Sylar, but he had nowhere to go as the arm of the couch reminded him.

Both men watched the other with utmost wariness, but when Sylar stiffened to turn his look into his usual formidable glare, Peter looked away and let his guard down. He let his hands sink to his lap and slumped towards the back of the couch, oddly sure that Sylar wasn't going to follow up his look with an assault. Peter sighed.

_Was it something I did? Something I said? Dirty hands? He's talked about that before, that my family doesn't want to get our hands dirty. I am so tired of fighting with him. He's so defensive. I just want to …_ He wanted something that was well and gone forever, and that wasn't just because of being trapped here. He wanted to go _home_, but not only were vital people missing from 'home', but all the illusions of safety and warmth and trust had been stripped away from there. Some nearly barren apartment with a bed shoved in the corner seemed like the only substitute.

_If I'm tired, he has to be exhausted. Maybe I should just drop it, not finish the exam, not give him a physical assessment, and let it go? It's why I didn't do it yesterday, either. I can't do it without his cooperation. As he said, I'm in no position. _Peter looked over kind of forlornly at Sylar having one hand bandaged and one not. Peter dropped the bandage he'd accidentally torn off, putting it with the others that had been more carefully removed. His eyes rose to Sylar's face, then dropped again. He knew he was giving off some subordinate body language here, but he didn't care. Maybe it would help - to put Sylar in control - but mainly Peter just felt defeated.

He tried again, like he always did. He sat up a little and extended his left hand slowly and partway, palm mostly up and tilted. He looked up at Sylar, asking as clearly as he could with his face messed up as it was. "Sylar, let me finish, okay?" he asked softly. "I don't understand what I just did to make you angry."

XXX

Sylar's ego was quickly boosted when Peter not only obeyed, but reacted defensively. He straightened his shoulders and puffed up a bit. The great Peter Petrelli was afraid of him. _That's right! I can say no, too…Don't know why, but I can. Don't know why I even did that…I'm still a murderer and no one's happy about that. If anything he should be angry, not me._ That crashed his mood. Finding out, being reminded rather, that he didn't have a leg or crutch to stand on when it came to feeling wronged when he was the guilty party was always a fun trip.

Of course Peter wasn't cowed completely, looking towards Sylar's hands with a strange face. _Ugh_. The empath made another attempt, moving slowly and carefully which helped. It was funny that now, Sylar wasn't worried about a violent response from Peter; he worried about the exchange of words, not blows. Sylar scanned Peter's face, very open and needy from what he could see around the man's wounds.

With an exaggerated sigh, mostly to remind him who was in charge, Sylar placed his hand "in" Peter's, allowing him to finish after the man claimed not to understand. Sylar believed him – otherwise, Peter would have been ramming the 'Killer!' bat down his throat most relentlessly. Was it even possible Peter hadn't meant anything by it, seeing that he'd failed to understand the effect of his words?

"Doesn't matter; its old news," was his answer, assuming Peter was asking for one. While Peter worked, his head somewhat down, his eyes down, anyway, Sylar watched the man's swollen-shut eye. He waited a few beats before adding, "You should make yourself an ice eye-patch for that," nodding towards Peter. He'd been about to say 'we should make you…' but that just sounded…odd or forward.

XXX

Peter picked quietly at the bandages, unwrapping them slowly while he tried to decide if he should back off and let Sylar rest, or try to wrap up the mini mental state exam so he had a complete result set to work with. He looked up at Sylar's last statement to see what he was referring to. The man's sight-line was clear enough. Peter smiled a little. "And then I could put a hook on my gimp hand here," he said with a flourish of his mostly useless right, "and be a pirate." He started chuckling at the silly mental image. "Arr," he said with a lot of humor, but not much volume. An idea struck him and he grinned, adopting an even more outlandish accent to say, "All fear the Dread Pirate Petrelli, scourge of the high seas!" _The floor could be our ocean, and the couch our trusty boat, ship, vessel, whatever. _He gave a few short but very sincere laughs before going back to a normal voice and accent, saying, "Now I **am** laughing, and it's all your fault, you know?"

XXX

Sylar laughed along with him, a quick bark of humor at first about the hook hand. "Peter Pirate," he said, and that thought amused him more still, dissolving him into chuckles. "You are not that terrifying," Sylar informed him after they'd finished laughing, "And I don't think you have enough beard going on for it yet." Poking fun that Peter was too cute to play a fearsome pirate? Yes.

He allowed a grin to color his face as Peter 'blamed' him for the laughter – Peter had started it. That would be something new, to be blamed for someone laughing, not crying or screaming or similar. That part was incredibly nice_. I should try making him laugh. He doesn't do it often even when he's in a good mood, but…I could probably do it. If I could manage my…darker jokes; I think they're funny, you'd think he'd understand them, being a medic and all. And being someone who's had my ability. Serial killer jokes – takes one to know one?_

XXX

He smiled and had some more chuckles to himself as he finished with Sylar's other hand. This time he made no comment whatsoever about it - clean, dirty, nothing. Mostly sober, he looked up to say, "Okay, listen. I've got two choices here. One - I can stop asking you these questions and let you get some rest. Or two - you can put up with just two more sets of questions and then I'm done with them." _For today._ He exhaled rapidly and added, "I don't know if you know what I'm getting out of your answers, but this _**is**_ helping me understand what I need to do for you."

He thought about trying to pitch it harder and make a bigger attempt to persuade Sylar to answer, but decided not to. Sylar knew how tired and uncooperative he was feeling; Peter didn't. A sales pitch would only make him dig in his heels. _He wants control - give him control. Let him play captain for a while._

XXX

The meds were kicking in; the laugh they'd shared had relaxed him. Sylar did want to rest, had been wanting to for some time now. The soup also put him into nap-mode. Being drilled and upset with very little background reasoning hadn't helped anything, let alone the test. He took a moment to think, somehow socially aware that he _could_ take a moment to think, factoring things in.

Sylar wondered if Peter was even getting accurate results for this 'test' of his. Was he even in the right frame of body or mind to be taking a test? _I don't think there's much else you can do for me regardless of any answers, Peter, given the nature of the injury, but whatever._

"You can finish," he replied softly, looking Peter over with interest once again. An incredibly strange little man, Peter. One who was infecting Sylar with a horrid case of moodiness as their time spent together went on; he suspected it would only get worse. It happened when people got close.

XXX

Peter smiled. He was cheered by Sylar joining him in laughter. It relaxed him even if he couldn't rule out the possibility of saying the wrong word and setting Sylar off again, like he'd apparently done earlier. _Some things we'll just have to learn to deal with, with each other._ "All right. These are easier questions, promise." Peter held up his left arm and pointed at his watch. "What's the general name for this thing strapped to my wrist here?"

XXX

It took him an additional second to answer because he'd glanced up to Peter, double checking that he was, well, serious. "Wristwatch," was the amused answer. _Like I could forget that one. I even remember that when I forget. Which…happens way more than you'd think…_

XXX

He glanced at the shelves over the couch and leaned in to pull out a slender, blue volume. "Again, I don't need the title – just the generic word for what this thing is." The usual object to hold up for identification (other than a watch) was a pencil, which Peter was supposed to have to score the test, and to use in some of the standard steps to check ability to follow directions. Peter was going to skip the 'follow directions' part altogether. Or rather, putting together from other things Sylar had done, Peter was going to say 'can follow two-step instructions, but probably not three'.

XXX

Peter removed "_Chemicals and You_" from the shelf and Sylar's brain was automatically looking for patterns, connections between the wristwatch (broken) and the book. "That's my book." He was still entertained by his companion and the fact that he was entertained at all made him feel much better. He assumed it was because amusement generally came when he was somehow ahead of the pack, or Peter in this case.

It was dawning on him, far too slowly, that he was running this little two-man circus.

XXX

Peter put the book back and considered the next question with a small frown of concentration. He was supposed to ask a series of basic orientation questions, like 'who is the president', 'where are you', 'what were you doing before your injury', or 'what's your mother's name', but most of those were problematic. Faced with the mental hurdle of figuring out which ones wouldn't upset his patient, Peter opted to ditch. _I can just imagine him answering 'you' if I asked who the last president was._ The memory of _being_ the president gave Peter a slight shudder. He jerked his thoughts away from that, shrugging off the unpleasant sensation and stuffing all the other memories from that day back into a box he didn't want opened. He opted to simplify to a single orientation question: "Tell me your birthday. And if that's more personal than you want to give out, then tell me mine. You mentioned it earlier." _Another thing I don't want to think about: how he knows that._

XXX

Whatever he'd been waiting for, it hadn't been that question. The first thing to run through him was 'Why do you need to know?' _No, he doesn't. He's asking for the test, for 'my health' I'm sure._ Peter was right; that was personal and he didn't know why it was as personal as it was. He watched Peter while he tried to make up his mind – his own birthday or Peter's? Sylar supposed he was worried about catching flack when his birthday rolled around. "Uh, December 23rd is your birthday." _Well, that came awful easily._

XXX


	30. Lose the Shirt

"Okay, last question on the test. At the beginning, I gave you three words to remember and I told you this was a memory test. Tell me what those words were, if you remember them." They were pretty cemented into Peter's head because he used the same three words every time. They were the ones the original test suggested, which meant everyone taught them, which meant when paramedics, nurses or doctors asked their patients they were always asking for the exact same three words. Even so, he had to think about it.

XXX

_Really? Last one? That was surprisingly…un-informative for him. Oh, its this one, right, um…Crap, and I knew this, too! _It was three simple, rather everyday objects, standard to the test now if he could only remember which objects… Sylar sat still and quiet for a few moments while he thought. _I told him I could do this, so I'm going to. Its really simple._

"Apple…table…something," he shook his head, irked at his own failure. _Ugh, what was it?_

XXX

"That's good. That's good. I'd put you in the bottom half of moderately concussed and me somewhere in the middle of the range for minor. Which I honestly wasn't convinced of for myself until I tried to do this." Peter gestured at his left eye. "You got me really good, there. That was like, lights out for a half second or so." He smiled dryly, less amused by it than he had been of his injuries after their first fight, but still shaking off any bad blood from it. They'd fought; it was over; move on … hopefully.

XXX

_He has a concussion, too? Oh, yeah…something about landing on him._ Sylar chuckled, pleased about that. He didn't remember decking Peter that hard or aiming for his eye, but whatever worked. Sylar was also partly surprised he'd managed to hit Peter, a pretty tough SOB under the circumstances, hard enough to make him black out or see stars. Now he just hoped Peter's eye still worked…

XXX

He looked pointedly at Sylar's right hand, nodding his head at it. "If you can roll up your sleeve there, I'll clean up your wrist. I'm pretty sure that's my blood anyway, not yours. We really made a mess of each other." He wrung out the cloth a few times.

XXX

Sylar glanced at his wrist, recalling seeing the blood and just now seeing it at the same time. He wasn't worried about it so it probably wasn't his blood. It looked really superficial anyway. He hummed in reply, amused some more about making a mess of each other. _So playground of us._

_Hmm. Wait…didn't I touch on his wrist earlier? Is that what this is? I mean a wrist…maybe on a woman, but why would he want to touch my wrist?_ Sylar thought on it, but didn't protest or fret.

XXX

He reached over with his right to take Sylar's hand very gently between thumb and index finger, pulling (or rather, encouraging Sylar to bring his hand closer, because Peter wasn't using enough force to really constitute 'pulling') Sylar's hand over so he could better reach it with the cloth in his left. Peter rubbed at the smeared, bloody handprints he'd left on the man. Still looking down at what he was doing, Peter said quietly, "You know, if you'd take your shirt off, I'd get you a fresh one to put on instead."

Peter worried about how that was going to be taken, what with Sylar having used the offer of shedding the shirt just that morning, as part of … Peter didn't know what. A pass, messing with him, lowered inhibitions, bad judgment, or simply unexplained, bizarre behavior resulting from traumatic brain injury. He didn't know and wasn't sure. But he knew that he wanted to see Sylar's abdomen if he could. He was worried about where and how Sylar had landed on Peter's knee. If he got to keep only one element of a physical exam, that was the one he most wanted to know.

For several seconds after speaking, he remained studiously engrossed in his work. Finally, he glanced up to see Sylar's expression, finishing with and releasing the man's hand as he did so.

XXX

Sylar looked quickly from where he'd been watching Peter clean off his hairy, blood smeared wrist, to pin them on Peter. Peter who kept working on the wrist as if that was important. Taking off his shirt wasn't his favorite activity; he didn't even want to do it now like he (sort of) had earlier. So all that equated to was that he'd probably do it anyway. Because he'd offered and backing out now would look bad.

_Does he honestly expect me to believe he just wants to get me "clean"? Get me a new shirt? Oh, right, Peter, of course. You're the paragon of clean thoughts here. _He waited until Peter looked up to double-check the man's sincerity and seriousness – Peter hadn't been thrilled at being hit on any of the times before.

_He just wants a preview. He'll get one – he'll enjoy mocking the hell out of your scrawny, hairy chest I bet. 'Missed out on puberty, I see. Still looking for that last growth spurt?' 'This is the loser that beat me twice? In what alternate universe could that happen?' Alright, alright, he just wants a look at the goods before he turns you down_ again.

That decided, Sylar said, "Do they make band-aids big enough for your wounded ego? Because this has to sting like a bitch."

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar's comment, glancing between the man's face and wrist in defensive confusion. It was an insult - he got that, yeah - but at first he didn't get why_. My ego? He's going to take his shirt off and he's so amazing-looking underneath that my ego will suffer?_ A second later he processed Sylar's use of present tense, not future, and worked out that he might mean what Peter was doing right that moment. _He thinks that taking care of someone is … bad?_ Peter's face hardened. _Asshole. Of course he would_, he fumed inside.

A wealth of things ran through Peter's mind all at once, a mixture of impressions and concepts_: If I ever get hurt, he's not going to reciprocate; not the savior kind; serial killer; murderer; smug asshole; he needs me right now; I've had patients say … well, no, can't think of any that was ever that ungrateful - indifferent, yes, but not this superior about it_; and _why would he insult me __**now**__ of all times?_ Peter's eye narrowed as he tried to figure it out through the building anger within him. _It has to be the shirt._

XXX

Snorting, Sylar waved his nurse away for the shirt, "We can play the 'new shirt' game, but I'd rather have yours." _Ha! Nurse, stripping, no shirts, get it?_

XXX

Peter looked down and made a slow nod. He was mad, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from what he was doing. In fact, he proceeded slowly and carefully, stiffly even. He turned the cloth over and made a last wipe to be sure he'd gotten everything. Then he dropped it into the bowl where the old blood would darken the water. He glanced up at Sylar again, his back clearly somewhat up from the man's comments. It wasn't really safe to be looking at someone with that much hostility when so close, but at the moment Peter was too pissed to care. If Sylar had been well, Peter might have gotten in his face and threatened him, because Sylar had punched one of his buttons with the apparent complete lack of appreciation. Peter scooted sideways of necessity, getting away from Sylar and glad of it. He didn't deign to respond to Sylar's preference to have Peter's shirt, disgusted with Sylar for the moment.

XXX

As he was watching Peter closely he noticed the anger right away. _Its official. That really pisses him off. Wow_, he thought when his fairly unflappable nurse gave him a look of death at close range. Sylar met it with blank eyes. If he could 'get away with' that, then the only thing he need avoid (to prevent being re-injured) was family. _Isn't that a little backwards?_

XXX

_You think it's a game, huh? You're right, Sylar, it is a fucking game! Why have I been reduced to playing __**games**__ with you to see how bad hurt you are?_ He stalked over in the direction of Sylar's dismissive wave, looking around for clothing. Buried under one of the omnipresent piles of books, topped with yet another clock, was a small wooden dresser near the head of Sylar's bed. _He really ought to be in that bed, not over there on the couch. Asshole._ Peter huffed irritably and squatted too fast. His hip complained mightily and he grunted at the sudden weakness in his leg and sharp pain in the joint, hanging onto the front of the dresser until he got his balance back. _I need to calm down. Just … calm down. You're going to hurt yourself, or worse yet, __**him**__._ He exhaled heavily and pulled open a drawer, finding shirts on the first try. He took the one on top and stood up much more slowly than he'd gone down.

XXX

"Easy, butterfingers," Sylar said of his possessions when Peter dropped out of view and nearly tacked on 'You know the rule!' That rule being the one Sylar had…attempted to enact about Peter going around touching everything. It seemed a moot point now.

XXX

He brought the article back over to Sylar, noticing the man had done nothing as of yet to disrobe. _Traumatic brain injury. Inability to follow multi-step commands. I just had a pretty thorough illustration of that, Peter, with the MMSE._ Trying to be patient, Peter said, "Come on, Sylar. Take your shirt off. Here's a new one for you."

XXX

Given that Peter was surely still angry (the magnitude of which was, Sylar felt, uncalled for, but that was Peter for you) Sylar kicked his brain into overdrive and came up with a devilish plan. He couldn't have this lingering on Peter's mind when one day, God forbid it ever happen, Peter wanted or needed to assist in additional removal of clothing. Compliance was key here. Compliance was also not one-size-fits-all or a one-trick pony.

"Lefty, c'mere," Sylar motioned a hand to bring Peter in closer, his demeanor in charge and normal, not exuding threat or plot. That done, he held out his own hand, thumb pointed up in the typical male gesture of 'take my hand, don't shake or hold it'.

XXX

Peter considered trying to give Sylar the shirt, but clearly that wasn't what was on Sylar's mind, nor quite what the man's gesture implied. Suspicion fired to life in Peter's head. "What are you doing?"

XXX

"This'll be easier if I stand." And it was true, to a point. The couch would interfere, as would the sitting position.

XXX

Sylar did not need to stand to take his shirt off. Nor to put a new one on. He'd stood up twice on his own - once to go to the bathroom and the other time to join Peter for lunch. _But maybe that's hard to do. Or maybe it's painful. I'm supposed to be here to help. Maybe he just prefers to get dressed standing up? It's harmless, right?_ Not really. Sylar might take a header; he'd been very wobbly and used the walls for support on his previous jaunts vertical. Despite misgivings, Peter draped the shirt over his right forearm like a high-class waiter with a towel and extended his now-empty left to help Sylar with whatever it is he felt he needed to do before taking his shirt off.

XXX

Peter helped lever him upright and his swaying was only partly-legitimate. It wasn't hard to fake when he made a slow, predictable grab for his shirt, also predictably failing to snatch it, the slight bend involved screwing with him once again. "Uuh…Uh, you…hold onto that, I think," Sylar said of the fresh shirt, a T-shirt, he noted.

Honestly his brain was behind in preparing logistics for him – he wasn't sure if he should maneuver Peter into unbuttoning his current shirt or let the man play shirt-sitter. _Shirt sitter it is_. Besides, Peter clearly couldn't hold him up and be useful at the same time, not with one bum hand.

XXX

"Are you sure this is easier?" Peter asked, still holding onto Sylar to balance him. He saw Sylar's grab for the new shirt but didn't make any effort to assist with that. "You don't need the new shirt until you get the old one off." _And you're going to need both hands for that. Crap._

XXX

Sylar chuckled, not completely amused, "Yeah."

XXX

Peter looked from his hand holding Sylar's left forearm to the buttons of the man's shirt. There seemed to be only two options: let go and stand ready to catch Sylar if he lost his bearings and fell, or try to persuade him to sit back down. He tried for both, saying, "You need to hurry up and do what you need to do and then sit back down, Sylar." _Don't fall. You're big and I can't guarantee I'll do a good job of catching you. _Peter would certainly try, though, and so he stayed close even after letting go of Sylar's arm. The activity, mild danger and his confusion about why Sylar thought this was a good idea had largely distracted Peter from his burst of anger. He was still feeling frustrated and irritable - symptoms of prolonged mental effort paired with a mild concussion. His thinking didn't feel so much as foggy as it made him grumpy when he tried to do it too much and failed.

XXX

"Bossy," Sylar said of the repeated use of the word 'need' coming from his somewhat cranky nurse. He didn't intend to fall, but if he did…hey, it could have its upsides, he supposed. His fingers went to task on his shirt front's buttons, six in all (with the top button undone). _Really these shirts should come with seven_, he thought, but that was just the curse of dressing tall and lanky. 'Large' did not always mean wide, as Peter was about to find out, Sylar was something of a string bean, and that made shopping a challenge sometimes.

Sylar didn't malinger over the buttons, tease, or make any overt sensual gestures, allowing the fabric to fold open how it would, reveal what it would for now. Mostly Sylar acted as if Peter were not in the room and he was undressing alone. Not a big deal. Even though his jaw clenched and loosened as he tried not to incite his nurse, as that would be too obvious.

As his cuff buttons were already undone, Sylar spread the shirt's opening and peeled the fabric over his shoulders as far as he could without unbalancing. Next was a careful, not calculated shrug to rid him of the shirt. _Oops. Where'd my shirt go? How nice of you to hold one for me, Petrelli. Congrats, __phase__ one complete_. If Peter was as professional as he claimed, this wouldn't bother him a bit. _I hope he left the syringes at his place…all the guys I get close to end up drugging me. I must scream 'date rape me, please!' when in close contact. I hang out in the wrong crowd; that's it. _

The instant his shirt had begun moving against his skin, he felt his body heat lessening. Once he was bare, his skin broke out into goose bumps automatically, sending a slight shiver through him.

XXX

Peter found his eyes locked on Sylar's face for nearly the entire process. Only for the first button did they stray anywhere else and that was mostly just due to the initial motion and a bit of lingering concern about whether Sylar would be able to manage it unassisted. When the first button parted ways, Peter's gaze went to Sylar's face and stayed fixed there until the shirt hit the floor, waiting tensely for an action, even the smallest twitch of a come-on. He might have told himself that he was waiting for signs of Sylar unbalancing or swaying, but that wasn't what he was really on the lookout about. He saw the jaw muscle flex, but it wasn't what he was looking for. By itself, not knowing Sylar's mind, it was meaningless. Peter took it to be frustration with the situation, or perhaps a particularly stubborn button, not that Peter glanced down to check.

When the shirt fell and Sylar's head turned slightly, tilted down, sparing a glance backwards at the dropped article and then looking over (not that he had far to look) at the one still on Peter's arm, Peter finally relaxed with an obvious exhalation_. He must have forgotten this morning. Maybe that was just him being weird. Concussions can cause mood swings and impair judgment. Maybe that's it._

Peter had never had a sexually aggressive patient before. He'd had a woman who was drunk make a number of blatant comments about how sexy he was, how she would have fallen and hit her head sooner if she'd known they would have sent such an incredible-looking pair of young studs to help her, and tried to feel up his arms. So … well, that was sexually aggressive, he supposed. He hadn't felt threatened, though, by her and that was what made the difference. At any point, he could have walked away, he could have called Hesam to help (who was caught between finding it amusing and being skeeved out), or he could have resorted to medical procedures and/or restraints that would have shut her up. Not that Peter would ever, _**ever**__**,**_ use an intubation or an IV punitively against a patient, but it did happen among the unscrupulous. He had to admit the cannula had put her off.

Sylar's interest that morning was threatening. First off, it threatened Peter's self-image. Did Sylar seriously think Peter would do anything with someone as disadvantaged as himself? The idea that Sylar saw him as that predatory disgusted Peter and agitated him. It struck at the core of Peter's ego, that Sylar thought he was that much of a villain instead of the hero Peter wanted to be perceived as. Secondly, there was the issue that if Sylar was trying to make passes at him, then it complicated Peter's whole existence here. He was in this world with one other person. To have that person openly lusting after you when you had not the least interest in reciprocating (Peter recognized Sylar as attractive, but that had nothing to do with it) was several steps beyond awkward. There was no 'walking away' from this. There was also no summoning Hesam to intervene, which led to the third problem - Sylar might actually act on it. Peter's consent might not matter (Sylar's comments about willing partners notwithstanding). Sylar's capacity for physical violence was not in question, nor his complete willingness to disregard social mores and boundaries when it came to what he wanted. Peter was already paranoid about being killed, tortured or just toyed with by Sylar to see which way Peter jumped. Adding a sexual component to that was just icing on a particularly nasty cake.

So when Sylar was taking his shirt off, said shirt the subject of that morning's upsetting bit of sexual innuendo, Peter was watching him like a hawk for the least sign of flirting. When it didn't materialize, he relaxed enough to make his head buzz a little with the lessening of blood pressure. And finally his eyes dropped to the reason why he'd wanted Sylar's shirt off in the first place, glancing quickly down the man's chest to light on the bruise peeking out over his waistband. It looked like the worst of it was under his jeans, but at least Peter couldn't see any distension or abnormal swelling. Peter's left hand made a half-gesture as though he was about to touch Sylar's left forearm as he looked. He caught the slight motion of Sylar's as the man turned his head to pick up the gesture, but Peter didn't quite touch.

Completely serious, feeling that tension coiling up inside again that this question might be taken the wrong way, Peter looked up at Sylar's face and asked, "Would you let me do a physical assessment on you?"

XXX

"As you can see, no internal bleeding," Sylar remarked when Peter finally stopped eyeing his face on purpose, long enough to check out…_Um…okay._ His brain fuzzed out at that point, his former thought train something along the track of why Peter would be looking down *there* and how Sylar hadn't anticipated that.

He mostly tried to track Peter's face, where it went with something of an air of expectance, waiting for some form of reaction, either way.

XXX

Completely serious, feeling that tension coiling up inside again that this question might be taken the wrong way, Peter looked up at Sylar's face and asked, "Would you let me do a physical assessment on you?"

XXX

Sylar's head canted to the side in curiosity. "Is that what you call it?" _Wait, did he say 'let him'? Why would I let him- Because you basically invited him in for a roll in the hay, that's why. Several times, I think. Crap, did…Yeah. I don't like this: I can't make him leave, he won't behave if he stays, he won't let me rest and he refuses to be manipulated. Of course he'd push his advantage while he has one._

XXX

"I want to check your injuries and make sure I understand what's wrong so there aren't any complications. It's something we- EMTs do with any trauma victim to make sure they're not overlooking contributing factors. Again, it's something I should have done yesterday, but I didn't think I'd be allowed to. Take off as much of your clothes as you're comfortable with." What he was allowed and giving a patient an option in disrobing weren't normal. When EMTs thought they needed access to a patient's body, even expensive wetsuits were sliced open and cast aside. They were just clothes, after all, material things, and a trauma victim's self-reporting of their injuries was not to be relied upon, especially when their body was right there for examination.

XXX

_Talk about being backed into a corner. One minute he's asking, the next he's demanding I strip 'to my comfort level'. Yeah, right._ Sylar mentally snorted at that. _This is going to be one of those fun invasive tests, isn't it? Guy's got a grudge, he's got the means, why not make me squirm when he has the chance? I'd do the same to him…(maybe). That's a challenge._

"If by injuries you mean bruises, seeing them all requires taking off my pants," Sylar ground out, _and we haven't discussed that yet…_ "All I've got are bruises," _you wanna smack 'em again for fun? What's there to see? I know I've got great legs and all, but…_

_Jesus, what underwear am I even wearing today? They must be filthy…I see what he's doing here, starting with the shirt and moving on down the line. How humiliating. I get it now, Petrelli._

XXX

"Only bruises?"_ Can I believe him? Is he a reliable reporter of his own condition?_ Sylar seemed to be - sometimes. Other times he wasn't. His tone of voice was a warning, though, and Peter knew he wasn't even desired here in the apartment, much less doing an assessment. "I'll take your word for it." _Which is stupid in your condition, but the one thing you're sure to remember with perfect clarity is a feeling that I took advantage of you. Or better yet, you'll __**mis**__remember that, recall nothing but the emotion, and imagine I did something horrible to you to cause it. I am not going to live here the next however-many years with you thinking I did 'something' to you. Not over whether or not I get to see some bruises._

XXX

_That was easy…_ Sylar was almost suspicious. He was also more than a little miffed – Peter hadn't even lingered on looking him over. As far as Sylar could tell, Peter had barely looked at anything at all, let alone anything important even if he seemed to be focusing on his lower half…Odd. Something he'd have to think about when healed.

Sylar was also doing a lot of recon on Peter: what the man liked, what set him off and what the medic would take and endure while being unhappy about it. He would have to assimilate the information later when he could make a plan about it and figure out what buttons Peter needed pressed.

XXX

He gave Sylar a quick once-over, noting the smattering of other bruises, thinking he could see more swelling along the man's left leg than the other, noting that Sylar stood favoring that leg. And he didn't stand quite straight. It worried Peter, but he'd already concluded that Sylar had no bleeding and probably no suppuration, and if he didn't have abdominal swelling or distension then the other damage would probably heal on its own with bed rest, which Sylar was getting.

Sylar was still wearing his shoes - he'd been sleeping in them - which could have been forgetfulness from the concussion, but it could also be being so uncomfortable to have Peter there that he wouldn't take off anything as important as shoes. He had, after all, chosen the couch over the bed and only this morning he'd been huddled in the corner of said couch, looking supremely defensive about having Peter there. Peter took the t-shirt and shook it out, flipping it to get the bottom end in his left hand. He offered it to Sylar with an expression that he hoped was kind and otherwise neutral.

_I wonder if I misread that earlier. Was that really a pass at me, or was that him making a come-on because he knew it would freak me out? Did Nathan know about that? I seem to remember Nathan making a 'sexy nurse' joke and me jumping on him. Or was Sylar just guessing? Is he up to guessing and that sort of mind-game right now?_

XXX

Sylar barely held back a smirk, mostly just because. _Gonna stand there and watch me, Petrelli? As close as you are…Alright_. He took his shirt from Peter as seriously as he could, opening up the bottom hems and sliding his arms into the armholes_. He'd better not grab anything while I'm stuck in here_, he thought, _but I guess I'd better not fall, too._ Sylar took his time, raising his arms up so the shirt would fall until the neck hole reached his head; whereupon his arms dropped and he tugged the bottom down to pop his head through. Adjusting his shirt so it covered his stomach and lay about his shoulders correctly, he admitted to himself that this was more comfortable…to be wearing pajamas with Peter Petrelli. _I think that's a contra…contra-…oh, whatever. At least I didn't accidentally hit him._

_That was, for once, a very painless exam._ "That's it?" he asked, curiously. He wasn't sure if he was playing Peter or Peter playing him, but he had yet to be hit or put upon painfully, so whatever it was, it was working. Unless, of course, Peter was working up to some kind of brain inspection because, well…there was a line for that particular honor and Peter would have to take a number.

XXX

"That's it. It's your body, Sylar." Peter backed off a step. Sylar had made it this far without tottering and he was simply standing there. Peter didn't feel the need to crowd him so much for Sylar's own safety, to be there in case he fell. But Peter did feel the need to use his hands to emphasize the conversation and that wasn't easy to do while right next to someone. "And I'm not a paramedic, right now, here. I'm just a guy with paramedic training who is running a gamble. On one side, I've got you obviously unhappy that I'm here and wishing I'd take off." Peter felt let down inside just to say that, but that was how it was and not admitting to it did neither of them any favors. He frowned sourly before going on.

XXX

Sylar gave him a guarded look of 'duh?' _Course __it's__ my body, where the hell are you going with that?_ Okay, maybe Peter was more aware than Sylar thought.

"I was as-" he attempted to interject, apparently having angered his companion and spoken too quietly. Peter was busy talking and he was using that 'laying out the issues' tone so Sylar shut up and tried to follow along.

XXX

"You're banged up, but you don't want me helping you and maybe there's not much for me to help with. I don't know about that, because I've already seen and figured stuff out from what you **have** let me do. On the other side, you might be hurt in some way I could help with and you're hiding it. Or unaware. You tell me they're just bruises, but _you_ don't know. You haven't even looked at yourself, so how _would_ you know?" He sighed. His gestures conveyed his frustration with the impasse. "So on one hand, I'm guaranteed to piss you off if I push it, but I might be able to help you more, and on the other maybe it's just bruises, you're right, and the best that I could do for you is to let you rest."

Peter wasn't getting his way and he was feeling cranky about it. He wanted to change the subject instead of stewing further over this one. It occurred to him to pull Sylar's tactic from earlier right back on him. "I'm tired. I want to sit down and rest and let my brain … I don't know, go on autopilot or something. I'll get an ice pack for your leg there - I hadn't noticed the swelling there before and that's the sort of thing I'm talking about that …"_ that an exam would let me know but you're getting grouchy and so am I and I don't have a right to examine you … so. Just drop it. _He huffed. "And I'll get one for my eye. Okay?"

He tried to interject some humor as he walked to the refrigerator. "Maybe some other time we can rig up an ice-pack eye patch and work on my secret pirate identity."

XXX

_I think I'm …confused? Good God, Peter, what do you want? Talk sense, please. I can't ask questions now, what?_ "I…um…" But Peter was buzzing away before Sylar could wade through that amount of emotionally charged dialogue aimed at himself. _He didn't even give me a chance to process all that, let alone think and respond._

Sylar exhaled an amused breath that Peter couldn't possibly hear from the kitchen. _He lacks the guile. Wait…my leg? _He looked down at himself now, trying to see what Peter had seen. _…Which one? _Sylar sat again. _He's frustrated. Why? I'm not doing what he wants. What is that? He's mentioned my leg a lot, bruises._

The medic returned and handed him the ice, which he put on his forehead for a moment, allowing the man time to sit and settle in, take a breath. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he said, "I was asking about this exam? I'm…I'm just confused." _You didn't explain, you looked finished with it and now you're upset. I shouldn't have opened my mouth, I guess._ "You can have the pants if it's that big a deal…. it's just bruises. But…resting…." _Shut up already. I just dunno what I did wrong! _Sylar made an effort to physically, visibly relax into the couch.

XXX

_You're confused?_ Peter wasn't sure how to take that, so he took his seat without comment. He'd already explained what the exam entailed. It was pretty straightforward. He'd done hundreds of them. They were standard – to Peter. _I should go over it again. Let him ask questions. Let him understand it._

Peter glanced across from under his own ice pack at Sylar's verbal offer of his pants. _I don't want your pants, weirdo,_ he thought without any heat. _Or your t-shirt. Why does he offer that? Does he really think I want his clothes here, rather than checking to see if he's hurt bad? Well … people don't use his name to refer to him, seems to think the Company did a number on him way worse than it did on me … it's not like being a serial killer isn't a glaring indicator that he's a little off-base on what people want in interactions._ The towel wrapped around his ice pack had been with it in the freezer, so it, too, was cool against his skin. It felt nice. He moved it around slowly as he thought, careful of the sensitive skin.

He watched as Sylar relaxed, keeping a polite degree of eye contact as he spoke. "Let's rest for a little while. I need it. The ABCs of medical assessment stand for Airway, Breathing and Circulation. Your airway's protected. You can breathe. You're not bleeding. We have time to rest and make sure we both understand what's going on and what … what the other party wants to have happen." He spoke calmly, his tone a little low as he leaned back in the chair, feet coming up off the floor as he shifted his center of gravity back. A tiny nagging voice in the back of his head worried over the poor reaction time he'd have if Sylar did anything, but Peter ignored it. Hours – days even – of interaction were dulling his paranoia.

He noted the man was holding the ice pack on his head instead of his leg. _Does his head hurt worse, or did he just miss that I got the pack for his thigh? That's the really frustrating thing here – I can't tell if I can trust his judgment on any of this. And even if I could, can I trust him to relay it to me truthfully? He doesn't trust me. I don't trust him. He really clued in a couple days ago about making a deal. He got real focused on that. Is there some deal I can make here that would help? Would he believe me if I promised him something? My good intentions?_

"Let's just sit here for a little bit. Maybe you could lie down if you wanted. You did when we talked earlier." _You-_ "We seemed to retain things better with fewer distractions. Lower stress. Just … talking." _And listening. To each other. Ha._ He was amused by the idea of him and Sylar having a nice, productive, meaningful conversation. It was laughable, but Peter had to admit they were getting to that point – past the hyper-defensive, past the hyper-vigilant, trying to be something else. "Rest a little, first," Peter mumbled, shifting the ice pack again.

He wasn't physically tired. He was just tired of dealing with Sylar. Or rather, tired of the constant uncertainty: what's he going to do next?, did he understand me?, what's that mean?, is he going to fight with me about taking his pills?, can I get him to eat?, is he going to make a pass at me?, does he still think I'm trying to kill him? … and not a question at all, but important nonetheless: he doesn't want me here. They drained Peter's energy. He shut his eyes and tried to recharge.

XXX

Sylar nodded, following the delivery and intent much easier now it was slower and stripped of emotion. _Ha, I tired him out?_ _Rest but lie down….okay_. He grunted in acknowledgment and agreement. _That's so…sweet, being concerned about my stress._ He watched the nurse get comfortable and just watching that made him want to do the same for himself, made his eyelids droop or something. _Okay, maybe there's something to that no-stress or less-stress idea. And that whole talking-therapy idea. _

Sylar scooted down and around, working what was becoming a routine to lying down, cuddling up with his own ice pack. He would have liked to stay awake and think over anything he and Peter had said, but the more he tried to pin down a topic or a sentence, the foggier it grew and he knew there were things he needed to think over. He lasted a handful of minutes (or so he thought), before the magics of pain meds and ice packs; the lack of general tension did its job. 'Rest' turn into sleep the almost the instant his head hit the pillow – mouth open in a snore and he was out.

XXX

A few minutes later, Peter shifted the ice pack from his face, where it had become uncomfortably chill. He moved it to his right wrist and eyed Sylar. Predictably, the man was out. _Maybe he'll be in a better humor when he wakes up._ Peter looked at the ice pack on Sylar's head and frowned, wishing he could move it to the man's thigh without risking waking him. He couldn't think of how to do it and it wasn't a big enough ice pack to be a problem where it was - the scalp had great circulation, after all, the brain being the body's highest priority for oxygenation.

Peter sighed and settled back again, letting himself doze, letting his thoughts drift, greatly soothed by the sound of Sylar snoring. As long as Sylar was snoring, Peter didn't need to worry about where Sylar was, what he was doing, or what he was planning. He let himself relax fully. Time passed, with Peter spending it either sleeping or just zoned out. Later, a mix of strange noises and tones jerked him into full wakefulness. The rhythm of Sylar's noisy breathing cut through it and Peter's brain snagged on that sound as proof that things were okay. A second later he made sense of the tolling of the hour coming from a dozen or more sources scattered through the apartment. He exhaled and shifted, moving the almost-entirely-melted ice pack from his wrist to his eye again. He glanced over to see that Sylar's had been dislodged at some point and now lay on the couch next to him.

Peter grunted unhappily at being disturbed, but the short rest had done the trick. He felt better and he could tell he wasn't going to go back to sleep any time soon. He tilted back upright, feet on the floor again. He cleared his throat slightly and watched Sylar's face, smooth and carefree in repose, slack and undefended. The corner of Peter's mouth quirked up. _Someone needs to make a coffee-table book of pictures of people sleeping. That's part of what's so beautiful in those Anne Geddes baby pictures - they're so … open._ He watched for a little longer until it occurred to him that might seem a bit creepy should Sylar know he was doing it. There were other things he could do with his time.

Peter rose quietly and carefully tugged Sylar's ice pack from where it lay beside him. Peter left the towel that had been wrapped around it - it was still on and now also partly behind Sylar's head. He took the ice pack, along with his own and the bowl of water with the washcloth from earlier, into the kitchen.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, thinking about what he wanted to do next. He'd already wandered the apartment as much as he wanted looking at book titles and odds and ends. He expected Sylar would be asleep for at least a couple hours more. _I suppose I could go get some food for dinner. Mac and cheese, maybe? Or just scrambled eggs? I'm good at eggs. Spaghetti and some kind of jarred sauce? Didn't he say he liked pasta? Yeah, I think he said that was his favorite. And vanilla ice cream. That should be easy to make._

Peter turned to the door and opened it slowly. _Then … hm, what to do then? Can't work out. Can't play music. Can't draw. Don't want to read. I guess I could pick up a puzzle somewhere. I always used to work those when I was home alone. I liked them. They let me think. Kind of like working out - let my mind go free. That sounds good. I could clear off part of Sylar's work table maybe … hope he doesn't mind._

Lost in thought, Peter slipped out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

XXX

It was a little chilly in his t-shirt as he slept, not that it bothered Sylar enough to wake up or maybe grab for the blanket or his jacket. The sleep wasn't pleasant; that was normal.

Any noise out of the ordinary had spelled bad news for years, not just the most recent ones, either. So when Sylar heard shifting motions, only half silenced, he was snapped awake although his lids were sluggish to respond. His hands jerked up towards his face and he narrowly avoided thrashing the rest of his body as he turned towards the sounds coming from behind him and to his right. He saw a man, standing with his back mostly to Sylar, moving things around on his watch station. He found himself staring, blinking a few times, groaning quietly in confusion. _Um…ow, what the hell?_

Slowly things came back to him, namely the jacket the other man was wearing as gazing blankly at the guy's ass while he rearranged Sylar's desk wasn't helping identify him. _Peter_. "What the hell are you doing?" he graveled out, his voice stuck between sleep, anger and curiosity. _So this is what he does when I sleep? What's he looking for?_

XXX

Peter glanced back at the voice, sorry he'd woke Sylar. He moved around to the opposite side of the desk - partly so Sylar could see what he was doing and partly so Peter could see what Sylar was doing. His motivation was about half and half. For the moment, he quit touching things and just rested the fingertips of his left hand on the desk. In a low, quiet voice, he said, "I was clearing off a spot. I picked up a jigsaw puzzle while I was out. It's quiet; something I could do while you slept. I didn't feel much like reading." His own cotton-headed feeling discouraged something as involved as reading. He lifted his right hand and indicated it. "My options seemed kind of limited. I'm trying to be careful with your stuff." He would have liked Sylar to just relax and lie back down, maybe conk out for a while longer, which was why he was giving the man the 'everything's okay, go back to sleep' voice, but he could see Sylar wasn't buying it._ Note to self: Sylar is cranky when he wakes up. But if I had a moderate concussion, I'd probably wake up cranky, too. _

XXX

_He has to baby-sit me out here? What's wrong with my kitchen table?_ Sylar supposed he should give Peter a pat on the head for behaving and getting something harmless as a hobby, i.e. the puzzle.

But all he could remember was Virginia taking away the parts of whatever he was taking apart at the time and hiding them, not as a joke, but as a corrective discipline. Never mind if the TV remote was absent when Dad came home to watch – Gabriel was going to break his 'destructive' habits and find something constructive to play with. It didn't matter that things worked better after he'd taken them apart and fixed them and he'd never broken anything. /"Leave the handy-man business to your father. Toys are an earned privilege. Besides, those aren't toys."/

"Oh, your options are gonna be limited alright, when I break your other hand," Sylar grumbled menacingly, but mockingly. "The use of the word…'trying', is supposed to fill me with confidence," he barely left off 'Wonder Breath' at the end, eyes narrowing at his companion._ Peter Petrelli, a man known for his fine-tuned control…no, wait, 'control's not even in his vocabulary._ _I just woke up, this is too early for this._ He didn't even know how to address this new breach in privacy. Peter got cranky right back whenever Sylar got protective so maybe the guy really did think he owned the world as Sylar wasn't supposed to have privacy. Perhaps the trick was being blasé.

Sylar sat up, staying turned towards Peter, making to rub at the bruises on his face. _Was there something I was supposed to do here, today?_

XXX

Peter went very still - poised - as it felt like ice water flushed through his veins. His weight shifted back and his left hand lifted so the fingertips just barely brushed the surface. Heart rate speeding, his gaze stayed sharply on Sylar even as his mind's eye quickly reviewed the objects on the desk in front of him. So many of them were metallic, jagged, and sized well for the human hand. Some of them were even tools - nearly always dangerous. Not a minute before he'd moved a screwdriver - a small one, admittedly, but the shaft was a good four inches long and exceedingly narrow, designed to probe deeply within clockwork mechanisms. It would be as lethal as an ice pick.

Very softly, Peter said slowly, "Don't threaten me, Sylar." He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and let it out. "Please don't threaten me." He glanced down, letting his eyes sweep the desk. There was the hammer Sylar had wielded before, in easy reach. Peter tilted his head and shook it very slowly, lips pursed. Maybe Sylar meant that in jest (and Peter figured he did), but coming from someone who was a multiple murderer and had said he wanted to crucify Peter in Times Square just a few weeks ago (as far as Peter was concerned with the timeline) … it was hard to see the humor, mocking tone or no. Empty handed, Peter walked deliberately from behind the desk over to the chair across from Sylar. He could feel the pins and needles of the fading shock of adrenaline prickling at his extremities.

XXX

Since his eyes were locked on Peter's general direction, he noticed the other man freezing up. Sylar ceased all movements in response before running an instant replay of what had just transpired. He came to an obvious conclusion. _Oh. Oops? That wasn't…wasn't the right thing to say at all. I'd be freaked out if someone said that to me._ Peter had lots of advantages that Sylar noted and dismissed instantly – the guy had practically been his wet nurse the past few days and killing him now over an idle (if dangerous) threat, however jokingly intentioned it was, seemed stupid.

Sylar eyed him calmly back before shifting his weight to get comfortable again. He'd been going to get up and check on his desk to be sure it was still in one piece – deciding instead to create some break in the tension with a harmless movement – but Peter was a wily little bastard and the amount of trouble he could get himself into, very similar to a kitten getting itself stuck in a tree, was astounding. _/__"WhatamI- What am I gonna do when I get there? I guess I could put on a costume an' fly around an' pull cats out of trees?" He heard his own voice rising to the ridiculousness his brother presented, not for the first time cursing his parents for allowing the kid access to comic books.__/ _

His expression didn't change when Peter made his demand, but his eyebrows arched when Peter said please…then scanned for a weapon_. Don't make a joke, keep your mouth shut on that one. _And really, the jokes he could make were endless. _Since you beg so nicely, little man. And using my name, too. _Sylar was much less tense about the whole thing, and not just because he'd been the one to issue the threat.

XXX

Peter looked at the chair for a moment, considering how to defuse the destructive tension he, or Sylar, had just lobbed into the fragile situation like a grenade into a crowded room. _I can't let that hang in the air between us._ He turned towards Sylar and extended his left hand as if to help him up. It was the one Sylar had just in such poor taste joked about breaking. In an even, sober voice, he asked, "Need help getting to the bathroom?"


	31. Lower Body

_Day 10 _

Peter went very still - poised - as it felt like ice water flushed through his veins. His weight shifted back and his left hand lifted so the fingertips just barely brushed the surface. Heart rate speeding, his gaze stayed sharply on Sylar even as his mind's eye quickly reviewed the objects on the desk in front of him. So many of them were metallic, jagged, and sized well for the human hand. Some were even tools - nearly always dangerous. Not a minute before he'd moved a screwdriver - a small one, admittedly, but the shaft was a good four inches long and exceedingly narrow, designed to probe deeply within clockwork mechanisms. It would be as lethal as an ice pick.

Very softly, Peter said slowly, "Don't threaten me, Sylar." He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and let it out. "Please don't threaten me." He glanced down, letting his eyes sweep the desk. There was the hammer Sylar had wielded before, in easy reach. Peter tilted his head and shook it very slowly, lips pursed. Maybe Sylar meant that in jest (and Peter figured he did), but coming from someone who was a multiple murderer and had said he wanted to crucify Peter in Times Square just a few weeks ago (as far as Peter was concerned with the timeline) … it was hard to see the humor, mocking tone or no. Empty handed, Peter walked deliberately from behind the desk over to the chair across from Sylar. He could feel the pins and needles of the fading shock of adrenaline prickling at his extremities.

XXX

Since his eyes were locked on Peter's general direction, he noticed the other man freezing up. Sylar ceased all movements in response before running an instant replay of what had just transpired. He came to an obvious conclusion. _Oh. Oops? That wasn't…wasn't the right thing to say at all. I'd be freaked out if someone said that to me._ Peter had lots of advantages that Sylar noted and dismissed instantly – the guy had practically been his wet nurse the past few days and killing him now over an idly (if dangerous) threat, however jokingly intentioned it was, seemed stupid.

Sylar eyed him calmly back before shifting his weight to get comfortable again. He'd been going to get up and check on his desk to be sure it was still in one piece – deciding instead to create some break in the tension with a harmless movement – but Peter was a wily little bastard and the amount of trouble he could get himself into, very similar to a kitten getting itself stuck in a tree, was astounding. _/"WhatamI- What am I gonna do when I get there? I guess I could put on a costume an' fly around an' pull cats out of trees?" He heard his own voice rising to the ridiculousness his brother presented, not for the first time cursing his parents for allowing the kid access to comic books./_

His expression didn't change when Peter made his demand, but his eyebrows arched when Peter said 'please'…then scanned for a weapon. _Don't make a joke, keep your mouth shut on that one._ And really, the jokes he could make were endless. _Since you beg so nicely, little man. And using my name, too._ Sylar was much less tense about the whole thing, and not just because he'd been the one to issue the threat.

XXX

Peter looked at the chair for a moment, considering how to defuse the destructive tension he, or Sylar, had just lobbed into the fragile situation like a grenade into a crowded room. I can't let that hang in the air between us. He turned towards Sylar and extended his left hand as if to help him up. It was the one Sylar had just in such poor taste joked about breaking. In an even, sober voice, he asked, "Need help getting to the bathroom?"

XXX

Sylar's lips curled up towards a grin when the hand was extended towards himself. _Brave man. Also a kinky one_, Sylar truly debated letting that one loose. Reacting, begging then a show of strength and offer of assistance, to the bathroom no less? He had to still a certain senator's jokes about girls flocking together to the restroom and men holding each other's dicks to pee. _Yeah, not using those. _He looked up the length of the arm, considering, too, his odds of feeling up the guy's wrist again. Slapping his palm to said wrist, he made to push himself up and take the offer. "Hmm."

XXX

Peter loosened up as his help was accepted, as Sylar didn't do anything to endanger his hand, and as nothing else was said of it for him to remain defensive about. Peter leaned away to pull Sylar upright and then swayed back to completely vertical once Sylar was on his feet. It put him really close to the other man, who seemed to take the proximity as something of an offer. Sylar raised his arm, eyes moving to size up what Peter meant by where he was standing: unintentional result of pulling him up, or intentional positioning to brace him? Peter answered it by sidling over to let Sylar put his arm over his shoulders, just like he had to get him to the apartment.

XXX

Sylar's hint at a grin bloomed into a smirk at Peter's display of muscle. _As if I need to be reminded?_ He smothered his amusement and delight at the proximity Peter offered, at least on his face, all the while enjoying a good chuckle about the empath. He was in a good mood, as much as he could be in his state.

XXX

The contact had the side effect of calming Peter the rest of the way down. Touching usually did that for him. He breathed deeper and relaxed under what little of Sylar's weight he carried, mostly just providing balance. He shuffled them both the few steps to the bathroom, pausing for Sylar to transition from using Peter for support to the bathroom door frame. Peter wasn't volunteering to go in with him. He'd changed his share of bedpans for sure, but Sylar seemed able to manage.

XXX

_Maybe I'd stop coming onto you, Petrelli…if you'd stop touching me and being so obvious. _Really, that he needed that much support for those five or six steps was ridiculous, but he was far from complaining this time around. Sylar was pleased with how smoothly that had went – he hadn't had to telegraph or admit to weakness or need, Peter had offered (how nice of him), assuming what he would, which would probably only aid Sylar in future, and Peter felt very relaxed under Sylar's arm. _Don't get too comfortable, _he told himself, switching his grasp to the door, not that he'd been grasping at Peter on the way there. _Wonder what he would do if I did grab him?_

Sylar turned as a precaution that Peter wasn't…inviting himself in for whatever devious or perverted purpose – he wasn't. In fact, he'd turned away after checking that Sylar was stable and in control of himself. _Interesting…_Sylar shut the door, debated locking it before doing so, regardless of Peter being able to hear the sound. _He knew I didn't need him that much and he did it anyway? Or…maybe he just knows more about my condition than I do…totally possible, probable, actually._

A mental shrug and he bypassed the mirror for now in favor of the toilet. The world still tilted for him, the headache still raged, the rest of him still ached, so he sat this time. Sylar waited before starting any of his business there on the toilet out of habit, what kind of anxiety was that again? Peter had walked away, surely he had no reason to eavesdrop at the door and that set his mind at ease enough that he could go. There was part of temptation to stay in the bathroom, but that was girly and immature. He rebuttoned his jeans delicately around a set of matched bruises, washed his hands and considered his appearance. Again, he decided to forego it in favor of having Peter continue helping, or to see if he would. Usually his look was of the utmost importance but here he was, passing it up twice in a row, but he did rake a hand through his couch-head of hair. Besides, if the guy made him take a shower, he could always wig Peter out again if he didn't feel like it.

XXX

Peter went back to the desk and looked over the things on it. After a moment of hesitation, he continued where he'd left off before. He preferred to move the stuff without Sylar watching him, perhaps passing judgment on something as trivial as moving things from point A to point B. He was mostly finished by the time Sylar exited the bathroom, with most everything crowded together on the far right side. With Sylar's return, though, Peter called it done and left off to step over and offer himself as a crutch again.

XXX

Sylar unlocked and opened the door, seeing Peter was beside the desk again, nothing in hand of course. Almost to his surprise, Peter hurried back over to assist him, so Sylar assumed, back to the couch. He wanted to check on his desk first, so he offered up his left arm to put him on the outside of Peter, the better to see the desk as he passed.

Neither tools nor watches nor the desk itself looked damaged or scratched in any way, so he passed by and didn't comment on it. Peter had done alright with his things and had a nice one-thousand piece puzzle to work on, like he'd said. Sylar would be concerned about his things falling over as they were stacked and fairly near an edge, but he'd harp when he needed to, not before. When he was close enough to the couch and had some kind of support from it, Peter disengaged. He worked his way to sit, only getting comfortable but making no unnecessary movements.

XXX

Peter wondered if Sylar had taken the opportunity in the bathroom to give himself a look-over, but he doubted it. He wondered if the guy even recalled the part about the physical assessment. Peter decided to ask more generally. "Do you remember what we had for lunch - what was it? Do you remember what we talked about _after_ lunch?"

XXX

Sylar looked up to Peter. It was… "Soup. And crackers." _I can remember that much. I'm so accomplished, next we'll work up to two-digit numbers, geez._ "I know we talked about something important," _I was trying to remember, too_. Quickly his gaze dropped his thighs and knees, what he could see of his legs before he kicked his feet out to see his shins and shoes. "Something about my legs, wasn't it? They were…you said they were swollen," _because I hadn't noticed. How weird is that?_ His eyes went back to Peter expectantly, answer or rebuke or what.

XXX

Peter exhaled, watching Sylar remember lunch accurately enough, but then stumble through the next answer. He sat down in the chair, noticing for the umpteenth time that he was stiff and thinking that he really ought to have stopped by his apartment for some ben-gay. He settled in for a potentially lengthy Q&A about the exam he'd wanted to do earlier. Sylar seemed to be in a good mood and was being cooperative. It seemed like taking a break and restarting later had been a good idea.

"I wanted to do a physical assessment on you to make sure I wasn't missing anything. Your left thigh is swollen where I kicked you. I cleated you pretty hard. It's possible it's just a bruise, but I want one or both of us to be sure of that." _Worst case scenario, the skin got compromised and didn't bleed or suppurate enough for me to notice through your jeans; it's infecting; there's no way I or you will tell early onset fever from the concussion; and … Wait. Am I creating these possibilities just by thinking about them?_ His brow furrowed and he gave a small frown. The opposite - simply hoping for the best - had never worked in the past. Peter was more about doing and making sure. "If I do the assessment, I'll_ know_, and I can stop worrying about worst case scenarios and give you the care you need rather than guessing."

XXX

Sylar glanced again to his left leg, wondering how Peter knew that beyond the fact that he'd done the kicking. Because Sylar couldn't discern any swelling. _But my eyes are fine aside from this headache. What else would it be if not a bruise? A…sprain? A break? Hyper- hyper…Oh, wow._ Sylar had to stop and process that, turning it over in his mind as his eyes took their time returning to Peter's face. _He really is worried about this – __'__worried about worst case scenarios.__'_

XXX

"The assessment isn't painful. It's not dangerous. It's a standard head-to-toe emergency examination. I'd need as much of your clothes off as you'll take. I'd need you to let me touch you and I'll need you to answer questions about what hurts and how much." He wondered about what Sylar had gone through at the hands of the Company, or anyone else, and what that might have to do with the sometimes odd 'reads' he was getting off the man. He tried to remember what Sylar had said of his medical history - Peter knew they'd talked about it briefly, but he couldn't remember any details. He had the impression that was because Sylar didn't have much of a medical history, not simply because Peter's memory was screwed up. _So … he may have never had one. Or seen one. Possible he's never been to a doctor for anything other than mandatory pediatric visits._

He considered trying to reassure Sylar there were no drugs, syringes or other implements involved, but decided he might be better off not reminding him of that. "We talked about it a little earlier, but you didn't seem to be understanding what I wanted to do." He considered his wording of other things he could say, like 'I put it off until you'd rested', but that sounded patronizing. Likewise, saying 'it's your decision' didn't sound right - that was obvious. 'Do you have any questions' made it sound like Peter was going to do the exam no matter what, which wasn't the case. He left his statement as it was and fell silent, sitting at a relaxed, upright posture in the chair, waiting for Sylar's questions or comments.

XXX

Sylar ducked his head to chuckle humorlessly, inaudibly to himself. _That we have to phrase it as 'its not dangerous'…you're officially damaged goods. I suppose it wouldn't be painful…for him, easy for him to say, he thought calmly. You're going to agree, you know you are. It's either agree or chance some sudden death he's suspecting and not informing us about. It could mean a deteriorating condition that'll leave you weak and at his mercy even more, so you're going to bite the bullet. I think it's just a matter of how much information I can get about this process beforehand. Can I even be honest about where it hurts, though?_

He nodded, slowly, once, eyes not focused on Peter for the moment while he tried to corral his questions into 'need-to-know'. "Just your hands, Petrelli. And I'm going to need at least one of them with the clothes." An admission of need of something from Peter – it was truthful one, surprising even to himself. It wasn't like he hadn't been stripped a dozen times before, but he'd been unconscious, drugged, dead or regenerating and it had never been (that he knew of) in front of a hero. And never, ever in front of one he'd propositioned a few times.

XXX

_Just my hands? What? Does he mean, 'don't touch him with anything but my hands?' What else would I be using? I might brush against him with my leg or my elbow. Oh … wait. _Peter's thoughts just barely contemplated that perhaps Sylar was implying that Peter might do something sexual to him before firmly walling that off. He took a deep breath and focused very much on the now, and quit thinking about what Sylar might or might not have meant by that. "Yeah, I can help." He leaned forward in his seat, not sure if Sylar was going to ask questions or was going to go straight to undressing. Peter waited for more of an indication.

XXX

Sylar gestured for Peter to stand beside his right knee, close to the couch while he lifted the neck of his tee over his head. He then gestured with his hand for Peter to pull it off while he squirmed back, curling his spine to slide free of the garment, causing a light shiver from the sensation and temperature difference sans the shirt. It made him dizzy, too, losing orientation amongst the moving tunnel of static-y fabric so it was a good decision he'd made to stay seated. However, the next big challenge was the dreaded, awkward pants. He held out his left hand, thumb up, and waited for Peter to take it, assuming the guy wouldn't hand the shirt back or give him a high-five.

XXX

Peter tossed the t-shirt onto his chair and extended his hand to take Sylar's offered left hand. "This would probably be safer if you were sitting down," he murmured, but helped Sylar up anyway. Earlier, Sylar had wanted to stand to change his shirt, too. Maybe it was just a habit, or a quirk. It seemed harmless, so Peter went along with it.

XXX

When he felt Peter's good hand, he gripped and pushed off once again to stand, inhaling in reflex before staring over Peter's shoulder while he unfastened his jeans. That done, he gingerly peeled them over his hips, shoving them as far down his thighs as possible before sitting on his own on the couch. "Might have to take off my shoes…" he muttered so Peter could hear, clearly irked that he hadn't thought of it before he'd trapped himself with his trousers.

XXX

"Hold on," Peter said, moving to get Sylar's shoes. He started with bending more-or-less at the waist, reaching down with his left hand, but quickly discovered that was a bad idea. To combat the wave of unsteadiness, he grabbed at the chair next to him with his right hand. Pushing off the chair caused a painful jarring of his brace. Peter grunted and then sucked in breath between clenched teeth as he righted himself. After a single breath to get his bearings, he went to his knees somewhat carefully, recalling the problems he'd had in squatting too fast to get into Sylar's dresser.

XXX

Sylar blinked in surprise, moving forward too quickly himself to try to grab Peter, failing to make contact. "You okay?" he asked when the guy caught himself. I didn't know he was having…problems? He saw after that that it was the braced hand that was causing problems, but it didn't explain the lack of balance. _Look, I know you're eager to get me in my skivvies and all…but there's no need to rush, I promise it'll all still be there._

XXX

Peter grimaced at his right hand, which was still silently complaining about the minor bump. Shaking his head a little, he reached down to Sylar's right heel to slip the nearer shoe off. He eyed the laces, but the shoes weren't on so tight as to need loosening of the laces. He worked it off and dropped it to the side, reaching for Sylar's left foot to repeat.

XXX

The right shoe went without complaint. The left, when Peter bent the sole in order to slide it off without loosening the laces, crunched his toes and Sylar was swiftly reminded that they were bruised, too. "Ah!" he hissed and grimaced, restraining himself from jerking in his seat. _Great. This is gonna be fun to explain._ It felt weird to have someone on their knees, an awkward position if danger wasn't involved, helping him of all things. He kept having to crush the budding urge to kick the guy away or play with that tempting hair. _That's right, focus on something pleasant._

XXX

"Your foot hurts? How did that happen?" _Maybe when he kicked me in the leg? _It seemed sort of unlikely, but definitely possible. He glanced up Sylar's body, eyes lingering at the bunched jeans, then on the bruised thigh and stomach. His gaze skipped up to Sylar's face, meeting his eyes briefly to be polite, but mostly looking at the patches of discoloration, mentally cataloguing injuries. A head to toe exam usually started at the head - that being the most important - and went down the body steadily for reasons of simplicity and thoroughness. It was harder to miss things when your search went in a single direction rather than when jumping around from one body part to another.

To the limited extent that Peter had imagined doing the assessment, he'd expected to do it in the usual way, starting with Sylar's head. That seemed awfully intimate for someone he didn't think trusted him or wanted him doing it at all. Which brought to mind a degree of confusion and suspicion about why Sylar was suddenly being so cooperative. _Huh. _Peter didn't feel he had time to think about it at the moment. Sylar's feet, smelling somewhat, presented themselves as a more pressing matter. "Can I take off your socks?" _I could just do toe-to-head and it would work just as well. I'm already here, after all. _Peter tugged at Sylar's jeans, pulling them further down his legs, gathering them up, and slipping them off his feet one at a time. The removed garment went on the chair, draped over the shirt.

XXX

"Apparently," was Sylar's wry answer, "Disagreement with a filing cabinet. I'm lucky to be alive," he downplayed the injury. Sure, toes hurt like a bitch, but he didn't think they were broken…he hadn't checked, though. Everything hurt and he already limped from a million different quarters; he didn't know what should take priority.

He'd been watching Peter just to watch him. So he saw the man eyeing his midriff (or so he partly hoped). He met Peter's gaze when it rose, cluing in that the guy was mainly checking the bruises when those hazel eyes shifted away. _What's he- oh, yeah._

Sylar flushed slightly when Peter swiped his jeans off._ I'm not paying any attention to how good he was at that, none at all. That's his fucking job. No matter what he said, this is going to be painful – this isn't fun time. So don't fuck with the guy._ He suffered another shiver from being clothed in only his underwear and socks (soon to be just underwear). Mostly playing dead, sprawled on the couch, recovering his confidence, he said, "Yeah," cutting himself off from any smart-assed reply. _Those are gonna smell, Petrelli. That's…really kinda gross, you being down there, man, I haven't showered in…Aren't I supposed to lay back or something here?_

Peter peeled down his socks, setting them aside and taking up his left foot after glancing over the right briefly. _This is just so weird. If he was being a jerk about it, it wouldn't be so weird. He's not a doctor, he's not my doctor, he's….he's… _As much as he could, Sylar kept this game face on, confidant and in control, but he was horribly curious as to each movement Peter made, wondering what was coming.

XXX

"Well," Peter said as he lifted Sylar's left foot by the heel and inspected it, "if the disagreement went like any of your other fights, I suspect that file cabinet is struggling to find a new life in the recycle bin." Peter initially said that as a 'I've lost to you twice and I'm beat all to hell' commentary, but once the words were out, he reflected that quite a few people who had tangled with Sylar, or been targeted by him, were in the metaphorical recycle bin now. This was almost certainly one of the more dangerous people in the world he was tending. _He's still just a guy._ He looked at the relatively delicate, though pedestrian, extremity he held in his left hand, his face attentive and engaged in the task at hand. _A guy with a messed up foot._

XXX

Sylar allowed himself a moment of pride from Peter's assessment. _I won and now he's tending my feet, ha! _That relaxed him and completely stroked his ego – something about the conquered having the decent sense to stay down for once, and that, for Peter Petrelli, was no small feat.

XXX

Visually, the only issues Peter saw were the toes themselves, but he didn't focus on those immediately. Instead he gave it a general examination. The foot was long, narrow, well-arched, reasonably clean, free of bunions, corns, scarring or other maladies, normal in temperature, moisture and texture, and free of edema. There was no trembling or other fasciculation; which that implied that Sylar's motor control was good, which meshed with what Peter had seen. It smelled healthy enough, as feet went. Particularly, he didn't smell infection, although he could feel heat as he passed his right hand over the toes without touching them. They had a mild inflammation, not-so-mild swelling and the toes were a little discolored. _This must suck to walk on. It needs to be elevated._

He looked up at Sylar. "I'm going to touch your toes. If it hurts, say so. If it hurts _bad_, let me know that, too." With his right index finger, he touched the knuckle of each toe, starting with the first, pressing slightly and watching the change in pattern of coloration (which told him of circulation) and the flexion, looking for angularity thereby any signs of fracture. He was also listening to Sylar's breathing as much as he could, for less consciously monitored signs of discomfort.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar acknowledged the instructions. The first two toes, the large and index, went without a hitch as he expected. Peter touched, didn't even really squeeze or twist, but the middle and ring toes felt jammed and bruised. Sylar inhaled swiftly and let it out in a purposeful grunt after a beat (what the hell, it was just a pair of toes) after the four joints had been felt, but he didn't twitch away from the contact. "Those two hurt, the pinky toe is fine. Feels like…they've been stubbed." _Stubbed? Is that even a word? "Stubbed toes"? Ah, he knows what I mean._

XXX

"Okay. That's what it looks like to me, too."

Peter set down the foot gently and took up the right, which he'd given only a cursory look earlier. He picked it up and gave it the same careful, primarily visual examination. He didn't see any faults. He set the right foot down and looked back and forth between it and the left, judging the toes, estimating how the toes on his left foot were supposed to look based on the way the ones on the right were. Sylar was a pretty symmetrical guy.

XXX

The nurse reached for his right foot and Sylar couldn't, didn't stop himself from forewarning Peter about it, "That one's fine," but that didn't prevent Peter from similarly checking the right foot, too. _That actually feels kinda good_, not that he didn't know that already.

Peter continued to surprise him in that he positioned his feet and looked between them. Sylar couldn't think what Peter would be looking for or at. _Oh, maybe more swelling?_ It wasn't important enough to ask about, but he was interested and curious.

XXX

"We can take a couple of these couch pillows when you lie back down and elevate this foot some." His voice was low and sober. He looked up at Sylar's face again, checking in, telling him, "I'm going to check your calves now," then proceeding to do just that, which was a simple matter of looking at Sylar's shins, then running his hands from ankle to back of knee. On Sylar's left leg, the one on the opposite side of where Peter was sitting, he ran only the index finger of his right hand.

All he was feeling for was blood, seepage or irregularities. He didn't expect any, but he hadn't expected the problem with the toes, either. That done, he shuffled sideways closer to the couch, moving on to the thighs.

XXX

_Really? __It's__ that bad? Or is that just basic stuff?_ After brief additional consideration, Sylar deduced that it was merely basic procedure. Sylar gave a nod when Peter looked his way. He understood now why women, and, he supposed, the braver men enjoyed pedicures (although Sylar thought it would be wasted on men) even if the exam he'd just had was of a more serious nature. _I so need to get concussed more often, but I could do without the headache._

So lost in his own thoughts, he came back to reality a little too late to answer, "O-" _My what?_ "-kay," he finished, again a little surprised, but pleasantly so. Sylar swallowed, kept himself still and started praying against evil bodily reactions. Did Peter not get it or what? _Is he repaying me for earlier?_ Now that he could see his thigh, he agreed it was swollen and mottled with a neat bruise. _But that's all it is, right?_ The skin even down around his knee felt tight and strained, almost like the bruise was pulling the muscles – it had felt that way since he'd got the bruise and it made walking painful, but not impossible.

"What, um…what's the worst that could happen from a bruise? Maybe like a…clot or something? Like…what are you looking for?" Sylar subtly prepared a hand in case he needed to push Peter's probing fingers away from the pain site because as a heroic man of the medical field, Peter would have that insatiable need to touch right where it fucking hurt.

XXX

_What's the worst that can happen? Should I even really discuss that given that this is all in our heads? I suppose I should. It's his body, fake or not._ "Uh … given that the skin is intact, the worst that could happen now is probably compartment syndrome." _For which the primary thing I should check is that he has good circulation. _"Let me take your pulse." _Damnit. Missed that_. He reached down for Sylar's right ankle, reaching behind it with his right hand and feeling along for a few seconds. He wasn't as practiced at taking a posterior tibial pulse, but he found it. Peter raised his left hand, looking blankly at his non-functioning watch. "Eh … hm. Okay." _Wait, there's actually a disadvantage to that thing not working?_ He shook his head slightly in exasperation and looked around for the nearest clock with a visible second hand. This being Sylar's apartment, he didn't have to look far.

XXX

Having been a little startled with Peter's rather assuming touches, Sylar was pleased at being unintentionally amused when Peter had to look for another clock with his watch not working. He stifled a chuckle; Peter's reaction to it was pretty priceless. _I need to fix that for him, still driving me crazy._ Getting his pulse checked seemed so…ordinary. Again, Peter phrased it as a sort of question, but he didn't wait for an answer, not that Sylar would have given one, really, perhaps he just wanted to be asked. He wondered what his pulse had to do with a bruise beyond how fast blood was pumping through it.

XXX

A minute of silence passed before Peter said, "Your circulation is fine. So's your pulse." _In a general sense, at least. Now let's look at specifics._ He reached behind Sylar's left knee, pulling up his lower leg a little for the right angle, then found the popliteal artery. He didn't bother measuring out the pulse, but was just double-checking it was strong. "I've never had to treat compartment syndrome, because it's not diagnosed until a while after the cause. Essentially the tissue somewhere gets compressed enough that it cuts off blood flow, then it … well, it doesn't heal. You'll have tissue death, necrosis, and generally your kidneys fail a little while after that." _Then you die, because a part of you rotted from the inside out._

XXX

Sylar waited, remembering just as he'd been about to open his mouth that this procedure was required silence from the patient_. Ha, I'm the patient now. Strange I have no patience._ Mentally, he snorted. _And neither does he. He just said he took my pulse so why's he…?_ He allowed his leg to be maneuvered, wincing as it shifted the muscles under his bruised skin, watching in confusion that was not explained, but Peter did explain compartment syndrome.

It only sounded bad and he remembered hearing something about that. Luckily, even with all the injuries he'd sustained before taking Claire's power, he'd never had that issue. Oddly, it brought to mind something he'd heard about having to remove a tourniquet after four hours or risk losing the limb or life. He doubted it was the compartment syndrome, but it wouldn't surprise him if it were similar. "Oh. I see," Sylar said to state his continued interest and show he was listening.

XXX

"You'll see those problems with the sort of severe bruising that comes from auto accidents, but mostly it's in the lower leg and forearm." He touched around the edges of the bruise on Sylar's thigh, seeing faintly the tread pattern of his shoe. That made him a bit ill to think he put that there, but he put his feelings aside for the moment. "Can you feel me touching here? Does that feel normal, or do you have pins-and-needles, or is it numb?" He put slight pressure of two fingertips above, below, to the right and left of the injury. He was also looking at color change and level of edema.

XXX

"Oh!" was his muffled inhale of pain when Peter groped- no, he was just touching the outside of the bruise! _Holy fuck, um…hello?_ His body stiffened in sudden anger, that desire to strike again for Peter's stupidity. Of course he fucking felt that! How could he not? Hadn't Peter ever had a bad bruise before? Having this kind of attention made him feel like a drama queen for any reactions he had. Sylar forced himself to remember that this was for his own good and, as far as he knew, Peter wasn't causing pain on purpose – the guy was strangely invested in the exam.

"Yes," he grunted sharply. "About as normal as it should, I imagine," he couldn't stop the slight sarcasm slipping in. Sylar was watching him intently now, no more relaxing.

XXX

"What we need to do is get this swelling down so you can get proper circulation throughout. That's the best thing we can do to avoid complications. Or the worst that can happen." Peter rocked back on his heels, taking some of the weight off his knees and let his hands fall to his thighs. "What I'm looking for first and foremost are breaks or tears to the skin - any evidence of bleeding. There was glass all over the ground and you fell on it … at least once." Peter looked off to the side, finding it hard to remember exactly what happened in the fight. _Well, that's why I'm checking him_. "I swept up all the big pieces before we got into it, but that doesn't mean I got them all. If you're concussed and messed up, and have a piece of glass stuck in you, you might not even realize it. Maybe it's just an annoying pain that won't go away."

XXX

Sylar blinked. _A piece of glass? I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? How fitting, really. An annoying piece of invisible glass, stuck in your head. An annoying pain that won't go away - is that a metaphor for me now?_

XXX

"Next thing I'm looking for after that is to see where all your injuries are and to make sure I know what's happening with them." He gestured at Sylar's foot. "That needs to be elevated. I didn't know it was even there. Your leg definitely needs to be iced to get the swelling down." He nodded his head towards Sylar's abdomen. "I'd thought, before, that the serious part was your gut, but it looks fine. I'll check it here in a little bit and what I'll be looking for there is any evidence of ruptured internal organs. If there were, there'd probably be some distension and I don't see any."_ Besides the fact that you'd probably be dead already. _"But I'm going to palpate to be sure." _If you'll let me._ "And I'll see what else you've got going on. I want to feel your skull and make sure there aren't any soft spots. It might sound weird, but it's basic. I need to know basic. Most of this is just looking and feeling."

XXX

Sylar held back something of an evil expression. _Of course you wouldn't know it was there. I took out the cabinet instead of your ass, so be grateful. Geez, Peter, would you stop saying 'swelling' already?_ He followed Peter's nod towards his stomach, glancing at it and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. _If he's making a fat joke, I swear to God…Wait. Palpate? Palpate…doesn't that mean…poke and prod?_

Sylar's eyebrows went up and his eyes widened on the heels of those thoughts about touching his stomach. _And see what else I've got going on?_ Peter had checked his thigh and desired to check his stomach now and what else lay between those two areas? He grasped at remembering Peter saying 'only as much as you can handle' about taking clothes off and he was already sprawled there in nothing but his underwear, not even socks to claim.

Sure, he would allow Peter to haul down the waistband of his drawers to view his hip's bruise, but his cheeks would burst into blushing flames – especially given Sylar's rather hairy situation down below which he couldn't imagine Peter appreciating. What if that made an unwanted appearance? Surely Peter wouldn't check _*there*_…The nurse had been nothing but overly thorough to this point, but how thorough was thorough? It would be only too easy to get a preview of Sylar's business with flimsy underwear and four hands in the mix. What would Peter want with what lay under there anyway? The guy had no interest; he hadn't even glanced!

Stunned into mental immobility, another bit of should-have-anticipated surprise hit him. _You wanna feel my skull? I bet you do! Soft spots my ass. If its soft, its because you made if that way. _Sylar growled, passing it off as discomfort and repositioning as he shoved himself up the couch a bit, lounging up straighter. '_Most of this is just looking and feeling'. I bet it is; I bet it is._

Sylar placed his right hand on his thigh, very prepared to defend himself or cover his groin if need be. To act prematurely and cover himself would be a sign of weakness and loss of control. This would be one hell of a way to find out he was ticklish. He was nearly covering up for other reasons. Sylar had literally avoided thinking about popping a boner on Peter during his exam for a reason – he was fucked up enough in the head (never mind concussions) that something like this, a foreign, forgotten, caring, intimate touch even a medical one from an enemy would arouse him. _Oh, god…what if that happens? What would he do? _Sylar so wanted to whine 'Do you have to?' about the stomach prodding, paranoid now about an erection, but knowing it was for his own health, long term. _Make him hurry up? Don't know if I want him to…Ask for my pants back?_

XXX

Sylar struck Peter as being uncomfortable - maybe more mentally than physically, he couldn't tell. The man had straightened, cleared his throat or growled, and was putting his hands in the way or preparing to. Peter was still sitting, rocked back, hands to himself. He thought about what he'd said. _Well, you wanted to know what I was doing and why … but still, there was probably something in what I said that set him off_. He would have expected the 'worst case scenario' to have gotten Sylar on board with the exam rather than mobilizing defenses.

Peter considered and decided to back off for a few minutes. Maybe Sylar would calm. Peter shifted further, changing to attempt to sit cross-legged, but that wouldn't work well with his hip. He grimaced at that discovery and ended up putting his butt to the floor and propping himself up some with his left hand, tucking his legs in on his right side. It was an unprofessional and unmasculine way to sit, but his other choices hurt, or required getting up and sitting in the chair, which would look like a withdrawal from the process.

He looked at Sylar a couple times as he spoke, looking like he was in no hurry to do anything. "I'm going to need you to lie down for the next part." He waited a long beat, then glanced back again. "I also need you to let me know if you don't understand what I'm doing. Are there questions you want to ask?"

_Maybe he doesn't believe me? Maybe he thinks I'm going to …. what? Hurt him?_ He considered the Company. If that was Sylar's baseline for medical care, which Peter didn't know if it was, or how Nathan's memories factored into things, then he could understand a lot of disbelief. He didn't need belief, necessarily, but he needed cooperation and he wasn't likely to get the one without the other. There was a ritual and a routine to emergency care that got tossed out the window when a person wasn't in uniform, not in a truck, didn't have a partner and were dealing with a patient who wasn't following their script for the process. Peter was left trying to feel along what Sylar would and wouldn't allow.

XXX

Sylar exhaled as Peter sat back, appearing to take a break. If he stopped and thought about it, that showed that Peter still viewed him as a threat, something so dangerous that he required constant watch. _Crap. Of course he would notice – he's a fucking empath! That always annoyed the hell out of Nathan._ The average person, even the average victim didn't notice the things Peter did and if they did they would only react from fear and self-preservation. _Damn_, he thought, impressed despite himself. _He's…good._

Peter sat funny and one side of Sylar's lips twitched. _Yeah, I figured,_ he thought of lying down. _Relax. He'd have done something by now while you were standing if he wanted to_. Sylar huffed out a sigh, rolling his eyes as best he could, releasing his tension. "Fine, I want to know what you're going to do about my hip. And my stomach."


	32. Upper Body

_Day 10_

Sylar huffed out a sigh, rolling his eyes as best he could, releasing his tension. "Fine, I want to know what you're going to do about my hip. And my stomach."

XXX

Peter glanced over at the body parts in question, then up to Sylar's eyes. He drew in a breath and leaned back a little, trying to look calm. Trying intentionally to look like he felt a certain way wasn't something Peter had much practice at. He knew how to do it - no son of Arthur Petrelli, even the often-disregarded, second-rate one, escaped without that sort of basic training - but Peter tended not to bother. At the moment, though, he really wanted to sell Sylar on the idea that Peter wasn't pushing.

"For medical examination, the abdomen is divided into four quadrants." He gestured with his right hand to back up his words. "The line goes breastbone to pubis vertically and horizontally across the navel. I'm going to-" He paused, blinked once, then started again, "I want to feel of the three quadrants where you don't have any obvious injury. That will give me a baseline, plus it's a good idea to check even if a person doesn't expect problems. I'll use my left hand, obviously, two fingers, and probe, probably enough to deflect the skin down an inch or two. I'll move around and feel of where your organs are - are they in the right place, are there masses, is there throbbing, are there hard spots where there shouldn't be hard spots - that sort of thing. It'll be a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn't hurt."

XXX

The part about 'two fingers, probing, feeling where your organs are' seemed pretty damn ironic to a guy whose occupation was poking around inside people's brains. _Aaaand we've officially moved out of danger for erections. There's that at least,_ Sylar tried to console or pep talk himself. The ordeal was now decidedly unpleasant.

XXX

He stopped speaking for several beats, giving some distance in the conversation. Maybe it would give Sylar time to process. Definitely it was reinforcement for the image of 'this is no big deal, no hurry' that Peter was trying to give, and personally felt. He wasn't trying to project something he didn't feel - he was just trying to project how he was feeling more strongly and loudly than usual.

"Then I'll look at the quadrant where you have the bruising. And I'm sorry, but to know what I want to know, I'm going to have to touch it directly and push on it. It will probably hurt. If it doesn't hurt," Peter gave a single dry chuckle, "well, let me know that right away, because that means there's something seriously wrong." _Like nerve damage._ "I'll feel around there same as the others. I'll need to know _how_ it hurts - sharp or dull, a lot or a little. For your hip …" Peter glanced over, wishing Sylar had on skimpier underwear and somehow managing to think that without a trace of sexual innuendo.

"I would like to see the extent of the bruising. If it's actually over and on your hip bone like it looks, then I'd want to check hip stability. That involves me putting my hands on either of your hipbones while you're lying flat and pressing down, then rocking them laterally." He looked up at Sylar and added sotto voce, "It's not a lot of rocking. Just a little." He gestured slightly with his right hand as if trying to demonstrate, but it was probably too general a motion to get much across. He only moved his hand an inch or two back and forth, once.

"The point of that is to make sure all the bones of your pelvis are still firmly connected. Just because you can walk isn't an indication. People can walk with their backs broken. I saw an x-ray of a guy who walked around with a complete fracture of his femur." Peter shook his head at how weird the human body was, and that was without abilities. "So, that's the examination I want to do for your stomach and your hip."

XXX

_I bet he thinks this is just hilarious as can be_. So…Peter had to see the inevitable, the hip. And he wanted to prod around on it. _Whatever_. It wasn't like Peter wasn't getting eyefuls to his heart's content (honestly, the guy didn't seem to give a fuck!) This was for his own good, he reminded himself, considering chanting that as his mantra to avoid accidental strangulations.

Peter had answered thoroughly so Sylar nodded once, stiffly. He made to lie on his back, assuming Peter wanted his front where all the damage was. He took his time and when he was horizontal, he dragged the pillow under his head, replacing his hands at his sides. "Alright," he signaled his readiness for Peter to continue.

XXX

Peter shifted up onto his knees, looking over at Sylar's right thigh. He hadn't given it a good look earlier, but there was nothing much to see. He gave the groin a visual sweep, but saw nothing unusual. At some point he'd need to see Sylar's back - again, concern about glass and other debris. Hadn't Sylar fallen on his back? Or was it his side? Peter wasn't sure.

He went on to the abdominal palpation he'd outlined before, feeling out the three uninjured quadrants. It took less time than to explain it - only four or five seconds each and he was done. For the last, he stopped and put his hands down for a moment, looking carefully.

XXX

The probing was uncomfortable, but not painful, at least in the three uninjured 'quadrants' as Peter referred to them in such a geeky way. It was mercifully brief and he couldn't help but consider that maybe Peter was rushing it out of fear or disgust; Sylar couldn't guess. Nothing caused him pain, so he said nothing and made no sound.

The fourth section came around and Sylar took a deeper breath, letting it out, his head propped up barely enough to see so he lifted a bit to get a better view. He winced a little, but he could tell it was merely a muscle/skin pain from denim and shirt grinding into him full-weight. "'S only muscle deep. I skidded off your knee onto that part."

XXX

Then he looked to Sylar. "Okay. I'm going to probe a bit more here." He waited for an acknowledgment before setting to it, moving more slowly than he had for the other sections, but still getting done in less than ten seconds.

XXX

Sylar released a 'hrmph' of pain, more intense than before as Peter drew closer to his hip and the actual landing zone (not his dick, but the bruise). "Same thing there," he clarified, really just wanting this to be over, dreading the next parts.

XXX

"Everything seems fine. Hips now." He glanced up at Sylar attentively, a little wary, then put his right hand on the waistband of his underwear. He'd asked for Sylar to strip as much as he was comfortable with and the underwear had stayed on. That meant Sylar wouldn't be all that wild about Peter peeling them down, even though Peter had warned him he wanted to.

XXX

Sylar raised his head further so he could see over his ribs, eyes focused on his boxers. His left hand came up to maneuver the waistband down, his right moving up to hold the rest of his the elastic in place (thus minimizing what he flashed) when he noticed, a bit late, that Peter's hand was already there. Sylar froze, blinking, confused. He was unable to comprehend why Peter somehow had to be the one to pull his underwear down. He'd assumed, incorrectly it appeared, that he would be the one handling his own drawers.

Sylar was getting quickly sick of these internal battles and mini-dominance wars between them. If he fussed and took control, it made put any previous (flirting and sexual) actions in doubt, made him look weak. If he sat back and let Peter handle his own goddamn underwear, he probably looked weak, too. Or did he look like he had in all under control and Peter was just doing his bidding, following directions to the letter with Sylar's trust and approval?

_Why in God's name would Peter think that's okay?_ Was bouncing around in his head. Sylar was still stuck there as Peter moved on and he realized he missed, by not watching Peter's face, where the other man looked exactly.

XXX

Peter looked back to what he was doing and bared the minimum he needed, for all of a two second visual check. Had Sylar taken his underwear off, Peter would have touched around it as well, but as the man hadn't, Peter respected the unspoken request for privacy. He moved on to putting one hand on each hip, grimacing slightly at his right hand. _This is going to hurt - me, probably not him. _He tightened his jaw and did it anyway, and yes, it did hurt. Peter made a muffled noise of pain in the back of his throat, going through the correct motions anyway and confirming for himself that Sylar's pelvis was sound.

XXX

His hands hadn't moved from their paused position over his hips as Peter gave him a cursory glance and replaced his waistband to his proper place. Sylar had time to see that (a significant) edge of his pubic hair was revealed, dark against the light gray waistband and his skin so Peter couldn't possibly miss it no matter how long he did or didn't look. He tried not to feel horrified or ashamed, he did, but he doubted success.

Peter went for his hips and he grasped the man's wrists (well, one wrist, one brace), crying out when the man applied pressure and began to rock him because Peter's palm was rested on the bruise. "Aah!" He jerked and tightened his grasp on Peter as reflex but after only a few motions his nurse withdrew, breathing heavily.

Sylar heard Peter's sound of hurt as well and went as still as he could given the painful circumstances, sucking in air through his mouth and staring up at the man, awaiting reaction or action. _Ow….Oh, ow. That's so tender…that's such a tender spot and I fucking landed on you, Petrelli!_ He wanted to curl up, but knew that would just hurt worse. _See if my pelvis is intact? What the fuck?_

XXX

Peter held still for a moment, trying to process all of that: Sylar's cry, the feel of his hips shifting under Peter's hands, Sylar's hands on his wrists and the overwhelming pain from his own right hand. He swallowed roughly, breathed out through his mouth and put his left hand on Sylar's forearm. It was a light contact, but his fingers curled around to hold gently. "Easy. I'm done. Done." He breathed out and tucked his right hand flush with his side. That wasn't because he thought Sylar would do anything to him, but more just an instinct. It was throbbing and Peter knew it would keep doing that for the next minute or two.

XXX

Peter re-gathered, keeping his right hand away and Sylar thought that he'd hurt the guy on accident. _Uh-oh. _Sylar's lips were tense, his jaw clenched, recovering his own air, but Peter touched his arm, and did no more than that. He couldn't help the feeling of instinctive betrayal even while he knew the process would bring pain. He knew Peter was doing what he felt was his job and the injuries had been in the way of that – the hurt was not intentional. That didn't stop him from wanting to strike back, but maybe he had by grabbing Peter's brace like that.

XXX

"I … didn't feel anything out of place." He glanced to Sylar's face for reaction, then down his body and around the couch. "Here. Let me get the blanket over you." He gave Sylar's arm a squeeze and fished for the blanket awkwardly with his left. He finally noticed how he was holding his right, tight against himself, and loosened up a little. It would hurt no matter where it was. He made an attempt to spread the blanket, then rocked back on his heels and let Sylar finish doing it.

XXX

Sylar just nodded, not knowing what, if anything, to say. "Thanks," he said to Peter nicely laying the blanket up to his stomach. That was much better – warmer and less exposed. It said a lot in Peter's favor, too, that he really wasn't up to anything if he was willing to cover Sylar up. Sylar raised his arms for the blanket, setting them back at his sides atop the material, watching Peter in a more relaxed way now, even if his lower half felt alternately massaged and aching horribly.

XXX

"I'm sorry that hurt you," he said quietly, looking down at the brace to see if there was any chance it had slipped and maybe he could stop it from hurting by adjusting it. No such luck. He picked uneasily at the Velcro with his left before pulling his hand away and looking back to Sylar. He had a patient and there was nothing he could do for his hand except to quit using it and aggravating the fracture. Small chance of that. "All that's left is your head and your back." And technically arms, but Peter had already checked Sylar's hands and he could see the arms – they were fine. "But I need to know, about your hips: did that hurt anywhere other than the bruise itself? Did it hurt in your tailbone, or anywhere else?"

XXX

"Okay, Peter." Sylar was attempting to be agreeable to keep even with Peter. He did get tired of being the monster all the time and Peter's actions said the hip incident had been an honest accident. For reasons strange and beyond his understanding, Sylar felt the desire to continue on, humor Peter and get over what would otherwise result in a thrashing for the nurse. He blamed the raging headache and mental fuckery that came with the concussion. His health was on the line, too, and for once it was being attended to. That was a lot to turn away from, both in regards to medical aid and attention in general.

He shook his head, "No. Nuh-uh." Something occurred to him and he made a note to bring it up after the exam. It felt great to lie down again, better for his head and he lifted it momentarily to flail his feet around the blanket (limited by his bruises and stiffness) until he could elevate his feet like Peter mentioned. _See, I can be a good boy._

XXX

"That's good to hear," Peter said. He watched Sylar kick his feet around, wondering what he was doing until Sylar propped one – the one with stubbed toes – on the arm rest of the couch. Nodding in approval, Peter shuffled the opposite way a little and looked to the man's face. He looked at it first as a gestalt. A day out from the fight, the bruises were apparent against Sylar's light skin. Peter found himself less sympathetic about these marks than for those on Sylar's leg. For one thing, other than the first uppercut, he hadn't managed to tag Sylar very hard in the face. They'd be colorful and painful, but the damage wasn't that bad.

The concussion was another matter. Peter looked at the man's eyes, Peter's face very serious. He was mentally measuring pupil diameter and comparing one to the other. Not everyone had symmetrical pupils as a baseline, but it would appear that Sylar did. Peter wished for a flashlight to gauge dilation response. It was probably better that he didn't have one, as the bright light would be a stabbing pain, not to mention disorienting, for a concussion victim. A motion of Sylar's expression caught Peter's notice and the nature of his gaze shifted. Now he was looking at _Sylar_ instead of a body part. Peter's lips tightened and turned up in a small smile; the lines around his eyes softened. _…beautiful eyes._ They were dark brown, very clear even given Sylar's condition, very deep and returning his examination with a sharp interest. Sylar had lovely lashes. Peter didn't think he'd ever noticed that. _Stop that! That has nothing to do with him being hurt!_

XXX

The whole…experience, he'd call it that, was interesting to watch, aside from being exposed and having his bruises upset. Peter had quite the game face (different, obviously, from his 'I'm gonna kick your ass' face – he'd seen that one plenty). Currently his nurse was eyeing his face…okay. _My head was next on the list_, he reminded himself, so he let it happen.

It was weird to be looked at by someone with eyes like Peter's because he just got the feeling there was more going on behind his eyes than most other people. Right now, he pictured Peter making a rundown list of either things he wanted to destroy about Sylar's face or the possible medical problems it would, well, face. Sylar just gazed back when Peter appeared to want to hold the eye contact.

He would have tilted his head had he not been lying flat when Peter smiled – he'd been doing that a lot more during the course of the exam. That was something he didn't think he could account for. _So Peter truly loves his job. He must, to be able to look you over so thoroughly because it's obvious he doesn't want to fuck you._ To Sylar that felt…acceptable, actually, much to his own surprise.

XXX

He pulled himself back, literally putting another inch or two between them. Feeling like he needed to say something to distract from the faux pas of his thoughts, even if he'd done nothing (well, not much) inappropriate, he said, "Your pupils look equal, which is a really good sign. I don't see any internal bleed, either. I'm going to touch where I hit you." He raised his left hand, turning it slightly to display it to Sylar and make it clear what he was going to do. He waited for some sign of assent before reaching for his forehead.

XXX

_Right, pupils._ That explained the lingering eye contact. It felt completely strange for Sylar to feel as though he was literally thinking slower than someone else, although social situations he still struggled in. Peter moved in, even moving in a manner that was visibly patient, and it was always just before Sylar could process the actual move or twitch his hands in place for any defense.

Then he was stuck trying to recall where Peter was referring to. _I think you hit me all over, man._ Sylar kept his eyes on Peter's after a glance at his displayed hand, calming after that.

XXX

Peter pulled in a deep breath, probing well right of the center of the goose-egg, then to the left, then above. Satisfied there wasn't anything obviously wrong, he moved his fingers to the injury itself, saying, "This is going to hurt a little."

XXX

_Oh, SHIT!_ He'd been suckered. Peter's whole act of 'look deep into my eyes, I'll go slow' and he'd totally fallen for it. At the words 'this is going to hurt a little', he had a horrible flash image of being in a similar position with that same hand going for his forehead.

"NO!" Sylar yelled and thrashed the rest of his body to twist away from that hand, pulling himself back into a not-so-escapable position into the back of the couch. Something pinged in his mind in that moment of panic that Peter said he had Matt's ability and Sylar thought he'd had Claire's…it made no sense. _He came here to finish the job. Right? Easy to fuck me and feel guiltless if I don't remember it._

XXX

Startled by the sudden shift, Peter's eyes flew wide and he froze, wincing inside because he expected to be hit. He didn't move. Sylar was jerking away, not attacking him directly, and in that second that Peter perceived that, he decided to stay exactly where he was and see what happened.

XXX

Shoving Peter's hands away, Sylar breathed a little harder now. "Oh, good one, Petrelli," he laughed a bit, shaking his head in a sort of semi-defeated, impressed, begrudging respect. _No syringe? No nail gun? And I'm the one being fucking strip-searched here._

XXX

_Good one? No? What did I say? 'This is going to hurt'? Or was it …_ Peter looked down at his left hand. His left - Sylar's dominant hand to the extent that Sylar had one. A wisp of memory flickered in the back of his mind, teasing him with a possible explanation. He turned the light of his attention to it, focusing and drawing it out. The memory felt strangely foreign and a moment later he realized why. Dozens of snips of memory came loose and flooded the forefront of his brain. All of them featured a hand (his own?), raised with finger or fingers extended toward a forehead, grisly purpose and determination behind the gesture.

Peter's eyes (eye, rather) widened even further and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, rocking back on his heels in counterpoint to Sylar's withdrawal. He fought with himself to stuff those undesired thoughts back into the box they'd come from, or pretend they didn't exist - anything but think about them and cement them even more into his mind through the focus.

XXX

Sylar looked at Peter curiously for a moment through a bit of his fallen he was propped on an elbow, he sat up, more in the middle of the couch, away from Peter. He leaned forward, putting elbows on knees for Peter to check his back, waving an indifferent hand to the nurse, "Don't try for that again," _or my underwear or I _will_ crush your hand_. "Check my back. Then it's your turn for an exam." A bit of payback for Peter? Perhaps.

XXX

Peter didn't move at first, staring at Sylar and trying to figure out what he was supposed to think_. 'Check my back'? All of that … those memories … if that's what triggered him … did he think I was making a joke about cutting people's heads open? And now he's acting like it's no big deal? I upset him enough for him to yell and jump back, and just a few seconds later he's pretending that was a joke and waving for me to look at his back?_

Peter got to his feet slowly. His knees hurt from the prolonged kneeling on the short, not-very-well-padded carpet. He bought some more time by stretching them a couple times. _My turn for an exam? What does that mean? Mental? Physical? What the hell?_ He thought about how he felt, emotionally. He thought he should be angry about the reminder of how many people Sylar had killed. But he wasn't. He wasn't sure what he was, except sure that the next time he felt some pseudo-memory like that lurking around in his head, he was going to ignore the hell out of it.

He moved over to the couch a little hesitantly at first, then calmed down when he gathered that Sylar's outburst was over. Peter looked over the man's back, his eye immediately caught by the purpling bruise in the middle. It looked too old to be from the day before, which meant it was from the first fight. Or maybe it was from Sylar's 'file cabinet combat'. "How did you get that bruise on your back?" Peter asked quietly, trying to re-summon his role as a medic and, for the most part, failing. "Do you think you might have a cracked rib? Does it hurt when you breathe?"

XXX

Even leaning over that far was killing his head, but he was not about to roll on his stomach (on the goddamn couch) for Peter to eye his back for two seconds. "Eh?" _I have a bruise on my- oh!_ "The bedpost when you rushed me. The first fight." _Still causing me problems, but it could be worse. He might have snapped my spine had things been a little different._ Sylar stopped to think. "I didn't feel or hear anything. Been breathing fine except for my head, my face." _I wonder if he can do anything about my sinuses while he's at this._ He noticed Peter wasn't touching him now. _Is he still freaked out or he doesn't wanna touch me or my back just looks in tip-top shape? The spine is kind of important, but…he's the medic, I guess. I have to trust him to a point._

It struck him then just how much trust he'd been placing in Peter's hand and eye. Peter had been utterly professional, almost annoyingly so. _Oh, wow…Well, its useful information even if it was a huge risk._

XXX

Peter stood to Sylar's right side and looked over Sylar's slightly turned shoulder to give his back a thorough eyeing. There were a few other small marks but they looked inconsequential. When Sylar did nothing to disallow the observation, Peter rested his right, nearer hand on Sylar's bare shoulder, or at least he rested a couple fingertips and the brace. He considered Sylar's strongly negative reaction to Peter touching his forehead and decided that was probably limited to_ just_ the forehead. Perhaps he could get away with finishing the exam. "Okay. Can I check the spot where I hit your head in that fight?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed the affirmative, presuming Peter meant the first concussion from the first fight. That part of his head was pretty easy to access currently. He was much less bothered by the prospect of having his 'kill spot' scoped out than he was about having his mind wiped. Sylar turned to his left to bring the area within easier reach for Peter, who was on his right side and would have had to reach across without getting a visual.

XXX

Peter turned, reaching his left hand around the back of Sylar's head and sliding his fingers into the man's hair behind his ear. He felt around, barely probing at all in case what Sylar had reacted to was the expectation of pain. That seemed unreasonable, given the man's high pain tolerance in other areas. Peter erred on the side of being less sure about what he was feeling, but causing less discomfort in the process of feeling it. He was making sure the hematoma was going down normally, which it was. "Kay," he said as he smoothed Sylar's hair back into place with a couple short strokes, so customary that he didn't think anything about it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes shut when Peter put his hands into his hair; reaching for an impact site or not, it still felt good. The nurse barely felt around, but maybe since it was just skin over bone he didn't need to. When that was over shortly after, Peter petted his hair back down. Sylar opened his eyes and turned to look at Peter at that. _He didn't have to do that. Or maybe he did. You're not looking so hot and a big old cowlick out the back of your head would probably have him giggling and staring the rest of the day._ Peter took a few steps back to look at him, ending the contact.

XXX

"Tell me about your breathing. Tell me what's going on with your head and face that's hurting when you breathe." Done or not, he couldn't let a comment about difficulty breathing go unquestioned. Breathing was critical and was, in fact, the reason why Peter had been motivated to do the physical exam in the first place – he'd noticed Sylar's breathing was off and mis-attributed it to the knee to the man's gut.

XXX

Sylar straightened his back by placing more weight on his elbows on his knees. "It doesn't hurt when I breathe, it's just…restricted? Swollen? You know, headache in the forehead and the back of my head there," he pointed towards the back of his head where Peter had just checked. "Sinuses from my face as near as I can tell." _Does he need to feel those, too? I know they get bad and they sometimes poke and prod them._ That thought amused him. _He doesn't want to look at my body, but the one thing he does have to look at everyday, my face, and he won't check it? Ha._

Peter had tagged him hard enough, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been as Sylar had clearly mashed up Peter's pretty face.

XXX

Peter's brows pulled together slightly as he considered that. "I can get you a decongestant," he offered, looking over Sylar's face and trying to think of what he could do to help with that. "Maybe a nasal rinse." He cocked his head, trying to think, but nothing else really came to mind. It wasn't an area of medicine he had much experience in. "Didn't come up much in nursing school or paramedic training." It didn't sound life-threatening, but it also sounded like something Peter could do something about. That was a welcome change from most of the rest of Sylar's condition, for which the required care tended towards the passive - doing whatever he could to minimize Sylar's exertion and assist him in bedrest.

XXX

"I'm going to rest. When I'm done, you're going to get your eye and whatever's making you limp examined because you look like crap that can barely stand up straight," Sylar said decisively despite being tired. _Has he showered? He doesn't smell…I guess he's had time to sneak out and come back. What do I care? Its not tit-for-tat either – he looks like shit and I haven't seen him do much self-care._ Sylar had a host of rationale in case he was pressed, but it was also to convince himself.

XXX

"You're going to what?" Peter gave his head an immediate, small shake. He didn't like the sound of that, so he dismissed it and continued, "Never mind. Do you have some sweat pants or pajama bottoms or whatever around here? You might be more comfortable in something looser than those jeans." _Not to mention they probably have blood on them_. He handed over Sylar's t-shirt, hesitating next to him in case Sylar wanted or needed to stand to get dressed (_whatever that's all about_). He didn't stick out his hand to help Sylar up, but he would if he saw some sign that he should. Mostly he just stood there, looking at Sylar expectantly for a few seconds. "I'll go out and see what I can get for your sinuses before dinner."

XXX

"I'm going to give-" Peter cut him off and Sylar glared. _Now my jeans are too tight? No easy access jokes now, you've basically seen it all._ He swiped his T-shirt angrily then pointed to the dresser Peter had got the shirt from earlier. He worked on putting the shirt on, wondering what why he bothered and where his anger came from because it hadn't stemmed from being interrupted.

Disappointment, betrayal, relief, relaxation, a kind of soul-stroking joy with an underlying hint of despair about the whole exam was his feel of the moment. Peter hadn't done anything he expected and he was floundering about how to take the man's behavior – he'd expected _something_ to happen. Even Peter wasn't that perfect. Maybe he was looking for a bone, something to hold over Peter's head, but he mainly got the feeling he'd been examined…and found very, very lacking. Peter hadn't so much as peeked or passed a hand over anything with lewd, humiliating or painful intent and it was truly a little scary. Sylar was now realizing he might be in a deeper hole than he'd thought. The professionalism was gagging him and as such he couldn't even respond to Peter's remark about sinus remedies.

The medic returned with one of the two pairs of pajama pants Sylar kept, this one a red-green-black flannel, well-used, but functional and warm. He took that, not sparing Peter a glance and worked first his right leg then his left (slower and stiffer) into the legs before squirming the waistband up around his hips. Just to show Peter he hadn't won or defeated him, Sylar left the drawstrings untied. He was going to have to change his strategies if he was going to be inspected and discarded like an old newspaper, lightly skimmed over. Sylar scraped his hair back and lay down, pulling the blanket to his waist again.

XXX

Peter absorbed the angry attitude and had trouble not automatically adopting it as his own. He wanted to grit his teeth – that hurt, so he didn't, but he wanted to. Instead he exhaled sharply and fetched the pajama pants as directed. He immediately moved on to the kitchen just to get away from the feeling. It was an unexamined experience, but one he hadn't had in a while, either.

He knocked around in the food prep area for a few seconds before shrugging off the emotion as he decided on something useful to do with himself. He poured up a glass of water and looked in the freezer. They'd exhausted the supply of ice packs he'd made earlier and he hadn't made more. The ice trays were refrozen though, so he took the moment to bag up a new one, using a combination of his left hand and right forearm to pop out the cubes from the plastic tray.

XXX

Sylar was left staring at his ceiling. It wasn't a healthy thing for him to do – he'd done it before in solitude and he and solitude were barely on speaking terms. Peter's exit spoke of annoyed anger, too bad Sylar failed to care. He speculated if the exit meant, though, that Peter was finally going to do something about Sylar's increasingly troublesome behavior. What would happen, would happen – he wasn't, hadn't been in any position to defend.

XXX

He paused to scratch at his scalp over his left ear and stare off into the distance, letting his mind free-wheel for the moment. Little disconnected bits of thought made it to the surface of his consciousness, but he ignored them in favor of just standing there and being in the now. He still hurt in a lot of places, he noted absently, and the awareness of his discomfort was what started him back up again. He had things to do. He refilled the ice trays and replaced them, then collected up the glass of water and the single ice pack he'd just made. He draped it, and a tea towel, over his right wrist as he carried the glass out in his left.

Sylar looked like he was in a slightly better humor, lying back and preparing to rest. Peter handed off the glass of water, saying, "In case you want something to drink while I'm out. I should be pushing fluids more aggressively, but … well." _There's only so much I can get around to._ "If you'll pull the blanket aside, we'll put this on your leg," he said, indicating the ice pack. "Then I'll get those pillows over there to go under your knee. The ice pack will need to be taken off every fifteen minutes until it melts."

XXX

Peter appeared with water and he took it, the break between interactions doing the trick to remind him of his weariness. "Out?" Sylar noticed the word. _Maybe he means sleeping 'out', but what if he means 'out of your place' out? Or…crap, 'out of this world I think is inside your head'?_ "What do you mean out?" he pressed, pulling the blanket as much aside for his left leg as he could, but he could only reach so far laying flat.

Tired and being pampered undeservedly, he didn't respond to the part about removing the ice pack every fifteen minutes as it was something he already knew, albeit didn't totally remember at the moment. Peter placed the pillows, formerly near the chair, under his knee now and placed the ice on his thigh then laid the blanket back over him. It hurt for a minute as his nerves adjusted, but then it started to feel so good on his bruise. Sylar placed the glass of water at his side, firmly trapped there with his arm even as he felt a curl of unease about laying, sleeping on his back around Peter. During his hunting years, hell, even before when Martin was still around, he slept on his side to be able to defend and rise quicker. Peter's exam, particularly the hip-rocking stage, showed him the position on his back wasn't ideal.

"Get some sleep, Peter," he mumbled, letting his eyelids lower as he looked up at his companion, unsure if he meant for Peter to sleep or that Sylar was going to.

XXX

Peter moved back to his chair after Sylar's murmured comment. He'd planned to leave immediately, but there were two signals now from Sylar that he might be alarmed by Peter's departure - a direction to sleep, and before that an inquiry on where Peter was going. He spoke quietly to answer, "I'm just going to get you a decongestant, like I mentioned earlier. It'll help you breathe." _Is this a sign that maybe he's realizing I'm helping him? That maybe he doesn't mind me here? Or is he just checking to see when I'm leaving so he can lock the door? _Somehow, that last didn't ring true, so Peter dropped it and moved on to considering what he was going to do. _Wasn't there something else I was going to get while I was out? Damn._ Peter looked down at the floor, trying to play through their conversation and the moment when he'd decided he should go out and do or get something_. Decongestant … and nasal rinse, maybe. It might be kind of tough to get him stable at a sink for right now, so really only the pills. But wasn't there something else?_

XXX

Sylar still looked him over, but Peter sat as he'd desired him to. It occurred to him, on and off, that Peter had or could get up and leave. It was unsettling on many levels. Sylar knew he had since Peter brought in a puzzle; how far Peter went to get it was the question. It was a tangled mess in his head that Peter had forced his way in and practically forced medical attention onto Sylar while he was, admittedly, too fucked up to give any kind of decent answer. That Peter had caused the damage and looked to assuage his own guilt by helping and Sylar had said (or strongly implied) that he didn't want Peter around…Then Peter had been surprisingly decent when Sylar had expected a massacre of a basic exam…He didn't know what to think, but he was enjoying the attention. He wouldn't turn that away.

Sylar's lifelong experience was of being left for dead or thereabouts unless someone came along to finish him off or "rescue" him for the sake of scientific experimental testing. Or being left while he slept, the other (whoever it was) creeping away in the night never to be seen again. _Peter would come back. He'd need me. He does need me; he said so. I'm still important enough for that. Besides, where would he go? I'm the only one here. He'd find a map, he'd find his way back. _Deciding on that, he gave Peter one last look over, hating having to trust and hope that Peter wasn't some figment of his imagination once again, before allowing sleep to take him.

XXX

_There are his injuries … toes, thigh, hip/abdomen, back, knuckles, wrist, head in two spots. I never got to look in his mouth or ask about his tongue, but he talks fine and he was able to eat, so that's probably okay. Hm, anything else? Just the breathing, I think. Anything for me? Morphine, _Peter thought jokingly_. More ice packs. Dinner. So I guess the question is whether I walk a couple blocks and back to that grocery store where I'm sure to find what I need, or search the apartments here some more where I might. There's that one that had the ice machine. I might as well go there and check, make some more ice packs while I'm there._

Sylar's breathing had dropped off into slumber. Peter felt his own energy starting to ebb and knew if he didn't get back on his feet, they'd both be sleeping pretty soon. He levered himself up and wandered into the kitchen to get the box of sealing plastic bags. He dumped the water out of the spent ones and took those with him as well, slipping quietly out the front door. He was in luck, finding a box of the appropriate pills in the medicine cabinet of the apartment where he'd been making the ice packs. It cut down blocks of walking on his still-wrenched hip to only a few hundred feet of walking the halls.

He returned with his load, stowing the extra bags in the freezer and snagging a pack for himself. He thought about dinner and decided, _Screw it. It can be late. He's asleep and I'm tired. _Leaving the decongestant on the kitchen table where he wouldn't forget it, he returned to his seat, setting the ice pack on it. He wondered if he could slide Sylar's off his leg without waking him. Peter smiled a little at how bad things might go if Sylar woke and reacted poorly, but he decided to try it anyway. He lifted the edge of the blanket, found the corner of the plastic bag, and eased it towards him, leaving the tea towel in place.

XXX

Sleep cycle interrupted somewhat with a touch or a shift just barely perceptible while he slept, Sylar's head moved from where he'd fallen asleep. Moving from right to left, presumably to check his left leg, which gave a brief jerk, he settled back into the pillow without having opened his eyes. "Hmm? Mmm."

XXX

Surprised that had worked, Peter settled back into his chair, putting Sylar's stolen, partly melted ice pack on his wrist, and leaning back to balance the new one on his face. He slept, or zoned out - one or the other, waking when the survival-oriented part of his mind decided that he was getting, or was going to get, frostbite of the eye if he didn't do something about it.

XXX

Sylar woke up some time later, groaning and frowning as he rubbed at his eyes. He'd been out pretty cold which he contributed to his current state of concussion. He had no idea what time it was and didn't care – he realized he'd started to care what time of day it was when Peter showed up. For now he yawned, eyes still shut until he realized Peter might still be lounging around. That cracked his eyes open, unhappy in the brighter outside world than that of his eyelids, "Mmm, Peter?" he asked, focusing his eyes around. He considered why he'd slept so well as he'd practically passed out at the nearest opportunity – he just hoped it hadn't been mid-sentence. Ideally the little jerk was still around because he had something on his to-do list…Sylar was sure it would come to him again. _Need to start writing crap down on my hands or something._

XXX

_My name? What? _Some sort of alarm went off in Peter's head as he woke, breathing accelerating and heart speeding before he even knew what he was afraid of. _Sylar? Sylar's voice …_ But it sounded muzzy, not threatening. Something moved on his injured right hand, sending a small stab of pain through him, followed by a mysteriously wet, glopping sound. He jumped a little, head throbbing with the rapid shift in blood pressure. _I'm awake. I was asleep? Shit. What was that noise? Why'd my hand hurt?_ Peter tilted in the chair, fully upright, his left hand gripping the arm rest as his balance went haywire and the world narrowed down for a few seconds. _Nothing happening. Calm down. _He drew in a deep breath and let it out, looking at his right hand as his body kicked off of fight-or-flight mode. The hand looked fine. He supposed he'd just tensed it unexpectedly or something. The completely melted ice pack that had fallen to the floor remained outside his field of view and unknown to him.

"Nng," he grumbled, taking in Sylar still on the couch, looking him over. Peter blinked and reached up to rub at his right eye with the thumb of his left hand. He moved his mouth around, swallowing. It felt dry and tasted bad. "Hnn," he elaborated on his previous noise.

XXX

Apparently Peter had been just as unconscious as he completely failed to juggle several bags of water. Sylar absolutely couldn't help that his ego was stroked within an inch of its life at seeing that kind of reaction just on saying the guy's _name_, dead sleep or no. Otherwise watching Peter Petrelli flail (and sort of fail) was pretty entertaining, so he lay there and watched the show.

XXX

He became aware of something else, glancing down at his crotch where a bag of water topped his groin. _How'd that get there?_ Vaguely he recalled moving the one off his eye earlier. _Wasn't there another one on my hand?_ Maybe it was the water, maybe it was something else, but he had to go to the bathroom. He levered himself up stiffly, finally catching sight of the bag on the floor. Holding the one that had been in his lap, he said, "I'll be right back," and made his way to the facilities, shutting the door without locking it. Only as he was in the process of relieving himself did he realize he hadn't bothered with the lock. Nothing happened, so he shrugged it off. The slow process of getting acclimatized to Sylar's presence continued.

XXX

_What? Where now?_ The bathroom was Peter's destination based on trajectory as Sylar watched as much as he could from laying flat on his back with a growing scowl. _Without so much as a 'by your leave'?_ He grumbled. _Better not make a fucking mess, I swear to God._

XXX

He washed up and came out, saying, "I guess I'll get started on dinner. I was gonna make spaghetti." He started past the couch, glancing down at the man. _I should get another ice pack for his leg. _He fetched one from the freezer for Sylar and then headed back to the kitchen to start water boiling.

XXX

Peter didn't take long so the odds of him doing something nasty in there were pretty low. The nurse went to the kitchen, but returned with another ice pack, which Sylar took, "Hmm." He didn't know what to think about all this…treatment. Ice packs, blankets…pajamas, now his favorite meal? _Changing me, sticking around, looking after me, using my bathroom._ He mumbled in sarcasm as Peter retreated,"Cooking for me, too? Marry me?" _I suppose that would imply that you'd have to sleep with me, too. No go, then. _Sylar dragged a disappointed hand through his hair.

XXX


	33. Turnabout

Day 10, Dinnertime

Peter's mind was occupied with lecturing himself for his poor judgment. _If I don't want to be in this situation again, stop doing things that create it. Next time, do not beat the crap out of him. Do not let him beat the crap out of me. _**Run**_**. **_**Away**_**.**__ Do not start fights against someone able-bodied while you have a broken hand and expect things to go well for you. As far as that goes, don't start fights. Just don't._

He sighed at how difficult all of that was, every bit of it, and looked blankly at the directions on the box of spaghetti. He looked from it to the pot of water, worrying that the pot was far too small to hold the appropriate amount of water. But he'd found from experience with boxed mac and cheese that the box lied about how much water was necessary. Peter hoped the same held true for spaghetti.

XXX

Sylar laid the ice on his leg even though he'd rather it be somewhere about his cranium as it hurt far more. He worked at sitting up, a harder task now he'd been lying on his back, feeling strange to be lazing while Peter, anyone was around. He was a bit lost under the blanket, noting the water glass had survived his snooze, setting that aside, trying not to inflict more pain through his thinner…pajamas? _What?_ Sylar frowned down, but before he could complete his mental question of how he'd come to be in this state of (un)dress, it answered itself. His shifting to sit up caused the ice to slide off his leg and he blinked at it.

XXX

He set the table while waiting for the water to boil. He portioned out Sylar's painkillers, along with his own, and set them by the respective plates instead of hiding them until after the meal like he'd done for lunch. He added the decongestants, popping out a high, but not dangerous dose from the packaging, because although he might trust Sylar to take his pills correctly, he didn't trust him to gauge dosage. It was one more possible conflict averted.

"Hey, Sylar, whaddaya want to drink?" he called out, wincing at how that hurt his forehead and his jaw both. He grimaced. _Don't do _**that**_ again either. This is all just a huge, self-inflicted injury. Next time, walk in the other room and ask like someone with manners, Peter_. The sneaking suspicion that the world was trying to teach him a lesson drifted around in his mind. He tried to ignore it.

XXX

Sylar twitched at the sudden, somewhat loud sound over the boiling water and kitchen noises. Wincing, he then scowled at himself and at the out-of-sight Petrelli. _Let the domestic games begin_, he thought with some bitterness before he considered the question. _I already have water…trick question?_ "Uh, mi-," he had to clear his throat to get his voice to carry, "Milk's fine."

After that the cold from the partly-forgotten ice pack was tingling the skin of his flank and he realized that if he'd stayed seated his foot and leg weren't elevated any more. _But Peter's making…dinner. _What an out of place sentence to be thinking at all. He huffed and turned his torso to the side, facing outward to leave his left leg in position as he replaced the ice.

XXX

He poured up the drinks, milk for both of them, set out salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins. The water was finally boiling. He added the spaghetti and found another reason to regret that his watch didn't work. _Oh well, all these clocks are good for something, right?_ He walked out, saying, "I'm supposed to go get the noodles in like, eight minutes." He sat down with a sigh, looking at a clock perched on one of the shelves above the couch, checking the time.

Peter reached down and picked up the previously dropped bag of water and toyed with it absently. His expression was tired and mostly neutral, maybe a little down. He didn't have anything much to say. He just preferred to be sitting out here near someone than alone in the kitchen. Tasks done, he'd gravitated back to the only available humanity.

XXX

Peter emerged after further clattering, sitting in what was now his chair. Sylar hated the familiarity of this scene: his mother tired and frazzled, hovering and fussing about how he was so much stronger than this illness, he had such a tough immune system, he'd be up and about any minute now regardless of any facts that differed with her expert medical, maternal intuitions, blah blah blah. It left him with the acute awareness that he was slacking on the job, being weak, and that the other person (Peter this time, in place of his mother) was falling apart and required him functioning and upright. All this inspired by Peter's subdued limp-and-pout. _The world fucking falls to pieces without me. This dumbass kid can barely run his own life. He wouldn't be taking care of you if he didn't think he needs you so badly. He wouldn't have stopped at 'concussion.'_

"Okay," was all he said, turning over his intended goal to design proper phrasing for it. Peter was quiet and Sylar had nothing to say, so they sat in silence for an awkward (to Sylar) eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. When Peter rose, Sylar pushed off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor, taking a moment to orient before he stood, groaning quietly at his splitting headache. It didn't matter if Peter was bringing the food to the living room or not; Sylar was going to make himself useful in the kitchen beforehand. So not long after Peter made it into the kitchen, Sylar was there, removing his hand from his prop, the wall, to appear more stable even as it compromised his balance. Once in position, he couldn't parcel his desire in a way that didn't make it sound like Peter was in charge of everything, so he stood and waited for directions. Surely Peter would give him something to do?

XXX

Peter looked back at a small sound – a combination of the huff of Sylar's breathing and the faint scuff of the man's hand leaving the wall. _Uh … he should be sitting down._ But Sylar looked steady enough and he wasn't headed for the table. He wasn't headed anywhere, and instead he met Peter's eyes like he was expecting to be addressed. Peter looked away and down at the pot he'd moved next to the sink, holding it by the towel-wrapped handle. He had something more pressing to do than try to herd Sylar to a chair. "Do you have a colander? Or a pasta strainer?" He hadn't thought forward enough to realize he would need one. He didn't even have a lid handy. He was just standing there holding a pan of boiling water and trying to work out what to do with it.

XXX

Sylar nodded and went over beside the stove where he kept the colander, stacked atop various small pots. The noodles smelled normal enough as they boiled, so Peter was handling that much right. He braced a hand on the counter to lean and bend down far enough to get at the tool, exhaling as he straightened up again. Sylar brought it over, figuring that two full grown men crowded into a small kitchen near a still smaller sink with a pot of boiling water and noodles held by a guy with only one good hand was overkill – he set the colander in the sink and moved aside to let Peter pour. He also didn't want to be splashed by any of the hot water, but the idea of steam in his face was kind of appealing. He was glad Peter had given him something to do at all, so quickly and without having Sylar verbalize.

XXX

Pasta draining, Peter looked around blankly. _So what now?_ "Um … Sauce. I left it out earlier." He looked past Sylar, spotting it sitting on the counter. "There it is." He gestured with his right hand at the unopened jar._ I probably should have heated that up already. I had eight whole minutes when I could have done that._ "I guess we microwave it." _I definitely should have done that already. Now the noodles will be cold by the time the sauce is hot_. He felt suddenly inadequate now that Sylar was in here watching him screw things up.

XXX

Sylar looked to the jar. _Ragu_. His gaze turned dubious, but he said nothing. _An Italian using a jarred sauce? That's kinda funny_. Not that he expected Peter to whip up his own family recipe or something. His stomach was perking up despite itself at the idea of spaghetti. Taking the jar in hand, he moved to get a microwave-proof bowl, moving with ease about his own kitchen. Only then did it hit him that Peter was out of his element in someone else's kitchen on top of everything else. So maybe Peter was in need of additional mercy.

Peter couldn't open the jar by himself anyway, what with his hand so Sylar took it in hand, twisting and popping the lid off. He got as far as to pour a healthy amount of tomato-and-spice goodness into the bowl.

XXX

"Hey, I've got this. Just … go sit down." That … was not going to go over well, but he'd already said it. Trying to salvage things, Peter said, "Just sit, and you can tell me what to do." _You'd like that, right?_ he thought hopefully and without any mental sarcasm. "I don't know what I'm doing here, anyway." That last slipped out embarrassingly easy. Peter grimaced and ducked his head, but it was true and he'd already said it. He put left his hand lightly on Sylar's elbow, trying to steer him towards a chair. "Come on. Sit down and gimme directions. Tell me how to operate the microwave." He didn't need more than a passing glance to see that the controls on this one weren't the same as the one he had in his own apartment. He'd rarely used his for anything more than making popcorn.

XXX

Sylar paused, hand still on the bowl. _Seriously?_ He sighed, giving Peter a 'nice try' look of only partially appeased annoyance. It was a wonder he'd learned to cook at all, what with Virginia ushering him from the kitchen and detouring his curiosity; it took him years, in his darker moments when he actually acknowledged it, to figure out that she was actually trying to keep him dependent on her…through cooking. _Too many cooks in the kitchen_. Sylar still hated the implication that he was a good-for-nothing waste of space in the kitchen, especially when he'd just done things Peter physically couldn't do.

Sylar shook Peter's hand from his elbow, half insulted, half pleased about it overall. He sat where directed, grumpy about it. "It's just spaghetti," he stated the obvious. The microwave he'd found (because he hated the fake, loud, off-time new ones with the glaring green lights to keep half the city lit) was probably from the 1950's, complete with a dial instead of buttons and few settings. Lots of experimentation went into how to cook, heat or defrost whatever the food or object of the moment was while keeping the dial on high for optimum results. Why cook it for longer with less power when you could get it done faster?

"Take a paper towel or two," Sylar instructed, pointing beside the fridge where the roll stood, "probably two, put that over the bowl when you put it in. Otherwise the sauce will 'pop' and splash all over inside the microwave and I'll make you clean that up." It was true. "Shut the door and…" he tried to lean around to see what Peter was doing and it offered him a chance to think out the rest of the steps, "Turn the dial for about a minute, minute and a half on high."

XXX

_Yeah, you'd __**try**__ to make me clean it up, _Peter thought with fleeting belligerence as he followed Sylar's instructions, unaware of the contradiction between his knee-jerk defiance and current obedience. He glanced over at where he'd stacked the dishes from lunch next to the sink. _Going to have to clean those, too. But not right now. Maybe tomorrow._

He transferred the pasta back into the pan while the microwave made a mechanical whirring noise, then brought the pan to the table. He hadn't been able to find a pronged serving spoon specifically for spaghetti, but it seemed likely Sylar didn't have one. They both had forks, though, and Peter wasn't all that picky about setting a proper table. He'd roll with whatever others wanted; Peter's own idea of 'acceptable' was pretty broad, especially when the topic was table setting for two guys isolated from all of reality.

He fished out a big spoon from one of the drawers and stood prepared as the microwave dinged brightly. In a weird sort of way, the sound reminded him of Sylar's clocks. There was a similarity here between the busy countdown of the cooking device and the regular ticking of the many timepieces scattered around the apartment. A more modern, electrical model wouldn't have had that parallel. _Huh._ He removed the bowl, making a grunt and a chuff at how hot the edges were and he retrieved the towel he'd used on the pan. Sauce was transferred to table and he hesitated for a moment, stirring absently as he looked to Sylar. "Is there anything else I need to do?" Peter glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the small kitchen. He was pretty sure he was done.

XXX

"Careful," he said when Peter picked up the sauce bowl with his bare hands. He knew that bowl always got hot due to the ceramic and glazing on it, but Peter's noises might have also been from his right hand being pressured. _Well, then, the idiot should have let me help._ Sylar turned in his seat to face the table now, noting Peter's thoroughness in table setting – pills, plates, forks, milk, etc. The pair of pills, obviously different in size if not in color didn't escape him. "No, don't think so." _Just your ass in the chair._

When Peter didn't move to serve himself first, Sylar eyed the pasta pan for a moment, the lack of proper utensil throwing him for a moment. His fork came to hand and he managed to slide the wet, steaming noodles onto his plate with a little bit of lifting, sliding and twisting. Sauce went into the noodles and he began to mix them, not paying a whole lot of attention to his plate, though it smelled delicious.

XXX

Peter sat, waiting for Sylar to serve himself first. He took a drink of his milk and fiddled with his fork until that was done. He portioned out most of the rest of the pasta to himself. It seemed done fine. After quietly demolishing the first third of his food (having turned out to be hungrier than he'd realized), Peter said, "I got some ice cream, too, while I was out earlier." After a brief pause, he went on, "So after dinner … do you think you'd be up for one of those games, or do you want to rest? I could start that puzzle and stay out of your hair." _Or I could wash the dishes … Playing a board game with Sylar never sounded so good,_ he thought wryly.

XXX

He watched Peter while stirring his own plate to see if the nurse could manage serving himself with the brace, but his concern was for naught as Peter managed just fine and tucked in. Sylar went about spiraling his fork to wind up his bites, mostly avoiding slurping messes all over his face. _Just adding to the dirt if I do_. Silence, chewing, and clinking cutlery were the only sounds for a while and it wasn't awkward. The sauce wasn't bad, the noodles were great and he was able to eat more and faster than he had his last meal.

_He got me ice cream, too? Or maybe he got it for himself, that's more likely_. "Oh," he said, surprised, "Cool." _Thank you?_ He was still eating, slowing down not from fullness necessarily or the prospect of ice cream, because he could eat more, but his appetite seemed to fade. Masticating, he thought about the question with a slight frown. Any of those things sounded appealing at the moment, but Peter was still untended, literally limping around the place.

"After dinner I was thinking you need to get your hip and eye looked at." Peter had replaced the too-large band-aid Sylar had placed on his eyebrow and cheek, but how much else had the guy done for himself? Sylar had no way of knowing. If he phrased it as merely a few key points he wanted to inspect and address rather than a whole physical (which he was pretty sure would get shot down in light of the shirt and come-on fiasco that was currently ongoing) Peter was more likely to acquiesce.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar blankly, face devoid of expression as though Sylar had said nothing at all. Peter's body language had something else to say about it though. He looked back down, licked his lips, shifted the set of his shoulders to be slightly hunched and then leaned back a little - all small indicators of discomfort and worry. He took another bite, trying to think of how he should or would react to the prospect of Sylar looking him over. _Well … what he's saying is probably accurate. I __**should**__ have them looked at. But you're the only one here ..._ He found himself running through the exact same paltry excuses that Sylar had used on him earlier: 'They're just bruises!' 'There's nothing you can do anyway!' He frowned at the next bite as though it were the cause of his disturbance.

XXX

Sylar met his gaze for a moment, just as blank and uninterested. He assumed Peter's imagination would be cooking up all the horrors of all the wrong things Sylar could do in an exam. Sylar didn't know much about medicine but he knew a substantial bit about anatomy. Just as casually, he munched on the rest of his plate, sipping his milk along the way.

XXX

Very grudgingly, with far too defensive a tone, Peter got out, "Okay," because he felt like he should say something and he had no legitimate objection, try as he might to find one. Yes, this was Sylar. Yes, he didn't like Sylar. Yes, Sylar was known to hurt people, badly, and he might even take a lot of joy in hurting Peter (more). Yes, Sylar did not have much in the way of medical training. However - Sylar was the only one here; Sylar had already helped him with band-aids and his brace; Sylar had already passed over several opportunities to hurt him; Sylar seemed perfectly competent in matters of first aid, a fact testified to by the very presence of a well-stocked tote of supplies.

XXX

Sylar didn't react other than to show he'd heard Peter in some non-verbal way and go about cleaning his teeth with his tongue even if it hurt a bit.

XXX

Peter sighed and reached up to touch gently at the right corner of his jaw. The strands of spaghetti were very soft, but the constant motion that eating put on his jaw left it a bit sore. He leaned forward and relaxed, unconsciously reversing the withdrawal he'd made earlier. Carefully, like he half thought Sylar might jump on him for admitting a weakness or just for discussing this, Peter said, "I'm not sure what's wrong with my hip, exactly. It hurts in the pelvic girdle, towards the front, left side. It feels like a muscle sprain." He took another bite, chasing the last few noodles to the side of his plate. Then he turned over his fork, done. "It doesn't help that my right thigh still hurts." The collection of aches and pains (as well as staying busy with Sylar's issues) had kept Peter from checking even basic range of motion limitations. This was why he was inadvertently stumbling (sometimes literally) into positions where his body couldn't support him the same as it had before.

XXX

Poking around in his noodles, Sylar was surprised Peter was being so forthcoming. He listened anyway, though, because Peter was the one with the degree and the experience, so it was in both their interests that he absorb it. How much of it he actually understood was up for debate. He gave Peter a glance and nodded.

XXX

Peter sniffed, changing the subject. "You should take your pills. The new ones are decongestants. Maybe it will help with your sinuses." Peter took up his own allotment, slipped them in his mouth and finished his milk. "Wait, do you have any allergies I need to know about?" It seemed like a safe assumption that the food in Sylar's apartment was acceptable, as was anything he'd said was a favorite food. But the decongestants were something new. Before he started dispensing medications, there were some basics he needed to cover.

XXX

_Ah, Peter._ He went from grumping and giving permission to sharing then back to I'm-in-charge nurse. Sylar had reached for the pills and was about to throw them back when Peter stopped him. "Uh…" he tried to think, frowning. Nothing popped into his head that was life-threatening or would turn him into Violet Beauregard and that was good enough for now. He knew decongestants and OTC painkillers were fine. _Cur__are__ and…gly-something_. "Just curare," he informed with a slight smile. With that, he swallowed the pills down.

XXX

Peter gave him an odd look (_'curare'?_), but merely nodded and rose. It wasn't in the decongestant, so he was safe. "You want ice cream now or later?" He put out his hand for Sylar's plate, since the other man was finished, and took it, along with his own, to the sink for rinsing.

XXX

"…Later." _I want to get you figured out first. The limping look isn't so cute on you_. Sylar cut himself off before his mind could swim in the gutter and handed off his plate. "Thanks. It wasn't half-bad, the spaghetti, even if you used the wrong sauce," Sylar chuckled a little. _Then I'd love to take a shower._ He was pretty sure Peter wouldn't do anything, given that he'd had Sylar next to naked while incapacitated earlier, but still. He would be naked in the shower with a guy who broke down doors and enjoyed beating him up. Dishes didn't occur to him, thusly, in his mind, they didn't occur to Peter so he finished his milk and made to stand.

Peter was clearing the table so the excess food was brought to his attention, namely the jar of sauce and the rest of it in the bowl. Sylar took it and the spoon and fed it back into the jar, capping it and throwing it in the fridge. From the pan, he slid the remaining spaghetti into the sauce bowl and looked around. "Saran-wrap?" he asked of Peter, pointing to the correct drawer, "Hmm," when it was handed to him although it quickly devolved into a mess when he tried to take it out and use it.

XXX

Since Sylar was puttering around being useful, Peter took the opportunity to rinse the dishes, including those from lunch. At some point he knew he was going to have to wash them. If that was longer rather than sooner, this would keep them from smelling. It would make them easier to wash, too. He glanced over at the problem Sylar was having, but really didn't think he (Peter) would be much help with that. He had no secrets to making plastic wrap act right, so he just turned away to hide the small smile on his face.

XXX

It stuck to itself, getting tangled about four ways and Sylar remembered that he'd always hated this stuff. Peter wasn't helping so he struggled through it and got the bowl decently (if wrinkled) covered. Sighing, he snapped his fingers once to get Peter's attention before walking slowly back to the living room.

XXX

Peter was dabbing his left hand with the towel to dry it (since he'd kept his right out of the water) when he heard the snapping. He looked over, startled at the sound for two reasons. First, it was unexpected and second, if it was what it sounded like - Sylar snapping his fingers to get Peter's attention - then that was so insulting it was laughable. That was exactly what it was, too. He stared at Sylar, taking a half-second to decide how to react to that. Attention gained, purpose fulfilled, Sylar had already dismissed him as unworthy of looking at and was tottering off towards the living room. He probably missed Peter's expression of 'are you insane?' and 'what the hell was that about?'

_Oh, I ought to take that seriously and be offended all to hell, but that's just so over-the-top … that takes the cake, man!_ Peter felt his stomach clench a few times with laughter that he otherwise tried to suppress. It came out anyway in a sort of partly-stifled chuckle. With an amused exhale, Peter went to the table and pushed in the chairs, then followed Sylar out with a slow shake of his head at Sylar's cheek. The guy had balls, he'd grant him that. 'Lefty, c'mere', Sylar grabbing his jaw so cavalierly at the tail end of their fight the day before, and a handful of other small things ran through Peter's mind.

_Is he joking, or is he serious? Is he joking __**and**__ serious, and just seeing how far he can push before I tell him to cut it out?_ Peter had been razzed by plenty of patients, but that was so much less personal than this. Plus it didn't have the potential to affect his existence, such as it was here, for what might seem like years. But mainly, the finger-snapping had been so casually disrespectful that he simply couldn't pretend that Sylar actually meant it. Even though he'd seen more than one house-servant summoned in that exact manner.

_Sylar has not mistaken me for his servant. I don't buy that. Not for a second._ But it was an amusing way to lighten things up.

XXX

Lo and behold, Peter was obeying. Now that he was, Sylar had to think what to do with him: put him in the chair or on the couch. He sat at the couch and patted it until Peter sat, too, facing mostly forward, both feet on the floor. Sylar looked directly at him, "Get your hip over with then do your eye, yeah? You took a lot of hits," _If I do say so myself_, "we should be doing a head to toe." _But I don't think you'll take your pants off for me, even though that's not my goal. Typical boy who cried wolf, same as always_, he thought ruefully. Sylar wanted to see if Peter would cooperate for a similar exam without being prompted or cajoled or having the obvious trust issue set to rest. His lips pursed as he tried to think how best to go about asking Peter that he needed to see the man's hip. He saw one potential problem in that Peter might not be totally honest with him about the nature of his injuries. If he had to, he would and he probably would, defer to Peter's professional, experienced, certified judgment.

XXX

"Hrm." _A head-to-toe?_ Peter eyed Sylar, who wasn't setting off any alarm bells at the moment. That by itself engendered its own brand of suspicion, but Peter's thoughts moved on. It was a decent question, or proposal, he supposed. "I have a mild concussion. I got hit in the eye, but its fine." As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter snorted at his own ridiculousness and looked to Sylar. Did he agree that was 'fine'? It was swelled shut and purpled - fine! Ha.

XXX

Sylar's brows lowered at that. Even if Peter's eye wasn't damaged, it needed attention now. "If I forget, we're coming back to the concussion part later."_ Because I might not remember._

XXX

"Well, it will be fine, eventually. That'd be a little faster if I'd … rest and ice it more." He reached up with his left hand and felt around it gently, his gaze otherwise getting a little far away as he focused on the sense of touch. Getting the grip right, he peeled up his puffy, distorted upper lid, fighting the impulse to blink. It hurt some, less than one might think given that he could feel what he was doing and choose what hurt least - unlike if he let Sylar do this.

XXX

Snorting, Sylar made an attempt to roll his eyes at the obviousness of that. Peter went about touching at his eye, trying to force it open and that just didn't look like a good idea to Sylar. He winced, but allowed it – it was Peter's face and he was the one who had to deal with it; he was the one with the degree, et cetera. "Incoming," he murmured, bringing his right hand up to touch around Peter's eye socket for now, the contact minimal and gentle. The skin felt hot and angry, swollen, much as it looked and he didn't know what he would be looking for, but nothing felt overly weird. He brushed his thumb over the lid to be sure nothing was wrong with it, then fingered around the bridge of the nose and the lower rim of the socket.

XXX

Peter stopped when he had managed to confirm vision still functioned in it. "I can see. I think the only problem is the swelling." Honestly, before now he hadn't been sure he could even see with it, but he'd assumed he could. He could remember being able to intermittently during the fight. "My jaw …" He touched it, working it slightly and then stopping because that _**did**_ hurt and there was no way to do it that didn't. "It's in and out of joint. Anti-inflammatories are useful. Ice and moist heat would be, too." He went on, thinking through the parts of his body he'd be checking if he was doing an exam. "My mouth's cut on the inside." He thought about his neck as his mind's eye went down his body. "I could use some ben-gay."

XXX

The nurse had moved back by now; Sylar was done with feeling the eye anyway. He said of the eye being able to see, "Good," recalling that it had been on his worry-list that he'd decked the guy too hard – a first. Peter didn't seem inclined to let him examine the jaw again, so he let it pass as the owner gave what sounded like good treatments.

XXX

"A bunch of stuff is sore and hyperextended. A few days of rest followed by gradual stretching is what I need." He was pretty sure there was nothing wrong with his upper back other than bruises. He assumed that had anything been lodged in his skin, that he was sensate and aware enough to have noticed when leaning back in the chair, or taking his shirt off. His lower back hurt on the left side, but he was pretty sure that was connected to the hip issue.

Peter looked down at himself. "My hip hurts, like I described." He reached down to touch, feeling along the outside of his hip bone, then the top of his thigh as he put a little more pressure in it. He grunted and stood up, repeating his examination, this time feeling into his groin through his jeans. He supposed he should take them off so he could get a more accurate feel. He looked at Sylar, trying to judge his reaction as Peter's hand went to his button. Peter couldn't foresee any particular problem with being seen naked by Sylar, except the possibility of juvenile teasing later (or now). Even if Sylar was that immature, Peter couldn't imagine it lasting very long without an audience.

XXX

Watching as Peter stood and probed at (what Sylar assumed was) the injury sight, he only glanced to be sure of the guy's hand placement before he lost interest in the other (im)possibility. Their eyes locked for a moment, Sylar's cognition kicking in a bit late to figure out why, but his face made no changes – why should it? His focus did drop once to see what Peter's hand was doing on his button, obviously unfastening it, but that wasn't important. Strangely, neither was seeing Peter's lower half clad only in drawers. Sure it'd be a nice reference for later, sure it probably looked great aside from the injuries, but he was maybe starting to see why Peter hadn't been all over him during his own exam. They were both tired, banged up and untrusting, none of those things to inspire an intimate mood even for Sylar. (It didn't even occur to him that having Peter in only his underwear might pose additional worries about being sexually used as there was more than one way to go about it.)

XXX

Sylar's expression wasn't anything that warned Peter off, so he took a half step back so he was next to the arm of the couch for balance (and politeness, or even more likely, a semi-instinctive, unacknowledged desire to protect himself - he was out of arm's reach now unless Sylar lunged). He unfastened and pushed down, bunching his jeans around his knees and leaving his underwear on. They were white boxer briefs, clean as of this morning. Peter smoothed his hand over the left side of his groin, face intent. There was swelling along a semi-vertical band - not a lot, he wasn't sure if Sylar could see it or not, but some. "Hm." There were a lot of internal organs blocking him from feeling out the edges of the injury, but he had a pretty good idea of which muscle it was anyway. He craned his neck forward a little and reached over to touch at his right thigh. Where he'd been kicked had turned into a dark and very tender bruise, but it otherwise looked normal.

XXX

Yes, so much for that non-sexuality clause. Sylar understood that Peter moved away, but he also felt an unfairness that the man wouldn't submit to the same process that Sylar had had to endure. His eyes narrowed because he didn't plan to let Peter get away with that, non-practicing medical professional notwithstanding. Down went Peter's pants, around his knees and Sylar was meanwhile blinded by the white of the man's undies. _Huh. I almost expected whitey-tighties from him, given that whole 'zippin' around with my underwear outside my pants' bit. Generally, the undies go down for that act._ He had time to notice Peter's knuckle bandage was wet and flaking away from the skin, clearly it was in need of a fresh one and some cleaning after being exposed to the dishes and cooking.

"Slow down, Peter." _I can't…follow all this_. Sylar extended his right hand, looking up at Peter to clear its proximity, then moved forward on the couch to get closer altogether, placing his hand exactly where Peter had before.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar's approaching hand and frowned at it. He wasn't keen about Sylar touching him, but it was within his limits of allowable. He straightened, bringing his left hand back to his side as he swayed an inch or two to the right, his right hip and buttock contacting the arm of the couch. It gave him just a little more balance. He rested his right hand on the couch as well and otherwise stood quiet and still as Sylar touched him.

XXX

Barely applying pressure, certainly not prodding, Sylar could feel the swelling around the hip socket so Peter's estimate seemed right. "You probably should ice that and keep off it, you know," he said, peering back up to the medic's face. _That's what I'd do, anyway._ He paused, his hand mindlessly still on Peter's hip while he thought. _Peter grabbed pretty close to his groin at first._ "This didn't hit your pubic bone did it? I mean…my hip to your…or something?" he shook his head, frowning to say he didn't find it likely, but wasn't ruling it out.

XXX

"No," Peter answered immediately. He couldn't imagine why Sylar would think he'd racked him or something, but it seemed likely, on reflection, that Sylar's memory of the specifics of the fight were even fuzzier than Peter's. "I fell on the ground. You were falling on top of me. My knee came up before you got there. I don't remember any other of part of you hitting me." _Right then. As far as I remember_. "It wrenched the socket." He made a small gesture towards where Sylar's hand rested.

XXX

"I'd like to see the skin," Sylar delivered simply, indicating the hip and thigh. That was about as much as he'd ask for permission before he went grabbing. Sylar shifted to be more comfortable on the couch, more stable. "Grab my shoulder if you need to." He was now placed almost directly in front of Peter, sitting while the nurse stood with his hand on the hip and with that his fingers reached up for the waistband.

XXX

Peter exhaled sharply in displeasure, lips tight. His brain locked up in what wasn't exactly indecision even if it was a swarm of thoughts competing for front and center in his mind. Suspicion, fear, how this was going to be played later by a taunting Sylar, what Sylar might do **now** to hurt him, how little or how much this might help Peter's situation, it was a harmless exam, his pants were around his knees and getting away was difficult, should he insist on a position for the exam that gave him more mobility like taking his pants off entirely?, what if Sylar just gave him a push and then laughed at him for being so trusting? _Grab his shoulder._ Peter put his left hand solidly on Sylar's shoulder, fingers splayed and thumb resting directly in the indentation behind Sylar's clavicle.

He let Sylar take some of his weight as he leaned forward to see what Sylar was looking at as the other man moved his underwear. _I could take that off entirely …_ But he didn't think that would help. Peter wasn't all that body conscious, but given a choice he'd rather Sylar didn't have the opportunity to know every possible physical attribute Peter possessed. Not that it looked like he had that choice at the moment. His grip tightened on Sylar's shoulder.

There were too many 'what ifs' going on with what Sylar could do next. Peter went back to what he'd started with - trying to discourage Sylar from doing anything (or as much) hands-on as he could by describing his condition. "I think it's the muscle that connects my spine to the femur. My lower back is stiff and killing me, too. If I'm right, then it runs back behind my colon and it's not something you're going to be able to see or get to." _Of course, I might not be right. Which is the point of looking._ "If you'll let me, there's some simple stretches I could do to isolate which muscle group it is." His voice was tense. _Let me go. Get away from me. Let me find out on my own. I'm starting to get upset._

XXX

_He did it._ While he couldn't speak for Peter, Sylar felt better that Peter chose to touch him and brace himself. He noticed the positioning of the man's fingers, if he gripped, it wouldn't fail to hurt and he wondered how intentional that was. Other than that, it felt positively brotherly, almost- Sure enough, Peter squeezed. _Huh_. It didn't deter him, but it made him pause for all of a second.

Sylar thought on that, his left hand going up to Peter's waistband under the navel, not, as Peter surely thought, to pull it down, but to hold it up. His right hand, already under the elastic a bit, pulled it away from the body and down the leg. Given Peter wore boxer briefs, he couldn't just go up the leg or lift away the leg section of fabric to get to the hip socket – he'd have to pull it down further than Peter had had to for Sylar's hip. He had some sympathy, hence holding up enough of the underwear to preserve Peter's modesty even though pubic hair, trimmed, made an appearance. _Interesting_…That would surely be scrutinized later when he could think.

His patient was still speaking so he listened while he worked. _If I'll let you?_ "It won't matter much right now," he delegated about muscle groups. If Peter was right, then there wasn't anything either of them could do to get to the muscle(s). The socket revealed (as near as he could tell) was neither red nor swollen, nothing was broken or bleeding. "I'm gonna touch around your side to your back to see, okay? Then we'll see about stretching if you want." _Stretching is always good unless __it's__ torn, right?_

XXX

Peter tried to find a way to grind his teeth that wasn't painful. At this he failed and so after several false starts, he stopped hurting himself. Sylar had turned down his admittedly indirect request to be allowed to handle this himself. In response, Peter's grip on Sylar's shoulder tightened again and Sylar deadpanned an 'ow'. Peter didn't say anything, but he lightened up fractionally. He was standing very stiffly, breathing harder and stressing out. His head and right hand throbbed in time with his heart. This wasn't about the groin thing. Peter couldn't think well enough at the moment to know what it was about, but he didn't want Sylar touching him - not this much and not this way, but he couldn't work out what was wrong with it.

XXX

Sylar ran his hand slow and flat under the shirt and over the warm, soft skin of Peter's oblique, staying close to the hip socket. "Tell me if any of this feels tight or hurts." All he was doing was feeling the guy up, really; it wouldn't help any, but neither of them had any way of knowing otherwise. Besides, if he found something new, it might help Peter's semi-annoying self-diagnosis because Sylar sure as hell knew precious little of fixing the human body.

XXX

The slide of Sylar's hand across his skin made everything tense up. Peter's jaw spasmed despite his attempt not to flex it. His hand and his head ached. He grunted at the pain and shifted his weight in a futile attempt to escape it. His pants took the opportunity to slide over his knees and partly down his shins before he caught them by shifting his stance to spread his legs slightly. Sylar's touch tingled, like there was an electric charge somehow in his hand. Peter didn't understand it, but it was hardly the first thing that had happened in his life that had no explanation. He tried to focus on what Sylar had asked, but the words were ridiculous. Everything was tight. Most of it hurt. "Nn." He just wanted Sylar to go away and quit touching him. His brain was full of pain and static.

XXX

When Sylar got around to the man's back his fingers began to add pressure, his gaze sightlessly focused on Peter's midsection while he worked. He worked towards the spine where his fingers eased up on the pressure, but it didn't dissipate completely. His fingers then circled around Peter's spinal ridges, when that didn't hurt, his touch got firmer, aiming for the muscles this time. "Anything?" He stopped to ask, swallowing as he realized it put him closer to Peter, his headache was unappreciative and he was basically fondling Peter's back…for a good cause.


	34. Complete Physical

Day 10, Evening

"Anything?" Sylar stopped to ask, swallowing as he realized it put him closer to Peter, his headache was unappreciative and he was basically fondling Peter's back…for a good cause.

XXX

Sylar started … rubbing him. And all the frightened, angry, emotionally-knotted tension started to bleed away, leaving Peter feeling woozy. His death grip on Sylar's shoulder slackened and he leaned his weight forward more with a subtle and entirely unintentional shift of his back towards the motion. His brain started working again, coinciding with the point where Sylar probed at the erector muscles on the side of his spine. _That feels way, __**way**__ better than it should_. For a few quiet seconds, he let it go on; feeling the pleasurable surcease of pain and the evaporation of whatever upset had been drowning him. Filling that vacuum was the wonderful feeling of a set of warm, massaging fingers working on muscles that were sore just from general participation in yesterday's fray. Then, _No_.

Abruptly, Peter's hand left Sylar's shoulder and gripped Sylar's forearm, gentle but firm. "No. No. That doesn't hurt, but you're gonna stop." He was very certain of that and his voice carried that certainty. He would not let Sylar make him feel better. Not that much. Not like that. He pulled Sylar's hand from him and pushed him back slowly. "Gimme some space here."

XXX

Sylar inhaled at being grabbed, not as hard as he expected (not really hard at all); his hand twitched once, then lay flat and still on the man's back. He leaned away and looked up at Peter, suddenly remembering that he might actually get socked for that. _No?_ A mental giggle went up in his head. _No what?_

His brows lowered because concussed or not he was not happy to be told no. _'You're gonna stop', oh, is that how you think it goes? You're hardly in a position to stop me. It's for your own damn good._ "I'm not doing a-" he started before Peter demanded space. Sylar's jaw set as his hand was moved away, but the push was what really pissed him off. _I wasn't touching anything!_ It made him want to punch Peter in the kidney or smack his left hand away.

XXX

Peter said, "You can't feel the psoas major back there anyway. It's overlaid by a different set of muscles." _Not that that didn't feel good … really good … but no. No._ Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. Right hand on the arm of the couch, he reached down with his left to retrieve his fallen pants. He gave Sylar a glance as he bent, trying to gauge the man's reaction to Peter putting on the brakes.

XXX

Sylar glared at him, rolling his well-gripped shoulder away. "Then you should have said so before," _Before I started feeling you up, not on purpose. _His was voice snappish and quick, but he slumped down in the couch, making it clear it was of his own desire to. _Damn idiot won't take care of himself and won't let me do it, what does he fucking expect?_ Sylar rubbed at his eye socket, trying to ease some of his headache or sinus pressure and ignore Peter long enough to cool down a bit. He wasn't angry about being told to back off necessarily, the pushing was what got him going but even that, sadly, wasn't completely negative. Peter was presenting a challenge, throwing down the gauntlet, daring him to fix him almost. He just had to wait.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar leaned back and then glanced down at his jeans, catching the highest point of the garment. He felt a wash of vertigo and had the humorous mental vision of falling head first into Sylar's arms_.__ That would be difficult to explain_. He stood slowly so as to make sure that did not become a reality. "I wasn't sure it was the … still not sure," he finished lamely. _But there's nothing on my back there that's causing me to limp around. Stand funny, yes, but not …_ He had the mental equivalent of a sigh as he fastened his jeans. _That felt really good, though. _Peter grumbled at himself, complete with faintly audible noises.

XXX

_What were you doing? I don't even know. That was really stupid of you, practically massaging him like that. I…wasn't paying attention, just trying to help. I can touch people and be helpful just like he can. Now we're both upset because he didn't speak up. How was I to know that? I said as much and asked twice. _He was ignoring how Peter felt, desperately trying to ignore the sensation of that much skin under his hands and how Peter's hand felt grasping his arm like that. It was still tingling hard through him. _Enacting the no-touch rule early, I see. _"You need a complete physical, Peter," he dropped his hand to look at his companion steadily, his anger on the back burner. "Same as me."

XXX

Peter moved over to the other end of the couch. Roughly the other end - actually it was most of a third of the way from the end, which featured Sylar's pillow if Peter needed to give some excuse why he didn't sit as far away as he could from Sylar. Not that he would - sit as far away at the moment, or give an excuse. He was more likely to say the exam wasn't necessarily over (though it might be - Sylar had said eye and hip; these had been checked, at least partially on the hip); though yeah, Peter knew the real reason was that Sylar's touch had felt really good and he wasn't inclined to move too far away from that at the moment. That such positioning was pointless if Peter wasn't going to take Sylar up on it had nothing to do with it; it was like looking at a picture of a loved one you couldn't embrace. The idea of comfort was comforting by itself.

Peter looked over at Sylar's words, then copied the other man's body language for the most part - slumping back against the couch and reaching up to rub lightly at his left eye. Peter dropped his hand with the same put-out exasperation he was reading from Sylar. Now _this_ - Peter was doing this intentionally, just because it amused him. Sylar was being melodramatic in Peter's opinion, plus Peter was kind of subconsciously high on having asserted a boundary with Sylar and having that taken well. Or well enough. It occurred to him that Sylar might not appreciate his humor, or might find it mocking. _I should stop. What was he saying - I need a physical, huh?_

XXX

Sylar's eyes turned into slits. _He'd better not be doing what I think he's doing; little shit. Concussed or not, I will smack your ass, Petrelli._ At least Peter wasn't copying him verbally. He waited to see it the annoying-as-hell behavior continued. It didn't.

XXX

"Okay. I agree." _Not sure I want to let you do one. Don't want you touching me. I should probably tell him that._ His mouth opened to say something, but he couldn't think of how to phrase it. Instead, he frowned and lifted his right knee, bringing it vertical without too much trouble with his torso, leaned back as it was. The thigh hurt from where he'd been kicked, but it didn't keep him from flexing it. He let it drop slowly and repeated with his left. Or at least tried to repeat, grimacing and giving a slow grunt as it hurt the higher he moved it. He got it up to about forty-five degrees before giving it up. _Yep, that muscle - hip flexor, adductor, psoas, ilia-something - one of those. Probably the psoas major. I think that's the big one. _Sighing, he volunteered, "I tried to do stairs last night, when I went out. I was still pretty messed up. Got down one flight before I had to find the elevator. Couldn't get up 'em at all. I suppose I could if I _**had**_ to, but a one-legged man can get up stairs, too, if he's determined about it."

He looked over at Sylar. "What's this 'complete physical' involve?"

XXX

Sylar gave a grunted hum of approval. _Last night? When were you climbing stairs…What was last night?_ He watched Peter stretch and flex around, cheerful and childlike. And not paying attention. _One-legged- ah, who the fuck cares_. His gaze came up to meet the other's. _That's a good question, Sylar. Hoo boy…I'm out of my league. Helping people? Not my thing, Petrelli, you may have noticed._ "Checking out your injuries," Sylar said bluntly, keeping constant eye contact, "Same as you did for me." _It's only fair. You wan walk me through it…you'll probably have to. _"Visually at the very least." A concession. _I have to fucking police your own self-care? I don't think you'll do it if I don't. I dunno, man, I'm not all here right now._

"Your concussion? What did you do earlier for me…check your back for glass – you landed then got slammed," he tried not to smirk at his unintentional wording. "Um…your knee was scraped up, your elbows might be, too. Your bandage is coming off your hand," Sylar pointed at it. _Think, try to think. I hate this feeling like he's…watching me, waiting for a mistake but he won't take over, no, he wants to watch me fail. Have to impress him with this shit that he knows I don't know._

XXX

Peter frowned at the bandage on his left hand. It did look kind of messed up. He wiggled his fingers together and realized it was wet as well. _How the hell did that get wet? Dammit. I'll look at that later. Fine. He has a point_. Peter sighed. _And I might as well see what I can teach him to do. This isn't going to be our last fight, that's for sure. Would he take care of me if our positions were swapped? Well … if he doesn't know how, then he _**can't**_**.**__ But if I showed him how … he might._

Peter sat up to a more proper posture, reaching up to rub at his jaw again. "Okay. Let's see. First thing any emergency responder should do is assess the ABCs. I went over those before - Airway, Breathing, Circulation." _Well, assuming the scene is safe and everything. I think I'll skip that and focus on the exam he wants to do. _"If your patient is breathing, looks able to continue breathing, and has some blood circulation going, then you do a head-to-toe exam. What I did with you earlier was backwards, toe-to-head, but I was at your feet already and it doesn't matter too much as long as you're thorough. The reason to start with the head on someone when you don't know their condition is because that's …" He looked at Sylar, then glanced at his forehead briefly, thinking about the man's interest in people's brains. "That's the most important part." _As you obviously know._ He looked back at Sylar's eyes. Peter's expression was serious and at least at this point, nonjudgmental.

XXX

_Interesting._ Sylar hadn't asked for assistance, or a rundown or even a 'WWPD?' but he was getting one, slowly but surely. _My patient?_ Sylar's lips quirked a noticeably. _That would be you, Peter. You wanna play doctor? If you can't breathe, do CPR? _He wanted to get the ball rolling as Peter was throwing a lot of (as he saw it) useless information at him. _Not that I'd remember a whole lot of it anyway, the way things are going. _Sylar gave him a very pointed stare, just waiting for Peter to say something, but he didn't. _The brain doctor, I see. _His face was getting a real workout today, glaring and narrowing his eyes and frowning.

XXX

Peter gestured at his own body parts as he described the route of the exam. "You start with the head. You go systematically down the torso, then the legs, then the arms. Whole body, even the parts you don't expect to have injuries. Even if the patient says they don't have injuries there. Even if they look at you like you're an idiot for checking. Check the whole patient, every time." He was pretty sure he was repeating nearly verbatim something his teachers had told him. Sylar's description earlier of what he wanted to check was all over Peter's body, haphazardly. An exam was a lot more effective if it had a pattern and stuck to it.

"All over, you're going to be looking for deecap-ballistics. Um … well, D-C-A-P-B-L-S-T-I-C." He hesitated. It was a long acronym, branded into his brain by repetition, but even as a paramedic, he couldn't recall what all the letters stood for. "Erm, never mind. You're looking for abnormalities, injuries, wounds, that sort of thing. You're also looking for blood, fluid and foreign objects. So for the head - go over the skull, feel of it, check for soft spots and firmness. Then look at the face. Check for facial stability, look at eyes and pupil reaction. Talk to your patient. Assess orientation and alertness."

XXX

Sylar was pretty sure he looked lost now. _I need to take notes. Can I even write like this, now?_ Peter moved on and he was relieved, focusing on drinking in what Peter said about head injuries because they'd probably get popular around here.

XXX

He waited a few moments, thinking over what he'd said, what Sylar had said earlier, Sylar's expression thus far, and what Peter was trying to achieve here._ I need to do this in sections. His retention is going to suck. Break it up with physical activity and hands-on. That's what they always did in the classes I liked_. "Okay," Peter said, perking up since he had a plan. "Head-to-toe, start with the head. Look for blood and any other damage. You said earlier you wanted to check my concussion." Peter turned his torso towards Sylar and dipped his head, more or less presenting it for examination. He was pretty sure he could handle touch that was straight-forward and not quite so … friendly. "Go ahead and check."

XXX

_I thought that I wanted to check your hair…Head! Check your head! Yes_. Sylar blinked at being presented such a rare and important opportunity. Sylar scooted closer, not that he needed to move much, but he wanted to see what he was doing. His hands lifted and began to reach out, pausing halfway. A faraway thought floated by that this might be a trick question or a fluke, a joke maybe. Peter couldn't hurt him with his head unless he tried to head-butt him again, maybe bite his hands – being wary when Peter was putting his head literally in his hands was useless. And oh-so ironic. He really hadn't thought this out. How could Peter Petrelli be even vaguely comfortable letting Sylar feel up his head? He wrote it off for now as one of those things he needed to think on later.

To the task at hand: _Where did he get hit exactly?_ Sylar's fingers inched to Peter's temples, stuck between caressing into the hair to avoid pain and using his fingertips as feelers. _Wow. His hair is…nice._ He swallowed and tried to stay focused as his fingers moved behind the ears towards the neck, feeling nothing abnormal. Just…silky, live, human hair. This was tripping him in so many ways – Peter's smell and shampoo this close, body heat and a pulse; all this after Peter had grabbed his hips, shoulder and arm. The nurse, usually so touchy with everyone but his enemies, sure didn't seem to notice those things. Sylar didn't care; it was delicious and long overdue. His hands went to the top of Peter's head and began to test there, this time going straight to the axis of the neck and spine, aiming for what he assumed was the impact site.

XXX

Peter made a slight noise as Sylar's fingers crossed a spot that was sore. The guy was probably touching too lightly to have felt it – a very shallow hematoma and the heat from an irritated section of scalp at the very back of Peter's head. Peter reached up with his left hand and indicated the spot. "Here. I hit my head on the pavement here after you landed on me. I'd already hit the ground, for the most part, so I don't think I hit very hard, but right there." He pointed, digging through the hair with the casualness one used on one's own body. "You can feel it's a little hotter, a little puffy." Maybe he could show Sylar what to look for and that would help ... somehow.

XXX

"Oh. Yeah, okay," Sylar agreed when he went back and felt the spot Peter showed him. _Peter's so funny. He knows it's there, he knows where it is, but he's still gonna let me find it? Maybe even overlook it?_

XXX

He was beginning to get the impression that Sylar was feeling him up. There was something about the gentle, careful way Sylar was moving his hands, running them through his hair and skimming over his scalp. It was nothing at all like the utilitarian pokes and prods Peter was accustomed to, and he _was_ more or less accustomed to it. His nursing classes had included plenty of hands-on and his paramedic training, which he had to take classes yearly to stay certified, required even more. The cheapest and easiest 'dummy' patients were one's classmates, so nearly every exam and procedure they did was tested and practiced on one another. The more invasive ones were simulated, but you still got to lay on the backboard and have a pair of EMTs move you around.

That was not the way Sylar was touching him now. Peter's mind suddenly put together what he'd been so upset by just earlier, with the way Sylar had been feeling around his hip and back. Peter's brain had been trying to tell him this was okay, it was normal, but his subconscious, his empathy, or something else, had known better. Stroking, sliding hands across his skin, caressing, rubbing gently – Sylar hadn't been trying to find where it hurt. He'd been … doing something else. Gooseflesh pimpled across Peter's forearms. He sniffed and shifted his feet nervously, trying to figure out what, if anything, he should do.

XXX

"Nothing's open so no bleeding. No bumps or soft spots," Sylar repeated back, loath to withdraw his hands, but Peter's head came up, looking expectant. _Right_. Sylar inspected first one eye, then the other, doing his best to gauge the hazel iris's dilation. "Your eyes look even to me." He put a finger on Peter's jaw to turn his head to the side so Sylar could see the cut over his eyebrow but a bandage covered it so he assumed it was alright enough. _See how much better this is now you're cooperating, Peter?_ His thumbs went to the guy's cheekbones, then his nose because he had no idea what he was supposed to be checking here, but they seemed likely spots that might've been damaged as contact points for his fists. Next the bridge of his nose and on to the forehead, his touch only deep enough to feel the bone and passing by.

XXX

Sylar's touches were a little more practical on Peter's face, but then again, Peter was looking straight at him so maybe that put him on better behavior. _He knows I'm not into him. He knows that. Right? This is just … just him taking the opportunity_. Peter sniffed again and flexed his shoulders, feeling awfully stiff across them and a little warm-faced. He did not, as yet, resent Sylar's … interest, or whatever this was. _What would I do if I thought I'd been alone for three years and here's some guy who …? First thing he did when I showed up was touch me. _Peter's expression relaxed from the tense, wooden look it had adopted since he'd lifted his head for the facial exam.

"Um," Peter hemmed, raising his hands and looking at them. He was undecided about what to do: minimize contact altogether, or show Sylar how to check his face properly? He exhaled, blinked a few times, and decided to do the right thing. Sylar was not, in actuality, doing anything inappropriate. That his intentions might be wasn't something Peter wanted to dwell on.

He spoke in a 'teaching' voice, plain and somewhat disinterested. "You need to be using more pressure when you touch. You're not tr-, um, you shouldn't be trying to make me feel good. You're trying to find out if I'm injured. It sucks, but hurting your patient a little is required. You can't always trust what someone self-reports about their condition, so you poke, you prod, and you watch for reactions." He lifted his hands towards Sylar's face, keeping them low so as to avoid the impression he might be going for the forehead. "I'll demonstrate, okay?"

XXX

While he knew this wasn't what Peter was trying to say, his first thought was, _You want me to hurt you?_ And a whole side order along those lines before _Well, he did hurt me. He didn't baby me._ Sylar blinked when Peter made the same move on him. _You want to…touch my face? Okay_, His expression loosened and he moistened his lips, moving into easier reach, _I won't bite_.

XXX

Peter put his right hand behind Sylar's head, touching it only a little. "Now stay put, there." He used his right to keep Sylar from swaying backward from what he was going to do. With his left, he splayed his fingers with index on Sylar's nose, middle on his cheekbone, ring finger and pinkie in front of the ear, with the thumb on the side of Sylar's stubble-strewn chin. Peter pressed and moved his fingers back and forth once before pulling them away, as well as dropping his right hand back to his side.

XXX

Sylar choked on a chuckle and ducked his head when Peter released him, that he had to hold him at all was amusing by itself, but this…His sense of humor was usually off-the-cuff, but now it was off the wall. _I'm so out of it. _"Yeah, okay." Peter's fingers had been calloused and warm, the pressure firm and almost uncomfortable, strange on his face.

XXX

"Like that. I can't really do it on the right side – my hand's jacked. But you have to press enough to see if the plates move." Peter glanced up at Sylar's forehead, then down at his eyes. "You do the same thing with your fingers on the bridge of the nose to the temple, across each brow, with your thumb under the nostrils. Just enough of a push to make sure everything's seated right." That one he did not try to demonstrate, not wanting to push his luck.

The back of Peter's mind pointed out traitorously, _He really is good-looking. Even all bruised up and with his hair sticking out like that._ He felt like his face was heating again.

XXX

Looking back to Peter, he noted the man's discomfort. _Don't know why I'm bothering to check his face beyond that it's a nice one and it's clearly unbroken._ Sylar raised his hands again, mimicking Peter's finger position, pressing and shifting slightly. Of course, everything was fine, hmm hmm. _Cheekbones check…_He moved on as Peter suggested and from the guy who'd been inside a telepath's body to the guy who supposedly had telepathy, the whole Star Trek/Carnival angle was tickling his funny bone awfully again. _This is where I push the thought of stripping and making-out into your head, Peter Petrelli. Do not attempt resistance._ Fingers walking up the temple, which he'd already checked, they went up over Peter's eyebrows to palpate the forehead. _Yup, just as thick as we all remember it to be._ Sylar mimed knocking on Peter's skull, "If you hear hollow echoes that means something's wrong," he delivered straight-faced.

XXX

Peter smiled and pulled back from the playful gesture, not sure how he wanted to take that under the circumstances. _Okay._ _He's, uh … might not be making a pass at me right this second … or maybe he is … but yeah. Definitely interested. Friendly. Or brotherly. Nathan's memories?_ Oh, yes - that. Peter stiffened a little, the remembrance that 'oh, yeah, this is your brother's killer you're dealing with here,' doing wonders to clear up any confusion he'd been starting to feel.

Dull ache and simmering anger - for now well buried - impinged on his awareness. _Leave it alone. Don't think about it. It's not his fault._ Obviously, Peter meant it wasn't Sylar's fault for bringing that particular angle up at the moment. Nathan's death was his fault, but Peter was capable of putting that aside. If he weren't, he'd have never ended up inside Sylar's peculiar head-space.

_Distract. Move on._ "Okay," Peter said, leaning back some and hoping Sylar copied his body language. He gestured to his throat, trying not to think of the slit in Nathan's or who had stitched it shut (that part almost certainly wasn't Sylar's doing - Peter suspected an agent of his mother's, but that was an entirely different can of worms he didn't want to open). "Next is the throat. You don't press on it, or prod. Examine visually, clear off clothing if there is any. It's important to see the entire throat. Look for respiration motions. Then reach behind, both hands, and briefly palpate the back of the neck, checking for vertebral alignment and integrity. Again - don't use much pressure here. Things are too delicate to risk it." He swayed back and gestured an invitation at his throat, averting his eyes and expecting Sylar to at least go through the motions.

XXX

Something in him declared '_Jackpot!_' when Peter stated that the throat was next. Peter's throat, no less. It was a truly fine specimen – unshaven, lithe in appearance and soft from what he remembered. Of course he also remembered wrapping unseen hands around it and watching Peter choke and gasp for oxygen. _Good times. These just might be better._ Sylar licked his lips and smirked lightly, bringing his hands to the proffered throat. _Delicate, yes. You nearly have a woman's throat except for your voice box._ It secretly amused him to know that puberty hadn't spared Peter a few horrors either. "Hmmm," was his hum of approval, one he tried to change into a sound of agreement or thinking aloud. His thumbs came to rest on Peter's windpipe, amazed he was being allowed this and with so much knowledge to go along with it. The fingers ran over that section of neck because Peter was right. Sylar murmured from his crouched, seated position to be able to see, "Did you know that pushing hard when you shave and dropping your head back suddenly can damage your trachea and your voice?"

He went on to barely pressing over the neck itself, running a pair of knuckles over both sides of Peter's jaw to be sure that was intact (he was pretty sure it was), encountering stubble, and last was feeling the jugular which, almost surprisingly, given the situation, was beating normally near as he could tell. Around the back he went, this time going right to the spine, some of it buried under Peter's hair – nothing was out of place after a brief probing.

XXX

Peter stiffened, trying to settle between glowering, looking away, and acting unaffected. His face twitched, but no clearly recognizable emotion came of it. He'd expected to have the back of his neck touched and maybe the sides by necessity. Thumbs on his trachea were right out, unless Sylar was trying to classify that as 'looking for respiration motions'. And to what would the guy attribute stroking his jaw and everything else? He wanted to push Sylar away, but he suppressed it. The only reason he was finding this so irritating was because it was Sylar. Had he been walking anyone else through the process and they got too touchy, even if he thought they were putting moves on him, he wouldn't have minded. But it was just … Peter didn't know what to do with Sylar sometimes. Or a lot of the time. He was grateful for Sylar's comment as a distraction, if nothing else.

He cleared his throat and went on, "Usually this is when EMTs give a person a c-spine collar no matter what, just in case, and then we let the hospital decide if your neck and spine are stable enough to do without it. If it ever comes up that you think I have a neck or spinal injury, leave me laying there. Go get blankets or whatever else to make me comfortable where I'm at. If you absolutely have to move me, try to support my neck, like with a rolled up towel."

He glanced down. Next was torso, obviously. "I'm going to skip over a little of the exam part here because it's irrelevant, but I'll describe it. On the torso the main thing you look for, other than surface abnormalities, is lung and heart sounds. Generally that's with a stethoscope. There's a bunch of specific points to listen at and what's being listened for, but …" _Well, maybe we should just avoid body blows when beating each other up? And no more head shots. Or hands. And feet are important, too. And joints are tricky. So what's that leave? Thighs, biceps and butts. Well, nice to know that kicking his ass isn't out of the picture._

XXX

Sylar nodded, for once believing Peter and not assuming that he was being slighted because he couldn't manage or reason out a thorax exam properly. Besides, Peter was nothing if not known for his heart, surely it beat as hard as it always did.

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I showed you abdominal palpation earlier. I'm going to skip that, too, because there's a lot of things you're feeling for there that I don't want to get into right now." _Too detailed. You won't remember. And I think I'd come unglued if you caressed my stomach again like you did earlier._ "So for now, look for surface abnormalities, distension, cuts or punctures, and leave off with the probing until you know what you're feeling for."

XXX

Sylar frowned when Peter said to skip even letting him so much as glance at the chest and abdomen. Off the top of his head, he couldn't recall landing any body hits, but that was irrelevant. Huffing, he reached for the hem of Peter's shirt, lifting it to send a cursory scan from sternum to waistband. All he saw of note was a few faded bruises on a pectoral, other than that the skin was pristine. _Peter's probably right to hide this body – look at it_, Sylar thought sourly, dropping the shirt just as casually as he'd raised it. Luckily, feeling scrawny next to the hulk of muscle on his couch served to kill any interest he would have had at the sight.

XXX

Peter jerked and stiffened again at his shirt being pulled aside, chest raising somewhat as he sucked in air preparatory to doing … something. His left hand stirred, not sure what he was going to do though because Sylar's expression was nothing that reinforced the hostile reaction the assumptive grab had set off. Unfueled, said reaction died a natural death a few seconds later as Sylar let go of the shirt. Belatedly, Peter made a motion as if to bat the garment out of the man's hand, taking his shirt and tugging it back down while he gave Sylar a 'do you mind?' look.

_Swinging on Sylar, here in the middle of trying to show him how to do an exam, is really stupid. Chill. Chill, Pete._ He chewed his upper lip briefly and admitted, "Yeah, you're right to look anyway. One of my teachers used to say, 'Your patient should always be able to trust you, but you should never trust your patient.' Same reason why I wanted to see your hip." He huffed, trying to ignore all the qualifiers his mind wanted to put on the situation, like how he was an EMT and Sylar was concussed. Plus, you know, Sylar. None of that was helpful so he moved on.

"You usually do the back last in a head-to-toe, so next are the hips. Check for stability like I did before." Peter tensed a little. He'd managed to get past the core of his body without inviting a lot more touching, but the pelvic check was definitely hands-on, just like the face. "Put your hands here." He reached out to guide Sylar on where exactly to grip on a sitting person. "Push, then rock laterally an inch or two. The pelvic girdle is a frame. The whole thing ought to move at once. And pay real close attention to the patient's response. Sometimes something will hurt inside when you do this, and it will feel stable in your hands, but the patient will hurt. You've got to watch for that. So: hands on hips, look at the patient's face, push, rock, and you're done."

_And don't feel me up._

XXX

This time Sylar couldn't help but send an amused look up to Peter. _W-whoa…uhh_…Sylar's breathing jacked into higher gear as his hands were once again grasped and led to Peter's hips. His face prickled with heat, too, because this just didn't happen…well, at all. "Just rock your world, rock the boat, I got it," he muttered to himself from interested embarrassment, his head ducked down, now having to combat worries of Peter fucking _giving_ him an erection during Peter's exam. He didn't grip much, but managed to look up enough to watch Peter's face for this part as he was supposed to, inching the hips left and right a few times after a push. His patient was awful relaxed about this whole affair. It was just making Sylar's skull pound and ache more from all the excitement.

XXX

_Well, ideally your patient doesn't think you're getting off on the procedure. That's kind of a big problem, there. But …_ Peter sighed a little as Sylar withdrew. _I'm dealing with a serial killer who thinks he's been trapped alone here for years. And then there's everything else that's happened. To him. And to me_. He noticed Sylar was coloring. It made his bruises stand out more sharply. Now that he'd noticed that, he was pretty sure Sylar was breathing harder, too. _Awkward and embarrassing equals potentially dangerous._ "Um," he said as he pushed himself upright with difficulty from the low couch. "I'm going to go get a drink of water. Just a short break. You want anything while I'm in there?" Peter gestured in the direction of the kitchen as he headed there.

XXX

Glancing around to see if he had need of anything, Sylar spotted his water glass as Peter moved away, miraculously still full and standing, on the floor beside the couch. "No," he answered and shook his head. _At least, no more help than you can give someone as fucked up in the head as me. _That he'd been blushing and embarrassed over touching a man's hips, touching Peter's hips was a new low and he knew it was only going to get worse. It was going to twist him all up and spit him out as an even more deranged, disturbed person. In a backwards way, Sylar was relieved at taking a break – he had the feeling he'd do something they'd both regret, something Peter might not forgive, if it continued that minute. The rest of him was a needy, greedy, envious ball of screeching nerve endings, all blaming Peter for his teasing permissions.

XXX

He didn't do anything other than get the stated drink, change the scenery and settle his nerves. He came back, leaning on the frame of the kitchen entry. "You've already seen my hips and my thighs." Peter hesitated, thinking over what he'd do to a patient who had his injuries. A moment later, he spoke his thoughts out loud, speaking slowly. "If I were treating someone with my injuries, and I knew I couldn't hand them off to the emergency room staff who would reperform the test anyway … and if I didn't see any danger signs for hip stability and I knew they'd been walking around for a day … I'd say it was just a couple muscle sprains and go on. But I'd want to look at the knee again in case it needed to be wrapped." He frowned sourly and looked down at his pants. He really didn't want to strip again. Not with the realization that Sylar was into him. Or whatever. But they weren't loose enough pull up without a lot of effort. Even if Peter had both hands, the leaning over wasn't something he seemed able to manage without a lot of vertigo.

He looked up at Sylar, wanting badly to ask him if he was going to be able to behave himself this time around. He didn't ask, though. Instead, he waited for some affirmation, comment or direction, hoping to be told what to do and take the decision (and responsibility therefore) out of his hands.

XXX

Given time to calm down (and he had needed to), Sylar hoped his blush had faded, but he doubted it. Peter had a funny look on his face, after that cranky frown, Sylar saw when the nurse came back (sort of). Sylar had since gotten more comfortable; thinking that maybe as he wound down, so would his headache. Tending to the knee was not a big d- Or was it a big deal? It was his turn to make a face now because this might mean he'd have to take a knee. Problematic physically as well as socially; it might give Peter ideas and Sylar didn't necessarily want to follow through on. "You wanna do that next or after your…" _Crap, what was next again?_ "Back?" _And his hand, yeah_. His face was a little dubious, questioning. The mental energy was leaving him; hell of a time to do it, too.

XXX

A dodge was offered; a delay in taking his pants off again. Peter seized on it. He looked down at his leg again and said, "Back, first. It's usually last, but that's because in general your patient is on the ground or a stretcher." And if they weren't, the EMTs were probably trying to get them that way for transport. He didn't think any of that mattered to Sylar and so after another moment of hesitation, Peter walked over to where he'd sat before, on Sylar's right.

For the moment, Peter just stood in front of the couch, tugging at his shirt and shuffling his feet in indecision. He didn't want to take it off entirely and that had very little to do with Sylar's touchiness. Peter's back was stiff and sore, along with his neck. He'd landed on his back solidly once with Sylar's weight driving him down, and none-too-gently a second time when Sylar had come up off the ground and bowled Peter over. Plus, a lot of his muscles were pulling funny in an attempt to compensate for the sprain in his hip and keep his posture reasonably correct.

He exhaled and raised the shirt up to his armpits, then turned and lowered himself to sit on the couch, back towards Sylar. He held the shirt up in front with his right hand while his left reached over his left shoulder. Peter grimaced as his fingers scrabbled to gather up the cloth and expose himself.

XXX

Up the shirt went and it looked almost like a difficult task given how Peter was moving. Or maybe that was just due to fear. Still, something about the submissive nature of Peter doing it at all was entertaining him. All he was really doing was submitting to a half-assed medical exam because Sylar was sure he could give a better one without a concussion. Sylar helped lift the shirt when Peter reached over his shoulder to yank it up, his thumb brushing skin briefly. The back Peter displayed was muscular and almost tan, but it was littered with a variety of bruises, scrapes, and a few rather small, round punctures. The largest bruise was pretty circular, disappearing up under the shirt on Peter's left side, near the shoulder blade, but even that wasn't a black-n-blue. Sylar laid a few fingers beside it, "Where'd you get this?" _Don't tell me you backed into a pole or something stupid. He did land hard; that's why you're checking him. Maybe he landed on a rock…?_

XXX

Peter felt Sylar's fingers brush his own as he helped push up the fabric. He pulled in his current breath a little faster than he would have normally, but had no response beyond that. He tightened his grip on the shirt and relaxed, curving his back. He was expecting one quick look and that was it, but apparently there were things for Sylar to see. He didn't twitch or jerk when Sylar touched him, but he did tip his head to the side a little. To Sylar's question, he asked, "Where'd I get what?" He started to turn his head, but his neck was stiff and it was a useless motion anyway so he stopped.

Sylar answered, "This bruise."

Peter shrugged his left shoulder twice, feeling where the muscles drew and shifted, thinking about where Sylar was touching. He narrowed his eye, trying to think of when he'd taken an injury there. "Maybe I fell on the broom handle? Or during the first fight, when I was trying to get inside your reach … I knocked you over onto the bed. I think you hit me in the back a few times during that. That's probably it." _Hurts_. He shrugged his shoulder again, stretching it.

XXX

"I need the…ah!" Sylar looked around for the tote and found that he was in luck – Peter hadn't relocated it. Briefly, it occurred to him to ask Peter for the ointment, wipes and band-aids, but the guy only had one hand, right? Sylar leaned over very close to and past Peter to rummage around for the items, his shoulder grazing the man's side as he moved, but it wasn't a relevant, skin-to-skin contact so he paid it no mind. His head felt like it was ripping in two and it felt like moving his eyes was difficult; he managed the task with a few pants and grunts of effort.

XXX

Peter shifted to the side a little, glancing down to see what Sylar was doing. _What … what is he doing? I have something on my back that needs taken care of? He's going to …? _Peter blinked several times; a little surprised that he might need some care and more surprised that he was going to get it. He craned his neck as much as he could to see which supplies Sylar was getting out.

XXX

Those retrieved, Sylar leaned back, waiting for his head to settle, and opened the wipes. Belatedly, he realized he should explain; the guy couldn't see the injuries or what was going on. "There's some…lacerations and breaks in your skin," _Very nice skin_, he thought after he dug up the more medical name for 'scrape'. Gently, so as not to upset any of the scabs, Sylar went about cleaning them up. Next was the ointment he smeared liberally around them all, amused by the texture but the band-aids were a little trickier. The whole affair was taking him longer than it should have yet he couldn't bring himself to be bothered about that; it just wasn't important. It was pleasant to see what he'd been feeling blindly earlier and he knew he wasn't supposed to be paying attention to things like that. Sylar pressed the freed band-aids over the appropriate areas, smoothing them down a few times each.

XXX

Peter kept glancing back, trying to gauge when Sylar was done. He was being handled gently, carefully and thoroughly - and not being felt up. He didn't comment, but he appreciated it quietly, wondering about Sylar's motivations. _Not the savior kind? Why would he bother with my back like this? This isn't because he's concerned I'll die and leave him alone - whatever he's bandaging back there can't be very bad. It's not life-threatening. He's being nice. And maybe he sees this as a quid pro quo. Fairness - that seems important to him. I'm helping him, so he's going to help me so he can feel better about himself. Competitive, maybe? Hm. _Peter let the thoughts mull around, not trying to force any conclusion.

When the man seemed finished, Peter let the shirt fall, stretching as it settled on him. He could feel it catch and cling a little were the ointment hadn't been covered by band-aids. He wriggled his torso with a pained grunt, getting the shirt where he wanted it. The back thing had gone well enough to calm Peter down about having Sylar look at his knee. Sighing resolutely, he began the process of getting out of his pants. He turned to sit normally on the couch, unfastening his jeans.

"I've got to get my pants off again if you're going to look at my knee," he explained. He squirmed and shifted to get out of them, pausing once for several seconds because he just didn't feel good. Too many things were sore. _I should have just stood up to do this. I wonder if that was why Sylar stood up to take his shirt off?_ But he got them down and pushed the garment past his knees, shuffling his feet to let gravity take them the rest of the way to his ankles. Sighing again, Peter leaned forward to look at his left knee, the one that was injured. Conveniently, it was the one on Sylar's side. It featured what looked more like a scrape or a jean-burn than a bruise, and was a little puffy over the patella. He touched at it, probing to find the tendons above and below the joint. Nothing seemed out of place.


	35. Just Desserts

Day 10, Evening

"Hmm." Sylar frowned at Peter's pause, tilting his head to eye the man's face better to see what the hold-up was. It wasn't anything he could discern. The nurse got his pants down sufficiently low and Sylar leaned in to begin looking at the knee when Peter did the same thing and he had to pull back to avoid cracking heads. _Um…or you can look first._ All the same, when Peter leaned back, Sylar went for another band-aid, taking a moment to find a larger, more square one to cover. _This is getting awkward, all this leaning over him._ But it couldn't really be helped. Gently he smeared the ointment on evenly, adding to the scattered mess of litter from band-aids to cover the scrape-bruise injury. _Where'd he even get this one from? He wasn't really on his knees, was he?_

XXX

"It's fine. Compared to everything else …" Peter grimaced as he gestured to himself with his right hand, "it's fine." He sagged a little, reaching up with his right thumb to touch across his swollen lid. "My first night here, I slept out in the street, up against a brick wall. It's not getting much better." He frowned at his moment of … weakness? vulnerability? whatever, and straightened in his seat.

"So, you want some of that ice cream now? I'm kind of in the mood for it." He tried to figure out how to get his pants back up without leaning over to get them._ How the hell did I get these things on this morning?_ He seemed to recall doing it while lying on the bed, putting his legs up and letting the jeans fall enough so he could snag them with his left. Making a frustrated noise, Peter gestured at his pants. "Can you help me? Just raise it enough so I can get a hold of it."

He could lean over and get them by himself if he had to, but that would hurt his hip enormously and then his balance would go wacko. Sylar was sitting right next to him.

XXX

"It'll be fine now," Sylar clarified. For a nurse this guy was kinda stupid. "That's really dumb, Peter. Why would you sleep on the street?" Sylar's voice was oozing condescension because, really? _Now a roof, I can see you sleeping on because you really are that stupid, but the street? He doesn't get it_. In the middle of grabbing up and fisting the bandage wrappers, Peter asked about the ice cream and squirmed around for his pants before asking for them, too. He got the feeling he should see a connection between the two, but he just couldn't rub the right wires together to get a thought going so he abandoned it.

"I can, yeah," he smirked, "What if I don't want to?"

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a look of pure disapproval with a hint of disgust on top. _'What if I don't want to?' Then I'll do it myself, you unhelpful jackass!_ He exhaled heavily and looked away. _Why did I expect anything more? What was that he pulled during the fight - ask me nicely, or beg or something?_ Peter put his right hand on the edge of the couch for balance and reached down with his left for his jeans. He hooked his right foot up and sideways, which was a direction of flex the injured sartorius muscle in his right thigh didn't like to do. He grimaced and made a small lunge downward, having to do it three times before he finally snagged the waistband of his pants. Three times that it hurt in his pelvis like a muscle cramp combined with an intestinal spasm; three times that Sylar sat by and was probably smirking at his difficulty.

XXX

"Spoilsport." Sylar watched his companion struggle up and grab at the garment, completing his own request. He sat, waiting for any form of reaction from Peter about the whole event. _I'd have done it, you know; silly man__._ He got a reaction, alright. Peter's look turned him sour. After a moment, he said, "Ice cream sounds good."

XXX

Peter pulled up his pants to his thighs and then struggled up off the couch before finishing. He kept his eyes fixed on what he was doing. Once clothed, he went to the kitchen with a gait that was both bedraggled and angry, turning his face a little so he didn't even look at Sylar.

He reached for the bowls where they were stored in the cabinet and looked at the back of his left hand where it was raised before him, mid-reach. The bandage was still wet from washing dishes earlier. He didn't want to touch dishes they were going to eat out of with it, much less serve food. _I need to wash my hands._ He turned on the hot water in the sink and leaned his left hip on the counter as he picked at the tape with his right thumb and forefinger. It was surgical tape, designed to hold even under exposure to bodily fluids, so even though the gauze was peeling up in spots, it was still difficult to unravel, especially one handed.

Sylar could have done it easily, but Peter would be damned if he'd ask him for help again given the mood he had at the moment. That mood was angry, sullen and resentful. He wanted to smack Sylar; he wanted to smack himself for being so stupid as to think the guy would pass up an opportunity, however small, to make sure Peter knew he was the lesser. A small part of Peter suspected Sylar might think they'd moved into being teasing and friendly with each other, but the larger part of Peter's consciousness would reiterate how they were not 'teasing and friendly', they were merely at the stage of 'refraining from killing each other'!

_What I'm doing here for him is basic, mandatory, required medical care. It does not mean I like the guy, or that we're friends. Sylar and his fucked up whatever … attraction to me? Does that have something to do with it? Damnit. I don't want that! I should have just stayed in my apartment and left him alone. Should have stayed in New York. Should have found another way to save Emma. Damnit!_

XXX

Left alone, Sylar grumped. Why couldn't Peter just play along? People said Sylar was too tense, wound up too tight? They clearly hadn't met Peter. Sighing and rubbing his forehead in solitude, he and the man's brother agreed that in some things, a piece of coal up Peter's ass would make for a fine, quick diamond_. I'm not thinking about his ass right now. I'm not thinking of his pubic hair right now_, Sylar thought tiredly, honestly, almost admitting it to himself. _I'm…out of it, I don't know what the hell I'm thinking about, what I should be doing…_

After a long time, several times dozing and waking up because his chin kept dropping to his chest and the steady sound of water in his ears, Sylar sent a few glances towards the kitchen, spotting Peter a few times, still moving about. _He's a big boy; he wants to be a big boy, let him do it then. I don't care._

XXX

The water ran steadily and unheeded, steaming finally, as Peter eventually managed to pick off the tape and expose his middle finger - the one where the skin wasn't just scuffed and torn, but actually split through the entire dermis. Bandages off, he opened the freezer, then realized he still hadn't washed. He shut the freezer, feeling confused. The sequence of necessary actions was jumbled in his head, thrown off by the prolonged mental effort of the exam and now the excitement of the emotional rush he'd just had. He couldn't think straight. _Shouldn't I get bowls out? Wait … wash first, then bowls._

He sighed and went to the sink, distracted by the bits of tape and gauze. _Unsanitary. I left these here?_ He gathered them up and threw them in the trash, returning to the sink. _The water's too hot. _He moderated the temperature and tried to work out how he was going to wash up without getting his brace wet, or getting stinging soap into the open wound on the back of his finger.

He put soap on the washcloth (_that's probably unsanitary, too, even for eating, probably worse to expose my finger to that than to leave it unwashed_) and hesitated. He couldn't think of how to clean himself otherwise, so he continued. He held the cloth gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and swabbed at the palm and fingerpads of his left. He rinsed, patted his hand dry, and shook his head at the difficulty of such a mundane task.

XXX

Sylar struggled for wakefulness because wasn't he waiting for something? He frowned on principal of being put out from…whatever it was he was supposed to be doing because it was doubtlessly screwball Peter's fault. _Dumb kid's probably still hunting around for the ice cream scoop or something like that._ Grumbling to himself as he adjusted position, he called out, "Peter!" in a bitchy-to-hide-my-concern way, even if it probably didn't translate, "What's with the water?" _Not that I don't like to hear it running…not that __it's__ necessarily wasteful…To be honest, __it's__ just that __it's__ Peter in MY kitchen. And I have __no__ idea what's going on in there and little way to find out._

XXX

Now Sylar was yelling at him. _Great._ Raising his own voice in return _hurt_. "I couldn't get the tape off!" And yep, that hurt. It had, by this point, been long minutes in the kitchen for a task that should have been simple and straightforward. Peter got out bowls, spoons and a serving spoon, then the ice cream. Only now liberated from the freezer, it was frozen all the way through.

XXX

Sylar frowned some more. Now he was getting torqued. _That little fuck comes in here, claiming to help me and here I am picking up this loser's marbles. First Luke, now you. Thank God Nathan was around because I think you needed a fucking babysitter._ "What?" He called back, louder, as if that would get him a sensible answer (not likely), his tone more authoritative. Come to think of it, he couldn't think of why Peter was in the kitchen at all.

XXX

_Great. Wonderful,_ Peter thought. _Of all the times for Sylar to go deaf. I was loud. He _**had**_ to have heard me_. "I said I can't … Just go fuck yourself. There was blood on it." It rattled around in Peter's laboring brain that what he was saying might not make a lot of sense from Sylar's point of view, but figuring out how he needed to phrase his situation to give Sylar the information the man was actually requesting … well, it was beyond Peter's capacity at the moment.

Getting the lid off the ice cream container hurt his right hand as he tried to hold the carton still while peeling at it with his left. Trying to dig out ice cream, left-handed, was difficult. His hand slipped and after all his attempts to be hygienic, it planted directly, frustratingly, in the ice cream.

He didn't even curse. He just made a small noise, like a tiny whine, and retreated to the kitchen table. He sat down and stared at his hand. His instinct was to suck and lick the ice cream off of his knuckles. But that was gross. He wasn't going to act like an animal, or a primitive, or a kid. It began to drip, so he put his hand down on the table. He sighed, shut his eyes, and sat there silently.

XXX

Growling under his breath, Sylar stood, too quickly, and made to start walking to the kitchen before he had his balance or his vision set properly. Somewhere along the line, he either tripped or became unstable. Luckily for him, the distance between him and the wall wasn't far so he partially slid and braced himself on it with an embarrassing thud in his haste. Sylar worked on calming himself because he shouldn't be allowing the little shit under his skin like that anyway, certainly not in his condition. Taking a nosedive into the guy because he couldn't corner or stand upright was going to have the opposite effect he intended. For some reason, the odd tone in Peter's voice made him worried. That, as much as his temper, was the reason for his speeding. He could conjure up plenty of images of all-thumbs-in-the-kitchen Petrelli bashed, burned, and bleeding out from some accident. Sylar eased around the corner, using both hands on either side of the entranceway, to see Peter sitting at the table, apparently, physically fine.

"What is your problem?" he demanded, a little high-strung because he'd gotten all the way up (nearly falling) and Peter was fine. And sassy. _He'd better not be pouting. I didn't touch him, I didn't hurt him….I did okay_, he thought of the exam.

XXX

Peter hunkered a little at Sylar's tone. _I should leave. I should just leave. Go home. But I can't go home. Just an empty apartment. Nothing there. Might as well stay here. But with him? Fuck that. Just go_. He looked up at Sylar blocking the entrance. _No going. Not yet. What was I doing? Ice cream. Shit. I don't wanna._ He raised his left hand with the intention of rubbing his forehead. There was melted ice cream on a couple fingertips, making them sticky. He grimaced and put it down, lifting his right hand. He stared at the brace on it blankly, then put it down as well and lifted his left again, studying it. Some internal decision was made. He turned it and rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It at least looked clean.

"The ice cream's frozen," he said thickly. "Just go lay down. I've got this." _Scene control. Never let the patient know you're panicking. _"Everything's going to be fine," he muttered. _Not that I __**am**__ panicking. What am I doing? I think I'm spacing out. What is it I'm supposed to be doing? A routine. I need a routine. A schedule. Yeah … don't have one. Watch isn't working. Ice cream. I was getting ice cream. I'd like some ice cream. I'd better go get the ice cream before he does._

XXX

Failing completely to pick up on the problem, Sylar stood there, gaining a quizzical look. Peter's hands were all over the place; he looked nervous and twitchy. _Not with you running the show, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter blinked several times and straightened in his chair, trying to pull himself together. _I don't know why I'm so out of it. Did I hit my head (again)? Did he do something to me? Was dinner bad? No, wait, I got mad. What the hell was I mad about? I think I hurt myself. Bobbing up and down grabbing at my pants? Guess that was it. Whatever._ He stood up and went over to the ice cream, intent on serving up two bowls of it no matter what.

XXX

His attention shifted when Peter seemed to pull together. Task accomplished, he thought on why his brain felt like it was becoming more detached by the minute. _Am I that tired? No, Peter must've done something….those pills. Decon-…pills._ There had been quite a few, more than the other previous doses. Namely, he wondered if they were warping his current view of things. Generally, his pain tolerance was high enough that the user friendly serving suggestions didn't have much, if any, effect, but Peter had mixed pain killers with sinus pills; maybe that had something to do with it. _It's not like I know how all that is gonna play together with my headache_. "You should probably eat it here at the table then find a bed to sleep in, Peter," Sylar said, sounding muzzy even to his own ears. _I guess that implies that he needs to go down the hall? It'll give me a chance to shower, if he's gone. Will he come back, though?_

XXX

Peter reined himself in from scowling at Sylar. "Yeah. 'Kay," he said instead, as it wasn't like Sylar was saying anything disagreeable. He rinsed the ice cream from his hand, unwilling to use the washcloth due to a disoriented paranoia of it and the germs he imagined it might harbor. He patted his hand dry and picked up the serving spoon. As good news, the ice cream had softened around the edges, making it easier to dish out. He filled the first bowl quickly, but the second took longer and more struggling, as he was now left with the hard-frozen portion. He kept at it determinedly. Frozen desserts would not defeat Peter Petrelli.

XXX

Peter mangled through the ice cream serving; Sylar probably should've been helping with that, being the one with two good hands. The nurse got it done to his credit and Sylar sat at the table when the bowls were presented. _I'm officially babysitting my babysitter. Why can't things ever be simple? _"Spoons," Sylar reminded when Peter forgot; honestly, it took him a minute, too, longer than he would have liked, but he was the one left staring at a bowl of ice cream wondering how to eat it while Peter was looking to sit down. He waited until Peter sat, after retrieving the utensils, to begin in on his own dessert – vanilla. _Yum_.

XXX

_Spoons? Yeah, spoons._ Peter had gotten them out, but they were still over on the counter, next to the ice cream carton, which was also still out. He put the carton up and returned with the flatware, settling in to his first taste moments later. The ice cream was cold, sweet and creamy. Peter hadn't paid any attention to the brand (not that he was much of a shopper), but he'd grabbed one that looked expensive. Might as well, when living in a world where money didn't matter. The flavor lingered on the tongue real nice. Immediately, he could feel the sugar raising his energy and his spirits. A small smile even made an appearance after his third spoonful.

Somewhat restored, Peter prodded the chunks in his bowl. He could get picky now. Vanilla ice cream - uniform throughout. That characteristic was somewhat disappointing to him. There were no nuts or chocolate chips to dig out, no ripples or caramel swirls to play with. It was boring. He flipped the lumps of ice cream in his bowl and decided that the different stages of meltedness would be a sufficient difference to engage him. He began clumsily scraping off the melted skein, one section at a time, then sucking it off the spoon and letting his mouth warm the metal before dipping for another bite.

XXX

Sylar was thinking about vanilla, something he couldn't prevent when faced with it which was generally in the form of ice cream. His curiosity had been woken as a child wondering when he'd come across all the dark flecks in his vanilla (white) ice cream – turned out that was the vanilla. A spoonful melting in his mouth, Sylar watched the rest of it slowly, slowly melt while he ate. "Did you know the dark little chips in there is the vanilla? It's the second most expensive natural flavoring in the world. And its not actually a bean – it's a seedpod – that part has flavor, too, not just the seeds," Sylar spoke softly, absently, much more about imparting said flavorings onto his tongue than delivering wisdom.

XXX

"Yeah, I tried to eat one once. Didn't go over any better than the cinnamon stick I tried chewing." Peter smiled a little again at the memory. "Ma was not happy." She wasn't enraged, though. More exasperated that her young son had taken it upon himself to explore the spice cabinet, having come to the conclusion that it was the source of all things tasty and sweet. "The cocoa powder was a complete bust, too. Actually, everything I got into was pretty bad. Except the nonpareils. Those were good. I think I ate half a bottle of them." He chuckled a little. Oh yeah, the ice cream was really loosening him up. "I think I was seven, maybe eight. I remember I could read the labels."

Nathan had been off at the military academy at the time, so it was one of the many very minor adventures of Peter's youth that he'd missed. Peter had avoided anything that he didn't think went into cookies, cakes, pies and sweet treats, along with anything that said 'pepper' on the label. Plain sugar was kept in a different cabinet, but it had never held his interest anyway. He flipped his remaining globs of ice cream to repeat his skimming process on the now-exposed, newly melted underside.

XXX

Blinking, Sylar looked up slightly from his ice cream, facing straight, while he parsed through that odd response. Oh, Peter knew all about spices, did he? Couldn't cook, but the family had money – so much so that when their youngest son got into the spice cabinet and chowed down on a doubtlessly expensive product Mommy Dearest didn't throw a fit. _Rub it in_. Yes, so he'd been thinking Peter wouldn't know about vanilla. It amused him, though, and touched him a bit that grown-up Peter still referred to her as "Ma." It was part of the strange enunciation the men in the Petrelli family shared – he'd noticed it immediately. Peter's was a bit subtler; Nathan's horribly obvious as was Arthur's. He still couldn't place where it came from, although Nathan's dalliances in Texas may have been partly to blame. "Ma" still imparted some sense of warmth; it always had, even when Sylar was on the outside looking in before Nathan's memories. The affection was strong and genuine to have lasted that long, the bonds very close.

Ignoring all that, including the assertion of wealth that a person who didn't come from it would pick up on, Sylar chuckled, dragging his thoughts back to task. "Cocoa is insane for caffeine. And dry as hell." _And Peter could read?_ The goof.

XXX

The fog had largely cleared from his mind - anger had dissipated, he'd rested and cooled off. His thoughts were making more sense now. "After this is done, I'd like you to help me with … uh, this." He gestured with his left hand, all fingers lifted even though only the middle one was badly damaged. "I don't just need a bandage on it. I need to have it taped right." He ducked his head, realizing he was repeating the same thing as earlier - asking for help, probably not going to get it. His lips thinned. His hand mattered a lot to him. _He wants me to beg_. Peter wasn't going to.

Peter tried to think of how he could do this by himself and get it taped right. It was a simple matter with two hands - pinch the skin together, tape it shut. If it wasn't even, remove tape and repeat until it was. What Peter had done for himself earlier was a simple bandage taped down, which was fine for initial clotting and protection from bumps. But the skin was torn badly enough that the edges needed to be pulled together. It could stand to have stitches, but tape sutures would do as well and there was no way Peter was going to let Sylar use a needle on him. Even assuming the man was willing.

Peter finished his ice cream and looked up steadily at Sylar. This was as much 'begging' as Sylar was going to get on this subject - a statement of need, an indirect request for aid … and that was it.

XXX

Sylar had gone back to savoring his treat, slowly taking the full spoon into his mouth and allowing his lips to scrape some onto his tongue – a deliberate process. Gobbling it down would feel like soup or maybe induce the need to chew, not to mention give him what would probably be a nice brain freeze…Oh, he was so trying it. _Maybe that'll help flush out this goddamn headache. It's killing my neck already._ Peter's voice took on that tone of 'I'm planning, we're doing'. _God, he's so assertive. He really thinks I'm just gonna do whatever he says. (Did it for Nathan, too). _Pursing his lips briefly, he glanced up when the request was made. Inwardly he chuckled. _That's right. You need my help. You just come crawling to me when you screw up and need me to fix it. Or kiss it and make it better. Damnit! I knew I was doing something wrong._ Half his mouth inched at a smirk. "Alright," he intoned and glanced at the hand, frowning at it. "Wait…Tape's not gonna do the trick. Especially if you're going to keep getting it wet and hitting people. A wrap over it would help." _That's what I'd do. Keep the tape down and…sticking to you._

XXX

Peter waited a few beats until Sylar went back to his bowl for another spoonful. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for - perhaps the cost or the trick that came with the agreement to help. "Huh," he said quietly, moving his spoon around in his empty bowl as he considered (and got just that little tiny bit that was left in the bowl on his spoon, which he then licked off). "I really can't help getting it wet. That's just going to be how it is. If we tape it up tight, get it right and leave it that way - no gauze, no bandage - it should be okay."

He considered trying to suck up to Sylar until he had his help, maybe choosing his words and actions more carefully so as to get what he wanted out of the man. _Begging_. It was just words. Words that meant things. Words that meant things he didn't mean. He discarded it. If his life was in danger, then he'd consider making a special effort. In the meantime, he didn't like the air of superiority he got off of Sylar from time to time. He wasn't interested in playing into it.

XXX

Sylar shot Peter a look at that annoying sound, 'huh'. It meant nothing other than what was going on in Peter's head, he knew, but still...It was probably that Sylar didn't know what was going on in that head that was the issue. All he knew was that wounds healed better in open air, half the problem because of infection, blah blah blah. He also knew there were other options to seal up split skin, but for the life of him he couldn't think of any and it bothered him. "Whatever," he muttered, dismissing it and going back to something more pleasant. Ice cream.

XXX

Peter got up from the chair and carried his bowl over to the sink to rinse it. He briefly eyed the stack of unwashed dishes. _Maybe I should go get some paper plates or something tomorrow? Am I even coming back tomorrow? He seems sort of okay. Funny - I don't want to be locked out, but I don't want to be in here, either. _He sighed._ Might as well get to it._ He washed his left hand and right fingertips as well as he could, then turned his back on the sink and headed off into the living room, rummaging through Sylar's tote. His hand fell on the ben-gay. _Really need to put some of this on … like, all over_. Peter dropped it for now though and gathered up some antiseptic wipes, surgical tape, alcohol and gauze. _Gonna need to debride this first. Do it here, or in there? He might not be done eating._ Peter snorted. _Of all the people to get squeamish on me,_ Sylar _isn't on the list._

XXX

Peter was finished; he got up, then he left. That wasn't a good sign – it meant Sylar was taking too long. Who knew what Peter was up to in the other room? He couldn't anticipate much beyond Peter's boredom with him now, impatience and haste and a desire to leave. So he sped up his time table, eating faster which, for vanilla ice cream, was really a crime. He was disappointed, too; he thought things were going fairly well. He didn't think his slip-ups had been all that bad, considering. Taking larger bites and actively going about consuming got him frozen teeth, an over-stimulated tongue and eventually…"Mmm." His headache spiked badly and he gasped as if opening his mouth would help the invasion of cold-feels-hot burning pressure of a brain freeze. _Okay, I get it. Bad idea. That was dumb. Thank God Peter didn't see that happen._ Massaging his forehead proved futile as it was bruised, but the 'freeze went away in time.

XXX

He carried the stuff in to the kitchen table, arranging things where he wanted them. Peter put alcohol on the gauze and then put his left hand on his knee, under the table and out of Sylar's line of sight. He scrubbed at it lightly but steadily, wincing occasionally. It hurt like hell - alcohol, open wound, scraping - but it was the best way to get it to heal shut. There was also no way in hell he was letting Sylar do this part - he'd resent the man for the pain, and there would be nothing Sylar could do about it.

XXX

The nurse returned and Sylar still had a few bites left. They were gone a minute later, but Peter set out gauze, alcohol, tapes and wipes. Sylar feared they were for him in some way and leaned back. The objects had been set on the table with clear intent to use, why had Peter brought them in here? When the wetted gauze pad disappeared under the table, Sylar breathed again, releasing his tension. He leaned out to try to see what Peter was doing under there. Ah, the hand. _Right, what we were just, you know, talking about._ Clanking his spoon to show he was done, pushing the bowl away, Sylar reached out and took up the tape. _Gosh, its been…how long since I put this in here? I forgot I had it._

XXX

Peter paused in the exceedingly painful process of removing live tissue from an injury using an alcohol-soaked abrasive. He was breathing a little harder than he would have been under normal circumstances, and was a little pale. "You need to go wash your hands." _Not sure that it matters, given where we are. I suppose it matters because I think it matters. It's an easy, harmless precaution anyway._

XXX

Peter finished with the gauze and indicated that his hands needed washing. _Again?_ Naturally, the assumption that Sylar's hands were always filthy wasn't far from any hero's mind. Once a murderer, to their logic, he bathed regularly in blood and sacrificed virgins on Saturdays and kicked puppies on Sundays. It was insulting, and what's more, demeaning. So he let Peter know by giving him a steady, dark look, hoping to impart that he knew Peter's game and it would be remembered. Dropping the tape, he assisted himself to stand and weaved to the sink to clean his 'bloody' hands. None of them bothered to know the truth, too content in their ignorance and blame-games to think beyond their ways. Soap and warm water, drying his hands, Sylar came back and stood next to Peter, hand on the back of the chair to balance. "Why aren't we doing this on the couch again?" he delivered sassily, staking his claim on the tape once again although the motion felt like his brain being on a boat at high tide.

XXX

Peter noted the threatening look. _Hands again. Didn't he freak out earlier when I said something about him needing to keep his hands clean? Or keep from getting them dirty? There is __**definitely**__ something there about the hands_. Peter filed that away next to 'touching or reaching for Sylar's forehead' as probable triggers. He went back to his task, finishing to his satisfaction. Somewhat blinded by pain, he sat quietly, staring down at his hand, mind empty for the moment.

When Sylar returned and spoke, Peter jumped slightly, glancing to the side and up, then up further (Sylar was particularly tall when standing directly over him). "I, uh, what?" He blinked at the man. Peter's expression was not afraid - he'd felt fear right at first on realizing Sylar was beside him, but it had faded the moment he'd gotten a good look at Sylar's body language. He was just standing there. Peter looked up at him blankly through a screen of hair and pushed aside the relentless stinging of his hand to process the words. "Because I need you sitting directly across from me, and a convenient place to put stuff." He gestured at Sylar's chair with a general wave of his right hand.

XXX

That made sense. Or, at least, enough sense. With Peter, it did not always go hand in hand. After a brief inner-debate, Sylar decided that Peter's dismissive wave was acceptable under the circumstances. It wasn't aimed to control him. Sylar kept his eye on Peter, though, as he walked around to take his seat, noting slight changes in his behavior that he couldn't place.

XXX

"Also, I have trouble getting up and down from the couch. A lot less than I do from a chair." Peter put his left hand on the table, fingers splayed. It wasn't a very big tear, but it was all the way through the skin. What concerned him was how much it endangered the tendons of his only remaining functional hand. "Now, I'd like you to get a four inch piece of tape off the roll. I'm going to hold the skin together with my right and I need you to wrap the tape around my finger right where a ring would go. Wrap the tape around itself. After that, I'll turn my hand the other way, hold the skin and you can put a little strip across the back of my hand. I'm pretty sure I've got some surgical glue or Tegaderm in the trauma kit. I can apply that myself later, right over the knuckle itself. Okay?"

Peter used a free bit of gauze to absorb a little seepage, then pinched together the skin as he wanted it. He lifted his hand so Sylar had the access he needed to tape the finger.

XXX

Pulling out some of the tape, Sylar measured out about four inches, tearing it off. "Yeah." He went about rolling the tape onto the finger as Peter described. It was difficult when the other fingers were in the way and the tape was enough to stick to them, but after a minute he got a pattern and finished it up. It wasn't a difficult task, being simple in nature; the execution was a different matter, requiring smaller fingers, but ones with his degree of delicacy. That accomplished, Peter turned his hand and Sylar tugged off another strip, maybe two and a half inches, placing it just under the knuckles where it would stop any further tearing of the split. "Where'd you get this one? Seems like my head is harder than I thought, busting up all your hands," Sylar chuckled lightly, his eyes still focused on the injury. _Guess I would have thought Nathan's head was harder than mine, but whatever._

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, smiling warmly. "I always thought I had a hard head. Guess you've got me beat. Either that, or maybe I need to toughen up my hands." He turned them, looking down at his palms. They were undamaged - at least his left was. Most of the right was covered by the brace. He touched the tips of the fingers on his left hand to his right thumb, stroking back and forth along it in a gesture that was common enough for him. It usually spelled pensive, and now was not much different. _I can still touch things, feel them. I just can't use force without hurting myself. Is that saying something about this place?_ He shrugged to himself and looked up as Sylar spoke again.

XXX

"Sure is a crappy spot to get split skin – can't tape it up any further and have it work." Sylar knew his tongue was starting to loosen, but he was tired and loopy from the drugs and food and it was late; time for another rest break unless he missed his guess. _I was gonna…shower first, though_. That thought perked him up a bit, the idea of getting cleaner, even if he felt like he might drown in any water.

"I might have superglue in the tote, you know. Do it while it's clean." _Superglue? Will it flake off as it heals or something? Otherwise wouldn't it get stuck inside and make a scar?_ He knew it was developed as an on-site battlefield suture in World War I, but that was for gaping gut wounds, not knuckles. Still, if it got the wound closed…

XXX

"Yeah, that's a good suggestion," Peter said agreeably, noting that his companion's mood was shifting to something that could pass as friendly, or at least relaxed. Too bad he was tired and it was time to go home, which led to the thought that maybe this was why Sylar was lightening up - perhaps he was looking forward to Peter's departure.

"I didn't see any in the tote though. I'm sure I've got some back in the kit." Peter got to his feet, gathering up the unused supplies for return to their proper place. Before he walked away, though, he said, "Listen, it's getting late. I'm going to take off. Try not to get in any trouble." He considered for a moment, then as he stepped past, he put his left hand down on Sylar's shoulder, telegraphing the motion clearly. Given that he was holding the alcohol in that hand, it was a little awkward, but it was friendly contact nonetheless. "I'll come back in the morning for breakfast. If you want to lock me out … I'm not going to bust down your door. I think you can take care of yourself, in broad strokes." He patted twice (mostly just bumping his hand up and down, but it got the message across) and walked into the living room to deposit the stuff into the tote.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar mumbled about the glue, or lack thereof. _What?_ He wanted to ask as Peter made to pass him by, save for the hand on his shoulder. _You're leaving?_ Sylar turned to frown up at the man as best he could, a little worried now where he had not been before. Then Peter had to go and mention the door-breaking incident. That made him officially worried. _What is there I can say? I told him to sleep in a bed. So he's doing it. Smart thinking, real smart. Would he stay if I offered the couch? Why would he stay on your couch when he could have a bed away from you?_ Sylar sighed and wandered after Peter, leaning against the kitchen/entryway wall across from the door, sliding his hands into his pockets once he was stabilized. Peter was nicely replacing the alcohol and gauze before making for the door as Sylar watched him. It struck him that coming out from the kitchen made things more awkward because what was there to say? "S-see you tomorrow then?" he said quietly.

XXX

_He's acting like he wants me to stay. Or that he's going to miss me. Huh. That's human nature for you._ When something, or someone, was available, there was no need to make an extra effort to keep them around. It was when they were gone and wouldn't come back that you missed them the most. Peter _ached_ for Nathan. Particularly, he hated himself for those weeks that had gone by after the pyre and before Sylar's reawakening when Peter had actively avoided contact with him. Even though Nathan had been sort of fake then, it would have been something, and maybe …

Peter shook his head to derail that train of thought. "Yes," he said reassuringly, seeing Sylar at that moment as a guy who had been his brother, twice over, and in a weird way represented and embodied the family Peter had lost. "I'll be back tomorrow, in the morning. I make some pretty good eggs. I'll see you then." He headed out.

XXX

The door shut behind Peter and his apartment felt that much smaller and quieter even though his clocks all sounded in time still. The loneliness came rushing back, too. Sylar went to the couch, sitting there, alone now, once again, trying to muster up a thought or an action but without the stimulation and adrenaline Peter had provided he deflated like an old balloon. He noticed dimly that he'd been fairly relaxed the times he'd, you know, been relaxed with Peter around. Barefoot now, and dressed for bed, Sylar took a glance at it and moved there, getting under the covers, pulling them to his waist before realizing his pillow was on the couch. _Screw it._ His arm would do – folding it up he drifted off with minimal thoughts.


	36. Breakfast at Sylar's

Day 11, Morning

Peter woke to a pounding headache. His hand hurt. His hip and butt hurt. Most of the rest of him was passable, though, despite being a collection of minor injuries. They seemed inconsequential compared to the major ones. He groaned and dragged himself out of bed. _Painkillers. First thing._ It was over an hour before he felt presentable to the world, such as it was. He was dressed, reasonably clean and all the parts that needed new bandages (which were just the cut on his eyebrow and cheek) had received them. He also finally had the presence of mind to slather himself with ben-gay. He smelled, but he felt better.

He brought the electric razor with him in case Sylar wanted to use it for himself. Peter wasn't thrilled about the idea of sharing hygiene products, but he was even less inclined to search apartments for a second one, or find a store around here that carried one. In any event, maybe Sylar would have managed with whatever it was he normally used. Peter smirked to himself at how much he was getting to know about the guy. _Next thing you know, I'm going to find out whether he folds or wads,_ he thought to himself as he walked between their respective apartment buildings. _Hm, I think I'd definitely peg him as a folder, not a wadder. He's too precise._

Peter managed to distract himself with trivial speculation until he arrived outside Sylar's door. Here he had a mild dilemma. A nurse caring for a patient in a hospital setting would knock gently (to alert a wakeful patient and not wake a sleeping one) and open the door a second or two later, without waiting for any acknowledgment. But in that case, the nurse was going to care for you anyway; your presence in the hospital established your consent to care and monitoring. He had no such indication from Sylar. This wasn't a hospital setting; it was the guy's apartment. For that, one knocked and did not enter unless invited. Twice now, Peter had ignored that.

He raised his left hand and rapped solidly, expecting that Sylar would be asleep. Four times, and silence. He listened, head tilted slightly.

XXX

Sylar started out of his nightmarish sleep to the sounds of loud thudding from the direction of… Opening his aching eyes, he discerned it was coming from his door. Who…? He jerked up and felt himself tense all over from a host of injuries and the memories returned with them. _Ooh…_He mentally groaned, _Peter._ "Y-yeah!" Sylar called out to allow Peter in; that was after, of course, he cleared his throat to even be able to yell. _Oh, god, I feel rough_… Propping himself on an elbow, he rubbed briefly at his eyes, feeling the surrounding sinuses were a little swollen.

XXX

"Yeah, Sylar. It's me, Peter." That much was obvious, given where they were, but Peter had yet to get into the habit of understanding they were the only two people in existence as far as this place was concerned. His jaw twinged a bit with the volume he was using to be sure his voice carried through the door. He didn't want to require Sylar to come let him in, so he tried the knob, hoping the other man would excuse the breach of etiquette for what it was - concern about his safety. When the knob turned and the door opened, Peter called out in what was more like a loud conversational tone, "I'm coming in."

XXX

With the door opening it occurred to Sylar only then that he might not be decent – a swift checking glance confirmed that he was in his pajamas (_weird_), otherwise decent, and his clothes were on the chair, pulled before the couch. Sniffing, he worked to sit up. "Peter?" He hedged, groggily, feeling like a sand trap all over what with his beard, unwashed skin and hair and creaking injuries. He sniffed again, trying to clear his nose to no avail while he ruffled his hair back.

Sylar took a look at his watch; it was 9:23. _He said something about breakfast…Shower; that's what I was thinking. Or a bath…a bath sounds so good right now. _"I didn't know you did room service," he croaked to distract the man from pointing out anything about his less-than-seemly appearance.

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over, pleased to see that he'd moved back to his bed. It had to be more comfortable than the couch. The guy still looked like something of a wreck: pale, bruises even more evident than before, hair sticking out irregularly and facial hair growing in thickly enough to put a cave man to shame. But he'd sat up with more speed and less unsteadiness than he'd shown the day before. He was looking around more alertly, directing his eyes to his watch and to Peter more quickly.

Peter read all of that in a few glances, made sense of Sylar's words and decided to test the water on joking back - all in a few seconds, because he was more mentally coherent today as well. "Hey, yeah. I didn't want to dirty up my own kitchen, so I decided to make the mess over here in yours." He smiled in a friendly way and shut the door behind himself. "How are you feeling? You look better." That last might not be true for a snapshot of Sylar's physical appearance, but it was for overall behavior.

XXX

Peter's eye looked a little better, less puffy and red. Sylar was still worrying quietly that he'd permanently damaged one of the guy's eyes. That was a big deal – to both of them, Peter's eye useful and pleasant for him to have functioning, pleasurable for Sylar to look upon. Sylar snorted, twisting a bit to look out the window at Peter's retort. "You're a loser," he parried back about Peter's kitchen catastrophe status. He'd seen the smile, though. _I look better? Saying I look like crap when I'm normal? Or I looked bad before and this is good to know now?_ For all that his brain sputtered out when it came to self-diagnosis. _How do I feel?_

Licking his lips, Sylar looked back to Peter, his expression falteringly neutral as he admitted, "I don't know. I just woke up." _Things get worse with time before they get better…if they get better._ Already his skull set up its war drum tempo to match the increase in pressure everywhere in his head and the rest of his body had steady, pulling hurts.

XXX

Peter had woke Sylar, which made sense. Concussion victims slept a lot, a pattern that would stay for several days. Peter assumed Sylar would need to use the facilities and clean up, perhaps even change clothes depending on how well he felt and how scrupulous he was about such things. "I was going to make eggs, maybe an omelet. If you want, you know, I can walk down to the grocery store and come back with a few things. I think you're almost out of milk. I'd be out of your way while you get your morning taken care of. Or if you think we have everything here, I could just get started cooking."

Peter was trying to offer Sylar the choice of having him around or having him get lost for a bit. Peter's main goals for patient care were frequent check-ins and prompting Sylar to eat and take care of himself. If Sylar could navigate from couch to kitchen and back again as he had the night before, then he could probably handle basic bathroom needs without help. Peter pulled the electric razor out of his left jean pocket, unfurling the cord behind it. He walked over and set it on the corner of the worktable. "The other times I've ever seen you, you've always been clean shaven. I thought you might want to use this. Might be easier than what you've got." He backed off a step. "So do you want me to go get some milk and stuff, or get started cooking?"

XXX

Sylar just blinked. He didn't know what to say to any of those offers. It was very overwhelming, more so because of his foggy brain. The only excuse he could reasonably come up with was: _But what if you're just waiting outside the door for me to…I dunno…be vulnerable? Be distracted?_ Then he thought that maybe this was a trick question. Peter even set out the electric razor they'd- he'd found, the one that was doubtlessly…Peter's. It belonged to Peter. _So how am I supposed to use it?_ Sylar wound up just staring at Peter, his brows drawn together in confusion, lips parted while he tried to work them to say something.

After what felt like an age, Peter didn't swoop in to explain or anything and no thoughts popped in to save the say, Sylar finally started, his delivery stream of consciousness, "Why are you treating me like this?" His gaze dropped lower and away from Peter as he slowly pivoted to lay his feet on the floor, facing the problem. "I want…I want space now, but…I don't think I have time to shower and shave and…stuff while you're out getting milk." He was hardly aware he'd spoken, let alone aloud; he'd have been embarrassed if he'd known he'd slipped up that information. _But breakfast sounds good, too_. This was probably an either/or choice; an answer that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge for fear of complicating his mind further appeared.

XXX

_No one even calls him by his name._ Peter didn't know why, but that stuck in his mind and Sylar's tone brought it to the forefront. "Sylar," he said gently. He took a step or two back to bring him back to the corner of the worktable. "I'm going to ask a favor of you, something I don't have any right to, but I'm going to ask anyway: trust me. Just a little. Not a lot." He extended his left hand towards Sylar without moving closer. It was a gesture of offering, like he was offering to help Sylar up. "Let me help you to the bathroom, just like I did yesterday. I'll go in the kitchen and see I what you have for breakfast. You do your thing. You'll be fine. If you fall or something, I'll be right here. Don't shower. I don't think you're steady enough for it. Just use the toilet, brush your teeth, use the razor if you want to." He smiled a little, looking at Sylar's hair. "Comb your hair maybe."

XXX

Sylar looked up on hearing his name, his face a perplexed pout. He listened in contemplating silence. _A favor._ That was…new. _Is the trust just for today or just while I'm sick or…forever? I'll be fine? I'll really be fine? I haven't been fine in so long…was I ever fine? IF I fall? Is he demanding I don't shower or suggesting? _Sylar's brows twitched towards a frown, but the rest of the information outweighed any upset he may have had about a potential crack aimed at his hair_. At least I have an adult hairstyle, Peter, more than I can say for you._

XXX

"Then we'll talk about whether you want me to take off so you can take a bath, or just change clothes, and how long you want me to be gone." _He wants to keep his eyes on me all the time, is that it? Doesn't want to be distracted by brushing his teeth. And no one wants to be caught on the toilet unaware. I knocked this time though - didn't bust the front door down. Can he trust me just a little? It's not like I'm asking him to turn his back on me. Just … turn to the side a little and look the other way. I'm not a monster. I won't jump on him just because he's not looking right at me._

That was a disturbing thought to Peter - that he was Sylar's monster, come to torment him. It made Peter feel small, miserable and uneasy, along with the wish that Sylar's impression of him was unjust. But he couldn't look at Sylar's bruised, confused face and claim that Sylar didn't have damn good reason to be wary of him, and that was without all the baggage of the past weighing him down.

XXX

Thinking on it for longer than he would have liked, looking at the hand Peter presented, Sylar made a decision. _Anything he's going to do he's going to do eventually, whether I'm incap-… injured or not makes no difference. If he does something, take it like a man. He's been fine so far – he didn't even peak at your junk and he could have._ Maybe that's what was bothering him. A single nod, Sylar reached out for the proffered assistance in the form of a hand. _But I'm wearing my pajamas!_ His mind suddenly hissed at him; the idea of Peter's hands and body being on him or that close in that frame of 'undress' was…His arm was slung over Peter's shoulder once again, overkill for the distance, but he was not about to be led like a granny to the fucking bathroom, no sir. The man was warm and he smelled a bit stronger than he had last time, like strong chemicals, not unpleasant if a bit manly. It helped wake him up. Sylar turned once he was in the bathroom, Peter moving away, towards the kitchen like he said, so he used the surfaces of the bathroom to move inside better, shutting and, yes, locking the door. That was about as much as he could allow right now. He tried to continue in calming down – his heart racing for several reasons (fear of interruption for something bad, having just touched and smelled Peter and getting up in general).

The toilet accomplished, he washed his hands and got out his comb, honestly debating whether he wanted to fix his rather dashing bed-head (so he thought) after Peter's comment. _Does anyone besides your mother ever tell you to fix your hair, Pete? _With an abbreviated sigh, he ran it through his unwashed, completely unappetizing hair a few times to get it out of his face at least. _Happy now?_ Was the accompanying sarcastic thought. Gathering his toothbrush and paste, he carefully smeared the goo. Brushing his teeth went okay, two minutes on the dot like you were supposed to and he knew because he checked his watch. Spitting, rinsing, it occurred to him this was before breakfast, but that happened sometimes. _Hmm…shit. Beard. That monster has a life of its own. _Sylar tilted his head to eye his beard from another angle, considering what to do for it. _Do it later, yeah. He said I might get a bath. Geez, that's pathetic of you. He can't attack me with an electric razor. Wait…why the hell did you tell him about the bath idea? Or did he say that? He did. Does that me- fuck it! I want a bath so I will take a bath, whether he's here or not._ That decided, Sylar wandered back to sit on the couch, awaiting Peter's appearance, if there was to be any, from the kitchen.

XXX

Peter took inventory inside the kitchen, part of his attention still back on Sylar, listening to the flush of the toilet and running of water. The shower or tub didn't get turned on and neither was there any call for help or sound of disaster, so Peter figured things were going well. In the meantime, he counted eggs (six), examined cheese (cheddar - good), and explored the vegetable crisper drawer (nothing there he wanted to use). He checked the pantry and nosed around at Sylar's pans, finding a good non-stick skillet like he wanted. He held it in his left hand, hefting it slowly as he frowned and tried to think about how he was going to manage to cook an omelet - which required some degree of dexterity - using only his left hand. _Scrambled it is, then._ Which was too bad. He'd wanted to show off. He could do breakfast foods well enough. It was just everything else that he had trouble with.

_I want to show off … to Sylar?_ Peter smiled at his foolishness and put the skillet on the stove top. _It's not like there's anyone else to show off to, but somehow I don't think he'd be impressed even if I'd saved the world three times over. In fact, I sort of think he'd resent me for that_. He sighed and wondered idly, _I wonder what __**would**__ impress him? _The catchy tune to a song from years ago drifted through his mind, but all he recalled of the lyrics was that it was a list of very impressive things that the singer didn't care about_. I think what impressed her was something about romance and empathy. Right? Wasn't that it? Something about the touch__, if someone had the right touch, keeping her warm at night__ … wait, what the fuck am I thinking? That's the most useless option out there! Or … maybe not useless _(as Peter was sure Sylar would sit up and take note)_, but it's not an option._

He shook his head to clear it, hearing Sylar exit the bathroom_. I don't think there's any point to trying to impress anybody here, so let's just settle for not inciting violence and hatred._ Peter walked out to see Sylar look up at him from where he was sitting on the couch. Peter reached up to scratch at his left brow, unthinking about why it might itch. His fingertips fumbled against the tape and he pulled them away, unsatisfied. It still itched. He tried to ignore it as he considered the simplest way to ask Sylar what he wanted, without relying on the man having remembered anything of the conversation from before he went in the bathroom. Peter settled on asking, "Do you want to have breakfast now, or take a bath now?"

XXX

Sylar was secretly amused in watching Peter's itch-n-twitch routine, but it didn't hold his interest. "Breakfast," he said more decisively than he felt. If he wanted control, he had to act like he was already there. Asking questions made him the one taking orders. For some reason he needed to be reminded of all this – it was like his brain was on vacation to the past or something. Peter buzzed back to the kitchen and Sylar took that as either invitation or some other cue that he was supposed to follow; so he rose and walked in, once again waiting for Peter to address him. That, he told himself, was just proper manners – it's what he'd always had to do to get away with anything with his mother way back when, waiting and 'asking' for permission of sorts – Peter was the first one there; this was (kind of), in essence, _his_ kitchen even though it belonged to Sylar. Sylar wasn't up for making himself anything more than cereal so by default, Peter had chosen to assume the role of chef.

XXX

Peter nodded firmly and returned to the kitchen, getting out eggs, cheese and milk. _Shit, how am I going to dice the cheese? I think I can manage that left-handed. _He felt reluctant to have Sylar do _everything_ for him, even though he saw the man had followed him into the kitchen and looked like he intended to help. There wasn't a shortage of things to be done, though. "Can you set the table?" Peter asked, internally debating whether to add 'please' to be polite, and stroke Sylar's ego, or leave it off to be casual and thus indicate a little more normality between them, and that Peter wasn't quite so cautious with Sylar as he had been. He thought about that long enough that the pause created made it awkward to say it, so he ended up leaving it off. Sylar went about helping without the 'please', which was good enough. Peter unwrapped the cheese, got out a knife, and concentrated on not cutting his fingers off while he sectioned the stuff.

XXX

Getting out the plates was probably more than Peter wanted to handle with his hand and all, so while the task was menial, it was helpful he knew and that made it very acceptable to him. He'd noticed Peter steering him away from the food two consecutive times, but maybe it was just coincidence. Placing them on the table, he went back for silverware, glancing over at Peter's dealings with the food to try to anticipate what utensils they'd need. Interrupting his own thoughts, it occurred to him that maybe Peter wanted some sort of breakfast sausage with the eggs or maybe bacon. "Did you want some ham to put in there or…?" he couldn't think of what other kind of meat would go in scrambled eggs.

XXX

Peter glanced over, finishing up with the cheese without incident (thankfully) and moving on to getting out a bowl to crack the eggs into. "No. Maybe some other time. I try to avoid eating meat." He ended by muttering partly to himself, but loud enough Sylar could probably hear it, "Most meat, anyway." He put the bowl on the counter and picked up an egg, suddenly way too aware of how dirtily that could be read. So he elaborated at a normal tone, "I mean, like, shellfish and stuff is okay, but anything with a spinal cord isn't. I'm not a very strict vegetarian."

XXX

"Oh, right. I…knew that," Sylar said lamely, conscious now that spinal cords and food weren't appetizing. "M'kay," was his senseless acknowledgment, staring at the utensil drawer in an attempt to remember what he'd been doing before he opened his mouth. _Setting the table? _He dug out a pair of forks, plucked some disposable napkins and laid them down. Another moment to tell him what else was missing before he asked, "Drinks? You like milk, right?" already on route to the fridge. Nathan never really paid attention to how adult-Peter liked his eggs – they were so different in age, Nathan hadn't been around for it in actuality. He would therefore assume if Peter wanted anything in his eggs, he would get it himself. _He's a big boy, don't baby him._

XXX

"Milk's good, yeah, but get me juice. Here's the milk. I'm done with it," he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the mostly-empty carton next to him on the counter. There was enough there for Sylar's drink, if he wanted it. He whisked the eggs a bit before realizing he needed to turn the stove on. The forgetfulness was a concussion symptom he'd readily leave behind. At least he was a lot more together than the day before, though it wasn't like the dull throb of the headache and continuous pull of sore muscles was going anywhere.

XXX

There was about four sections, if he counted, of different direction and meaning in Peter's sentences: An opinion, stated desire, a helpful hint or was it an order that he needed to replace the milk in the fridge? After a pause, Sylar moved closer to take up the carton, shaking it to gauge it, another pause before he placed it in the fridge. _He used milk? A lot of it, too. How odd._ Sylar remembered after the fact how the Petrellis made their eggs, sure; different from how Sylar himself did. There was nothing wrong with that; he was actually intrigued to try eggs another way. Sylar certainly didn't want to ingest that much dairy so early so juice was his option also. _Peter will deal with it if he thinks I'm copying him. _The fridge door still open, he used that as support while he leaned in for the apple juice; _He'll drink apple, right?_ He glanced over almost in question, but Peter was occupied, so he went with it anyway, getting out glasses and pouring and placing.

XXX

Peter finished whisking while the nonstick skillet heated, then put a little butter in it because that was the way he'd been shown to do it years ago, using a cast iron skillet at Pinehearst. Or, at least, the place Peter had first associated with the name - the hunting lodge his father had taken him and Nathan to a precious few times. Like so many memories of his father, this one was mixed. That was usually as good as they got. Peter had been taken hunting as part of some sort of male bonding that he'd screwed up by not shooting the harmless deer. Nathan had killed it instead. In the absence of servants, his father had shown Peter how to cook eggs, a lesson that had stuck with him. He'd been assigned a lot of scut work on that trip. It wasn't that he minded the jobs if they needed doing, but he had the feeling that if he'd killed the deer, the work would have been divided evenly. Since he hadn't, he'd been treated as a second-class citizen – that was what grated.

He glanced back at Sylar, saying, "You should get your pills set out. They're over there on the counter. Painkillers and some decongestants. Double the dosage for the painkillers, normal for the decongestants." He wondered if he needed to explain why - body mass, metabolism, the way the drugs functioned and the effects of exceeding the recommended dosage for each all factored into it - and decided to skip it. He had his reasons and they were more complicated than he wanted to explain, which meant they were almost certainly beyond what he expected Sylar to retain. Hopefully the 'trust' would extend that far.

XXX

He'd been watching carefully, if somewhat uselessly, to make sure Peter didn't hurt himself because not only was the empath less-than-handy in the kitchen, he was short a hand. _Then he's kind of short on top of everything. Cute and petite, fiery, a nurse, he's special and he can cook…sorta. He will cook, anyway. Be still my heart. Don't worry, we'll fit together in bed; that's the important part._ Peter turned and Sylar adjusted his expression to accommodate direction. Pills. _He'd really let me handle the pills?_ (He didn't know if they were _their_ pills or not). While Peter actively cooked now, Sylar went over to the microwave to check out the doses on the back of the boxes, one in each hand. _Yes, I can see what they are, Peter, I don't need you to tell me_, he thought in unvoiced response. He was busy frowning at the directions. The Tylenol said two pills was the serving suggestion. _Serving suggestion? Why do they call it that? It's drugs, not cookies. Is there a calorie limit, too? I mean seriously…Like I'm gonna get fat on painkillers. My liver will go before that. _A look at the decongestants; two pills, _Isn't that a lot?_ A nagging thought about how Peter was much more cognizant and able to drug him, should he so chose, circled back around. _They do help, though…_he thought in the medic's defense, _Why are you defending him? Does he need it? No, not from me. Then let him deal with it._

XXX

The eggs cooked fast, which was fine. Peter looked back again, announcing, "Almost done. Want to have a seat?" A moment or two later, he was bringing the meal over and dishing it up while still sizzling faintly in the pan – scrambled eggs with cheese, milk, salt and pepper. Simple and good. Peter scraped out the last half into his plate before returning the pan and turning off the stove. He took his seat, quietly appreciating that the table had been set for him. It was nice having someone help.

XXX

Sylar snapped his glazed eyes from the boxes. He'd been staring and indulging mental tangents too long and Peter was finished. _Impressive. For him, that is_. He saw the eggs as Peter brought them over and they looked normal, smelled normal; having breakfast made for him was fantastic. "Yeah, I was…yeah," he nearly addressed his zone out and brought the boxes to the table. _In case Peter wants some_, he told himself, slowly seating himself. The next challenge was his appetite because it wasn't as strong as it should be, normally was, and would otherwise be at having someone else cook for him. He sat eyeing the food, idly taking up his fork while he tried to address his stomach. His right arm once again placed on the table, he knew it would be incredibly rude if he didn't eat now. Peter wouldn't believe he simply lacked appetite all of a sudden. Then again, Peter had done weird things with the pills that seemed to be connected to if Sylar ate at all or how much he ate; so it was clearly a performance thing Peter was trying to force. Or maybe enforce, but it hardly mattered because Sylar got the feeling not eating would have more consequences than being bad mannered. That decided, Sylar took up an eggy clump and laid it on his tongue before chewing it without haste. "Hmm," he said in appreciation, his eyebrows going up a little. These were much creamier and had less pure egg taste than the ones he made himself. His taste buds woke his stomach and it rumbled embarrassingly. Sylar locked his eyes on his plate to avoid any looks sent his way about that, picking up another, bigger bite.

XXX

Peter heard that noise – both the 'hmm' and the stomach sound. Both of them made him want to preen idiotically. He smiled some, then more when Sylar dipped his head and kept his eyes down. Peter was amused at himself for being so … well. It was stupid and silly to be that easily moved by such small praise, but he was what he was and he wasn't going to apologize for it. Not like he got much of a choice on the matter anyway – he felt how he felt and that was that. He savored the nice feeling while he had it and moved on to savoring the eggs as well.

They were good, very filling and didn't require much chewing, which Peter found to be a strong advantage. There were a lot of things Peter liked to put in eggs and he spent the next few minutes contemplating that – bell peppers, sweet peppers, hot peppers even, mushrooms, broccoli, onions of course, bamboo sprouts, tomatoes, all kinds of things. He ate quietly, comfortable in the silence. Sylar's head was still down, discouraging conversation even if Peter had wanted it. He looked across the table at Sylar's hair, which had seen better days. Peter smiled again to himself. _I've defeated Sylar's hair, if not Sylar himself. I'll bet that makes me a hero to hair everywhere. Hm, what would my super-hero name be? Captain Hair? Super-Bangs? Hey, that's not bad. Then I could have a big 'bang' sound effect whenever I smacked the villain. That would be cool. I could have a neat catch-phrase about 'permanent' damage … My nemesis would be bald, like Lex Luthor …_

He wiped the semi-vacant, daydreaming smile off his face when Sylar looked up at him. Peter was sure he was too late to keep that expression from being seen, so he cleared his throat and set to his food a little more aggressively than necessary. Sylar was eating pretty slowly, so even though Peter readily speared a forkful, he pushed it around the plate fussily until he had less. He tried to pace himself, which was leaving him with more time to think than he wanted. He eyed Sylar as if he was about to speak, then changed his mind. 'What are you planning on doing today?' was a stupid question. Sylar probably had no plans at all, and even if he did, he shouldn't. He'd be best served by bed rest with minimal activity, and maybe another round of ice packs.

_Telling him he needs to stay in bed won't go over well. And maybe that's what he plans to do anyway. I can think of other ways to phrase it, I'm sure. I'm kind of looking forward to working that puzzle. Should I say that?_ Without actually thinking out what he wanted to say, he opened his mouth and began. "I was going to go to the grocery store after we finish eating. Is there anything in particular you think I should get? I was thinking milk and another dozen eggs."

XXX

Sylar gave the inquiry a few seconds before allowing any reaction, just in case it was a trick question. It didn't appear to be. "Um…I guess whatever you eat for snacks…" _Because that way I'd know what you like to eat. Assuming you're staying around, that is…_ "If there wasn't any of…what you eat here. No cinnamon raison bread, sorry," he gave Peter an amused, jesting smirk. _Time out. Did he say another dozen eggs? Is he re-stocking my kitchen or does that mean he'll be sticking around to make more eggs, say, every morning?_ His expression faded to contemplating for a bit, but he was still focused on Peter. "Milk and eggs sound fine to me," he conceded eventually, neutrally, his thoughts still processing the egg conundrum.

"Are you looking to move in or something?" _Which is fine…more than fine, actually_. It would be great, fun maybe, when they weren't busy decking each other into unconsciousness. Or maybe that's what make-up sex was for because it wasn't like he knew anything about it. Sylar asked as he poked with purpose amidst his eggs, chewing to keep his face busy and to hide his delight at the idea. _He practically lives here anyway. He busted my door down twice, making me breakfast and getting groceries?_

XXX

Peter half choked at Sylar's question, then laughed - tense at first, then relaxing. "No," he said bluntly, unconcerned about the potential rejection he might cause. He eyed Sylar, a smile hurting his face as he tried to corral the swarm of thoughts and feelings that very casual, open question had provoked. "I guess it kind of seems like that, huh? But no, I'll leave you to yourself once I think that's safe_." Right now you can't get from bed to bathroom without help. Or rather, I figure you __**could**__, just like you got yourself to the kitchen and helped out, but expecting you to take care of yourself unassisted right now is like expecting me to play the guitar with one hand broken. It's not gonna work._

XXX

Sylar stabbed the eggs, staring Peter down with a lot of heat. _Moving in with me is laughable. Not that we didn't know that already_. The anger of being mocked filled him up because it had nowhere to go. _You laughed at me_. Why was babysitting and making sure Sylar stayed healthy suddenly a matter of national security? It had never been before (until they'd needed him alive to test his brain, of course, for those few weeks, but after that…) _But I'm a damsel in distress. I refuse to be cast as Claire in this. I don't need fucking protection! _That continued to simmer in his chest because his hands were tied; he wasn't healthy or capable of throwing down with Peter because Peter would probably manage to "accidentally" kill him in retaliating. _I don't think you get it, Peter! Don't laugh at the killer with a goddamn fork in his hand!_ Sylar fiddled with it, partly, seriously considering using it – _It won't kill him…_

XXX

He shook his head to further deny Sylar's implication. "My apartment's just fine for me. I spent a lot of time the other day getting it set up how I wanted." _Meaning mostly empty._ It occurred to Peter that Sylar probably wouldn't understand what Peter was trying to do there, with shoving most of the furniture and stuff into a different apartment. _**Peter**_ wasn't even sure what he was trying to do. But it felt important, like if he could just get rid of enough stuff, things would be simpler … understandable … unentangling. All of his ties had been cut, he'd lost his people, so why not throw everything else out of his life, too?

XXX

_What the fuck does that mean?_ Strangely, the implication that a nice apartment building needed "setting up" (_what a mobster term_) before it was acceptable to Prince Petrelli really got under his skin. _Another factor of not wanting to move in with a psycho pack-rat. Your apartment's a mess._

XXX

Peter shrugged, trying to pull himself back to the now and out of contemplation, however indirect, of what was really wrong with him. _Besides, you don't want me here. … Do you?_ He didn't ask that though. Either answer would spell trouble. "I figure we'll see a lot of each other, though." Circling back to the food issue, he went on, "I was just asking about groceries because I don't think you should be walking around for a while. Give it a few days. And a trip to the store gets me out of here in case you want to take a bath or change clothes." _Or lock me out. Which is kind of amazing you didn't do that last night, but maybe you forgot._

XXX

_Is that like saying you broke my legs so I shouldn't be walking type thing? Wait_. Sylar flashed a humorless, dark smirk. _We'll be seeing a lot of each other. This wasn't what I had in mind for 'seeing each other' but whatever gets you off, Petrelli. Right, sure. Because you're just a good citizen who wants me clean….in a lot of ways, I'm sure. Days? Did he say days? _Sylar was still watching his companion, but the glare had faded. In some ways, it was helpful and reassuring that Peter was aware of Sylar's need to have him gone to be able to bathe and change clothes. In others, it just presented more questions and confusion. _C'est la vie, Pierre_. Of course, part of him wanted to do it around Peter as a test, for amusement, to see what the man would do.

Calmly, and more smoothly than he felt with his headache, he said, "That we will," and, taking a risk, Sylar asserted, "I'm going to clean up, yeah." Peter would then stay or go as he saw fit and Sylar would defend himself or harass Peter as needed. Peter now obviously knew he'd been getting the evil eye for some time (and ignoring it admirably) as Sylar's gaze shifted back to the eggs. "What did you do to your apartment that was so important? Install a waterbed? Trampoline and slide combination? A nightlight?" _No, no, I bet it was_ "Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker poster on the ceiling?" Which was useless now as faces were extinct. "A super-size bottle of hand lotion and a Playboy?"

XXX

_Wow, angry asshole._ He glanced down at the boxes of pills on the table, trying to remember if Sylar had taken them. _Possible. Not likely. _'Have you taken your pills lately?' was plenty rude, but being in pain made a person cranky and irritable. And sometimes unreasonable. Even knowing that, Peter couldn't help but smile at Sylar's ever-more-ridiculous guesses. Playing along, Peter quipped, "Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker? I'd take Luke any day. Chuck Norris is just a brute. If you're going to kick people's asses, you need to have a good reason for it. Whose poster would you want up on your wall – you know, popular media heroes and all that?"

He completely ignored the thrust of Sylar's verbal attack as well as the intent of his questions. But he didn't ignore that there was something under those questions fueling the emotion. Something had happened … something Peter had said. _Laughing maybe? Yeah, that was when his mood changed. He wants me to move in with him. 'No more sponge bath' … 'I'm going to clean up, yeah'. Does he seriously think I'm going to take care of him to that level? He doesn't need it! What did he say the other day about me cleaning up that glass and stuff? And the reaction about dirty hands. And the glare when I asked him to go wash up. Hm. Means something. But … he doesn't want to kick me out? He wants me to move in, instead? Boundaries. Already covered he seems to have a loose grip on those. I guess a comfortable balance is a little hard for a watchmaker-turned-serial killer to manage. I think that's it._

XXX

_And we're all thrilled you didn't take the Chuck Norris option because that would make too much sense. You want to see yourself as the fate's-ordained hero with a complex. I should have seen that one coming. Brat_, Sylar thought of Peter's dodge. Mentally, he mimicked Peter's voice with a good deal of feminine tone to the mockery: _'Chuck Norris is a brute. If you're going to kick people's asses, you need to have a good reason for it.' I take it you had good reason, hero-breath?_ Sylar snorted as loudly and contemptuously as possible, otherwise focused on getting the eggs down but his interest in them was waning quickly.

"I'll bet." It struck him that Peter had thrown his own question back. That had him blinking a few times. _Uh…What's the context?_ he nearly thought to ask, a dodge of his own. "Darth Vader, Peter, obviously," was sneered out, glaring daggers at the innocent breakfast growing cold as he stabbed and shifted it around. He was not happy with the turn of the conversation or his answer. Foolish young Gabriel had had a host of heroes and superheroes he'd enjoyed when he could. He didn't believe in that now, having witnessed a lot of things firsthand. Sylar shifted in his seat, body tense now, uncomfortable.

XXX

"Darth Vader's cool," Peter said neutrally, finishing his eggs. "He was powerful." _While it lasted. He had a lot going on emotionally. He was kind of a scumbag, actually._ Peter's lips pressed together in a frown only momentarily broken by taking a drink of juice. There were a lot of disapproving things he could say about Darth Vader, but Sylar seemed to be (mostly?) joking and the joke was at Sylar's own expense. Peter could see the subtext - Luke tried to win Darth Vader over to the side of good, which was momentarily successful, but Vader had died immediately thereafter. He gained so little out of that moment of virtue; it was easy to see how he'd feel used … as well as how that applied to Sylar's current situation. _Save Emma, die in the process – it's a price too high_. Sylar's growing anger made Peter feel like he should apologize, or failing that, touch the guy and reassure that 'hey, I'm not against you,' but that simply wasn't true, was it?


	37. Black, White, and Gray

Day 11, Morning

_You're such a liar. And a suck-up. And you seem almost immune to sarcasm sometimes. Vader's fine, I'm sure, but he wasn't ever what I wanted to idolize growing up. Not that you'd get that._ "Whatever, Peter." Sylar settled with gritting his jaw not to explode until his headache spiked from the pressure, then he unclenched. Badly he wanted a chance to explain, take back or deny the Vader cop-out. _I was a person, too; I was a kid once._ It made him incredibly angry that Peter, generally an all-around nice guy and comic book nerd, wouldn't be accepting of anything less than pure villainy. It wasn't just a reputation thing either – Sylar had tried several times to discredit it himself to no avail. People would believe what they would believe and he didn't come from high standing for his words to have effect. The people who arbitrated had been judge, jury and executioner; that much was consistent.

Sylar knew with a fair amount of accuracy how Peter felt about the Vader choice, hence the lying and sucking-up parts. _Or maybe Peter wasn't sucking up, maybe he was…just…being polite? Really, how else do you handle a concussed killer? _Sharing was something he'd learned early on was dangerous because people were judged on their preferences and judgment led to the jury which led to execution. Besides, no one cared and no one listened. People didn't listen to each other and sharing was a pointless exercise that wasn't therapeutic, but painful.

XXX

Peter looked at the boxes of pills again, but could see that as the beginning of a fight, should he demand Sylar take them. Sylar was acting like he _wanted_ to pick a fight. He wanted to win one (or, rather, another, given that Peter felt Sylar had already won more than his share of fights here). Peter wasn't above taking a fall as necessary, but what could he give Sylar that would calm the guy down? _What does he want? Well, he wants me to move in and give him sponge baths, for one thing. _Peter thought through the consequences of taking a firm stand - trying to force Sylar to take his pills, coming and going without asking his permission, being authoritarian and acting like he knew better. It would be how Nathan would handle the situation, as Peter well knew. And it would only make things worse.

_It's nice to have someone to eat breakfast with. Ah! That's the thing, isn't it? He's not upset that I wouldn't move in with him, he's upset that … he'd be alone again. He said that over and over when I first got here - how much time we were going to spend together. He thinks this is a real world - that I really could just move away and live somewhere else and leave him all alone for another what-seems-like-years to him. That … yeah, that would freak me out, too._ And Peter had something to offer and try to stem Sylar's rising anger.

"I'm not going anywhere, once you get to feeling better." He reached out and took up the nearer box of loose painkillers, shaking out four pills. "I live right across the street. There's nowhere else I'm going to be. I'm pretty sure I couldn't hack three _months_ alone, much less three years. You're going to see me all the time." He set the pills down and reached over for the box of decongestants, glancing over the back of it to remind himself of the dosage, before setting about peeling two pills out of the foil.

XXX

Peter began talking nonsense; it had nothing to do with the subject, but that was fine because it took the wind from his otherwise angry sails. Sylar exhaled roughly, the sound nearing an accepting, agreeable tone about Peter's lone survival skills. Breathing out again released the majority of the tension he held in his body as Peter went about a normal, helpful task, not making any eye contact or demands. No judgment. That was…awfully kind of the nurse. It worked its magic, though; calming him and shaking loose the real answer. As Peter worked with the pills, Sylar spoke quietly, mostly to himself, but loud enough to be heard over the rattling of the foil, "I never really thought about it, but...Batman." _N__o powers, just brains. Money, too, I suppose. That oath never to kill anyone, how ironic. Parents were killed. Maybe Spock, total weirdo brainiac. I always thought Luke was kind of a dummy. Does Princess Leia count? Maybe Rocky; not a lot of brains, no money and a lot of drive, odd-ball southpaw, one-trick pony, did one thing, did it well. _

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar blankly for a moment as his mind worked at that one: Batman. Suddenly he grinned, which hurt his face a bit but he did it anyway. "Your favorite color is black, is that it? Batman, Darth Vader? Ha." He chuckled, amused by Sylar's choices falling into a neat category of 'dark, harsh, prone to snap judgments, emotionally repressed, dresses in black'. "But yeah, man, Batman's got it all. Superman always struck me as being a little … inhuman. Which makes sense given that he's an alien, but I never got the impression that's …" _Um, comic book talk. Rambling. Not good._ The expectation that his enthusiasm was unreturned dampened it immediately. Effusing about the backgrounds of comic book characters was generally socially inappropriate. Peter caught himself, scaled back, self-censored, and finished the about-to-be-a-monologue as briefly as he could. "That's, uh, I didn't think that was what the writers intended. It was just a feeling I had about it." He shrugged, his smile fading fast as he pushed Sylar's pills over towards him and set down the box of decongestants.

XXX

Sylar muttered, "Darth Vader was sarcasm." Obviously. Vader was opposite Luke, enough said. _This is not the time to tell him I know a kid named Luke._ He looked up at Peter from under his brows, only partly hiding his smirk about the switch to Superman. He had kind of offered superheroes as the topic so it wasn't that far off, but this was Peter…and comic books. And the guy was really into it, too. "I think he's supposed to be," he murmured, then louder, ignoring the pills for the conversation, "I mean, he doesn't really socialize and isn't that kind of the whole point of the Justice League? Intergalactic crime fighting. The only humans there are Bruce, Diana, Wally and John. He is an alien and he's got the morals of an alien, he just looks human."

He shrugged. "I thought Nathan was everyone's Superman, but I don't know what that makes you." Nathan – poster boy, looks, job, ladies, power, flight, also dead by Sylar's hand and he was now mentioning this to the guy's baby brother who'd beat his face in a few days ago. "Robin maybe? Same morals and ability of getting into unsolicited trouble." Also, Batman's sidekick, but that wasn't how he meant it. Snapping himself away from what was probably his own awkward-if-honest monologue, he returned to mumbling as he picked up the pills, rinsing them down, "Always thought he was annoying as hell." _It's perfect for you, Pete! Never mind that I think comics are immature – its harmless and he's funny when he's so into it. Dorky, even. Besides, it was something in need of correction._

XXX

Peter had a jolt and gave a grimace at the mention of his brother. His head pulled back and his back hurt as the muscles tensed, especially the small of it. He pulled in a deep breath and fingered the edge of his plate uneasily as he gave Sylar a narrow-eyed look of simmering anger. _Let's not talk about Nathan. I've told you that before - don't talk to me about my family. Wait, is he saying Nathan had the morals of an alien?_ Lips tight and jaw giving him small, shooting pains, he couldn't decide whether to say any of that or leave it alone, as Sylar didn't seem to have spoken with the intent to insult Nathan's memory. It was someone they both knew; Nathan could fly; the analogy was obvious. But most of the time, Peter still didn't think Sylar had a right to so much as speak Nathan's name. Peter winced and pushed himself up, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink, still without speaking. It created an odd silence in the conversation.

"Not Robin," he said a bit sharply as he finished rinsing his plate. _Not fair to judge him. Always living in Batman's shadow. Me in Nathan's? _The idea that Sylar was trying to pigeon-hole Peter annoyed him. _Is he saying I should be his sidekick? Or just that I'm annoying as hell?_ He turned around, leaning against the counter and trying to discreetly stretch the lumbar region of his back. "We're not comic book heroes or villains. None of us are. It's not that simple." His voice retained the sharp tone and Peter was irritated to hear that he'd become irritated again. Sylar was concussed; Peter was beat to hell; and they were in Sylar's apartment where Peter had taken on the role of nurse. All of that conspired to discourage Peter from even contemplating violence, which was what all the tensing up was about. "Listen, I need to get out of here; go take a walk; get some air. I'll come back in an hour or so. You have any idea what you want to eat for lunch?"

XXX

Sylar wrapped up the last of his juice in the face of Peter's baleful glare. _You've got to be kidding me_, was all he could think about that. Laughter burst from him unexpected, sliding quickly into an unamused, hollow sound because it wasn't funny, just…startling. "That's rich, coming from Mr. Black and White," Sylar stated simply. The only color Peter saw was the rosy hue of his glasses. Peter's response was insulting, or it should have been. Peter stretched the truth just like any other Petrelli, like any other hero, so why should Sylar be surprised? _Since when am I not simply a villain in anyone's book? When did that change? _Sylar gave him a dubious look, asking 'are you serious?' even though Peter was visibly torqued. Pity, too, that he wanted to leave because Sylar had almost been looking forward to keeping him around for…whatever came after breakfast. A whisp of unwashed hair sliding onto his bearded cheek had him pushing it back and remembering what that was – bath time.

Another downside of Peter's absence was that Peter, when bothered, was quite fun to play with when he wasn't using his fists (or maybe when he used them, too; the adrenaline rush was quite something now a days). He sighed at Peter's immaturity. _Give him a conversation he wants, I say my piece and he wigs out_. A moment of actual thought to the question, he threw out something basic, "Sandwiches? Whatever you're fixing," the tone was grumpy, but the answer seemed obvious to Sylar.

XXX

Peter scowled and then snorted at Sylar's dubious look, but honestly the man laughing had defused him a little, even if Peter was the target of it. _Message of the day: don't take yourself too seriously. _Plus, Sylar's failure to keep hitting Peter's buttons helped: not mentioning Nathan again right away, letting the Robin thing drop, not directly disagreeing, arguing or telling him he was wrong … _Fine. Let it go. He seems okay about doing that himself, really. Not what I expected. I wish he'd remember to quit bringing up certain subjects._ He still wanted to get in Sylar's face and tell him not to mention Nathan. Ever again. Peter wasn't quite angry enough to do that, though. Instead, he looked away, signaling that he, too, wanted to drop it.

Peter sighed, blowing out some tension as he listened to Sylar's surprising answer on lunch. Surprising because it was an answer - straightforward and easy even if Peter didn't know if he could chew a sandwich. _I suppose I'll find out. Maybe I can get some of that really soft, fakey white bread. _In a neutral tone, maybe a little guarded, Peter offered, "I can make a good PB&J." He watched as Sylar straightened from the table, picking up his plate. Peter moved away from the sink to be out of the way. "Or grilled cheese. I like grilled cheese." He paused to open the fridge and poke around inside, mentally adding cheese to the grocery list.

XXX

Sylar felt his lips trying for a smirk or a grin at Peter's need to specify sandwich-type and talk up his sandwich-making skills. It was completely unnecessary from his standpoint, but not to Peter, apparently. He chuckled to himself as he threw away the eggs, "Sure," he announced about either option. (He did think Peter would make grilled cheese regardless). The plate was harder to manage; he just rinsed it and didn't bother trying to scrub it with his balance.

XXX

He shut the fridge door and looked at Sylar at the sink. "You know, if I thought everything was black and white, I would have never bothered coming here for you." He frowned, not sure what he thought about what he'd just blurted out without thinking. There seemed to be a lot of implications of that statement that he wasn't sure he understood. Peter gave a short shake of his head and left the kitchen, intending to leave the apartment altogether in a few more moments, but not rushing out quite yet.

XXX

Absorbing the empath's words, Sylar frowned. That…made sense in a totally nonsensical way; in a Peter way. _Is that what makes him different? That he can see mainly in black and white, but he can see and accept….deal with the…gray? He can see me? _An unauthorized, unplanned surge of hope tried to warm him but he reminded himself he was fucked up at the moment and took the time to remember why Peter was actually here. He wasn't here for Sylar. That brought the hope crashing down. Sylar turned to see Peter walking out so his companion missed the utterly mournful, plaintive expression on his face. That was for the best.

He followed Peter to the entryway, leaning against the wall there, probably trying to somewhat block Peter from getting to the door now he was here. Arms crossed, his expression was still dismal. "You're right," he said softly into the quiet of life, loud of mechanics room, "Congratulations, you can see a little of the shades of gray. Must be what makes you special." And he meant it – special. It was possible to live in gray and not see it, or rather, chose to ignore it like Angela and Bennet. Or was that…trying to alter the gray and make it fit the black and white?

XXX

Peter looked over his shoulder at Sylar, eyeing him and trying to judge his intent. Sylar's voice was soft and perhaps melancholy, but his individual words seemed like sarcasm even if his tone sounded sincere. It was confusing and so Peter decided that perhaps Sylar felt confused - all of those things at once were quite possible. Far be it from Peter to insist that a person had to feel only a single way at a time. People were messy, as Peter well knew.

XXX

After a moment, Sylar inhaled and went on, almost hesitant in delivery; "It's going to be a tough adjustment for you, huh? I mean…this whole world is gray now. Or, at least, I am."

XXX

_Sylar as … gray. Sylar … Gray. Sylar Gray. Or Grey. Why do I think it's gray? Why does that seem like a name?_ He turned to face Sylar, but looked down as if lost in thought, feeling that nagging 'I can almost remember this' sensation that had preceded straying into Sylar's memories the day before. He didn't want to open that door again, but the small curiosity remained: _Is that his name? Sylar Gray? I thought it was Gabriel? No. No, he said his name was Sylar, period. So that's his name. No matter what._ And that was all Peter needed to keep that memory door shut.

He looked up and considered another angle to it: _You don't know whether you're on the side of black or white anymore? Villain or hero? 'Not the savior kind'._ "People are complicated. I get that," he added the last sentence more softly than the first one. He opened his mouth to speak of his family, then became unsure if he should, as it might encourage Sylar to talk about the Petrellis as well. Peter reached up and scratched at his nose, wrinkling it a little as he looked down, then back and forth uneasily. He exhaled a huff of air and let his face feature half a smile as he lifted his right hand. "If my face and your head are any indication, this is going to be a tough adjustment for both of us." Again he closed more quietly by adding, "We'll get through it, though. I'm … trying."

XXX

'People are complicated'. An interesting statement. One that might even be mistaken for understanding. Forever digging, Sylar thought he smelled….a distinction, maybe something along the lines of 'people are complicated…but _you_…' _More complicated than most, I'm afraid._ The line of reasoning was otherwise lost in his fogged brain however. Sylar had been sweeping his eyes intently yet without any real effort beyond, well, understanding over the man's face, but Peter finished and his gaze dropped to the empath's knees or thereabouts while he contemplated. _Get through…what, Peter? You make it sound like there's __and__ an__ afterlife after-party I'm missing out on and there just…isn't. What you see, for once, is what you get. Me. I can understand you being…unhappy with that reality._ All that was words he wanted to say, nearly did, too. Peter addressed something even more mysterious. Oh, yes, undoubtedly Peter was trying, but what was the brat trying to accomplish? Anyone else would rest on the laurel of being the most important thing to another human being – they might even be flattered. Not Peter. Even without a crowd, the guy was still looking to blaze his own trail. Sylar could understand that even if he didn't like it so well.

Sylar nodded slowly after a long moment of thought, a flick of eye contact to tell Peter that he knew the man was trying, yes. The use of the word 'we' was foreign to Sylar, who heard plenty of 'you', but Nathan was more used to hearing a 'we'. Sylar didn't know what to say to any of it, so he said nothing about it aside from his earlier nod. "You don't have to leave, you know," he said of Peter 'getting some air.'

He was exhausted and filthy – the idea of a bath, while something he reserved for special occasions like injuries and severe stress relief, was kind of girly. Mainly he hoped he didn't fall asleep and drown during said bath. _Peter said not to shower, though_, he prompted himself when he thought of showers. _I know that. _His thoughts came singularly, like a spinning lighthouse shining out in a storm. _Maybe I should invite him in?_

XXX

Peter tilted his head slightly, accompanied by a small rise of his left brow. "Yeah?" Trying to work out Sylar's motives, he mentally reviewed, as best he could, the short exchange preceding breakfast. Sylar had asked for space, but he'd just woken up. Maybe it made a difference that they'd gotten through a meal on civil terms? Though they almost hadn't … yet that, too, might be a help. Peter had gotten angry and it hadn't resulted in Sylar getting punched in his overly large schnoz. It was a small proof Peter was getting better. His frustration at being stuck here, at his mission being derailed due to his own stupidity, had combined badly with his already not-very-latent hostility towards Sylar.

_Do you want me here? Do __**I**__ want to be here? Do I want to be helping you in the bathroom if you've been trying to make moves on me? Do I want to risk you having an accident in there because I'm too squeamish and uneasy about you making moves on me?_ It was a conundrum Peter wasn't up to working out at the moment, not least of which because he didn't know what was likely to happen should he volunteer to help. Despite his usual lack of curiosity about powers and the world at large, he had quite a lot about _people_. What, exactly, was Sylar implying with 'You don't have to leave'? Sylar covered his ass exceedingly well, saying things that were open to a lot of interpretation and then waiting to see how it was taken.

"You need some help getting to the bathroom?" Peter offered, stepped forward and extending his right arm off to the side, pantomiming the motion he'd use to put the arm around Sylar's waist while Sylar's left arm would go over Peter's shoulder. It ran through Peter's head that he'd washed people's hair in basins many times as a hospice aide. It wasn't that hard and it was much safer than risking a fall in a shower. And then there was the possibility of a sponge bath - a real one, not just cleaning the hands. Or not cleaning at all - routine cleaning of the skin was overrated. Aside from cleaning soiled areas, it was largely unnecessary, carried out as a soothing routine rather than something people needed for the maintenance of life. But, then again, soothing routines were pretty important. On the other hand, Peter had not offered any of these other solutions to Sylar and Sylar hadn't said what he was going to do except for his previous expression of intent to shower and shave.

He supposed he could always ask. "What are you going to do, so I know what I can help with?" _Or if I should just stay out of your way._

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar answered at first. Peter went on about…helping. _Who said anything about help? Is that what you think I'm asking for or what I want or…is that just what you wanna do? Why do you need to know what I'm gonna do? Worried I'll have a fun time without you, just me and my hand? _Sylar was forced to reconsider the cons of having Peter in the bathroom. _Is this one of those 'help me by putting me out of my misery' things?_ He didn't think so, but it was still very much on the table whether Peter acted the part or not.

Sylar longed to snap back 'I'm concussed, not a fucking invalid!'…or something along those lines. The actual thoughts were fuzzy, the words not taking shape in his head, but his feelings were a bit clearer.

In the meantime, Sylar just blinked, processing the actual question after his stupidly (somewhat necessary) emotional tangents. "I- um…" _Why do you have to be so fucking helpful? And….specific? Just play your part!_ He hadn't prepared for a Q-and-A session as usual. More importantly, he was trying to think why or what he could use Peter for in this instance. The list was short. All he was going to do was shave and bathe; sure Peter could be useful in a one-handed sort of way in removing clothes and avoiding slippage, but unless Peter was going to play barber, he would be useless. Then he contemplated the whole issue of nudity and his odds of success if he proposed it – was it likely to get him nothing or everything? _Knowing him? Nothing._

Of course, none of this told him Peter's limits and surely the guy had some. Lots, probably. Maybe this was a test. "Just…shower and shave." _Clean my hair because that will bug me if you're sticking around._ The beard was merely impolite if a bit bothersome. Quid pro quo, "What did you want to help me with?" Sylar's hands dropped away from resting against his biceps, arms at his sides now, opening his body and straightening while he leaned on the wall still.

XXX

Peter hesitated, sizing up Sylar's body language. He stopped his approach altogether, not sure what he was getting from Sylar, which was true on more levels than Peter was aware of. His arm, the one that had been extended, returned to his side. "I was going to help you get to the bathroom. As far as maneuvering around in there - it's kind of cramped. I would suggest you put the toilet seat down, put a towel across your lap, and I'll get you the razor. As far as showering …" Peter shrugged and shook his head. "If you're having trouble making it across the room," _and I've noticed you're still leaning against the wall right now, even though you're trying to act like you aren't,_ "then I don't think it's a good idea for you to try to take a shower."

At that point, Peter had to think about things. All of his hospice patients - not that there had been that many of them during his six or so months of holding down the job - had been aged. Those who weren't bed-bound were strongly encouraged to manage their own hygiene. It kept them mobile and independent, as well as letting him focus on the things they needed help with rather than the ones they didn't. But Sylar's main problem seemed to be balance; secondary was memory and focus. Peter didn't worry too much that Sylar would zone out while showering, but a fall? Yeah, that worried him.

His hang-up though was in what to offer instead, or at least what to suggest, because he wasn't going to stop Sylar from attempting a shower if the man was determined that was what he wanted. Peter … just flat didn't want to wash Sylar's hair for him, so he wasn't going to offer that. He'd gotten a moment's odd thrill out of Sylar's appreciation for having his hands cleaned, but Peter couldn't imagine that a more intimate body service like hair-washing wouldn't come with baggage that he didn't want - precisely because other than balance and memory, Sylar was basically competent. Or at least he seemed that way most of the time. Sylar would have comments; he'd probably take the whole thing wrong; it was way more friendly than Peter wanted to get with the only inhabitant of Planet Sylar.

Peter made a 'what can you do' gesture with his hands, turning them palm up and shrugging them out to his sides. "But if you want to try it, or a bath, I can either take off or stay and work the puzzle until you're back out and settled. You tell me what you're going to do."

XXX

Sylar felt frustration; the head rush of being flattered; the interest of a challenge; the stunned pang of being insulted and the sheer annoyance of someone who just…wouldn't. play. along. Peter was placing decisions and preferences, hell, _wants_ on _Sylar's_ plate, shoving them directly in his lap. Sylar was struggling with finally getting something that he wanted; as usual, it came with the fine print of what was appropriate and acceptable in the eyes of others (in this case, Peter). He didn't know what to do with the choice. Again, he had to consciously take the braver step after thinking it over. Around a closing throat, he said, "You can stay." It would show trust…or a complete disregard for Peter's potential for being dangerous.

That said, he didn't know what to do next. Peter kept bringing up the shower option and Sylar was glad he was too mentally blown to process that accurately, otherwise he'd take it as a challenge, a dare, or maybe even a threat. So he stood there, body posture shifting again as he tried to gather his thoughts.

XXX

Peter got another dose of weird body language from Sylar, which Peter decided meant exactly what it looked like - a mixed bag of reactions. It seemed a little high energy for someone with as bad a concussion as Sylar had, which meant something Peter was doing was setting the man off. Peter tilted his head to the side slightly, feeling out in his mind if he should back out, back away, and let Sylar take care of himself.

Peter imagined what it would be like: _You're uncertain, not able to think three steps ahead, trapped here with the guy who beat the crap out of you and you killed his brother. He said, 'You can stay'. Odd tone of voice. Mixed body language._ Something nonverbal in Peter's head clicked to 'take charge', his own demeanor kicking over entirely to the new role. "Okay," Peter said briskly with an easy calm. "Come on. Let's get you to the bathroom and I'll hand you the razor. While you're working on that, I'll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself." He gestured at the work table where the puzzle was. "I'll be out here."

With that said, he stepped forward into Sylar's bubble and started the process of getting the guy where he wanted him. He was aware that what he was doing reeked of a sort of threat, but Peter wasn't thinking about that, or second-guessing his instincts. He was, in his own way, mirroring Sylar in that he was taking the plunge, unexamined and unsure, but unlike Sylar, Peter wasn't entertaining his doubts. He didn't even have them to ignore.

XXX

Peter drew closer, his hands and arms not in positions for attack or even grabbing, so Sylar didn't react much to it beyond standing a bit taller. The medic took charge of his body, situating himself to assist Sylar around, nothing more. Despite the innocent intentions of the touching, even through clothes as it was, it had Sylar's brain hot and buzzing with little explanation. It was about then he processed the words. _Peter's coming in with me? To the bathroom? Uh-oh…._ Then he felt like a lamb being led to slaughter and his breathing picked up. He did not want to be trapped in a tiny space like this with how many sharp, hard objects to bounce off of with Peter Petrelli.

Sylar exhaled through his nose. Something about 'I'll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself' was bothering him unduly and he couldn't figure it. That was terrifying, not even knowing what was a threat and what wasn't. He couldn't plan anything, let alone a defense if Peter decided to blindside him.

They walked together into the bathroom and Sylar clung to the sink counter, almost refusing to budge. "I-I can…get my own bath," was all his brain had to suggest, not thinking it through because he didn't know if he wanted to get it himself or even if he could get it himself. _Maybe that's why Peter offered…?_ An inner voice whispered to him, but he ignored it. "I'm not…." Next his vocabulary failed him, the word 'invalid' escaping him. Mainly he just had to prove he wasn't going to let Peter bulldoze him into who-knew-what. Bath – water - drowning – Peter (nudity). _How am I gonna get naked with him…hovering?_

XXX

Peter got Sylar just inside the bathroom before the man balked, disengaging abruptly to cut in front and hang onto the sink. Peter hesitated a moment, not sure if Sylar had pulled up short because he was afraid, angry, or just decided he'd rather have the sink for balance than Peter. After a second or two of no movement, Peter stepped around the man, trailing his hand over the fabric of his shirt above the lower back. "Coming around behind you now," Peter warned, edging around Sylar. He put the toilet lid down and looked at the tub: no handicap bar, no showerhead extension. Not that he'd expected either in an apartment inhabited by a young person, but you never knew. Plus, it wasn't like it was an ordinary apartment. Or an ordinary person.

Peter looked back, catching Sylar eyeing him from the mirror, accompanied by Sylar making a rapid shift away from eye contact. _Probably not anger, definitely not just getting his balance. That leaves fear._ It seemed reasonable. Peter's job, then, was to follow his script and avoid making unexpected moves. Sylar would calm down on his own, or not (Peter knew there was a limit to how long Sylar would stay on the high alert he seemed on without lashing out). "Kay, I'm going to get the razor." He sidestepped past Sylar once more, again signaling his course with physical contact, and then removed himself from the bathroom entirely.

XXX

Sylar couldn't help sucking in air as Peter's hand drifted over his lower back. The gesture was either a simple 'here I am' or a statement of intent, like 'I'm going to be here soon, don't get comfortable'. While it spiked his adrenaline, it also felt good. When Peter left, he was able to calm a bit. Slowly he moved to sit on the toilet seat, but Peter had beaten him to it and moved the seat cover down so he could sit. While it was kind, it was also annoying – independence not being easy to let go of. With a huffed breath, he sat as directed, thinking he was fairly safe and clothed once there.

The main problem, he was beginning to suspect, was in not knowing what he himself wanted from all this. He either wanted Peter a lot closer and a lot more helpful or a lot farther away, minding his own business. It was safety versus neediness. As usual.

XXX

Peter collected up the razor, all of a couple steps away, and fiddled with it for as long as conscionable. He looped up the cord and shifted the device back and forth, checking it over to make sure he'd wiped it down sufficiently to remove his own stubble leftovers from it. Certain he'd wasted as much time as he could without raising questions, and having heard Sylar maneuver to the toilet, Peter returned.

"You got a plug …" He looked around the sink and mirror, spotting the outlet he needed. "There. Let me just get you a towel to put over your lap and you'll be all set." He fetched one, then got out of the bathroom again, going over to loiter behind the work table. The bathroom door hung open because Peter hadn't closed it. He assumed Sylar would do that once he was done shaving. Or maybe hook it with one of his long legs and kick it shut. In the meanwhile, Peter stared blankly at the puzzle box, the whole of his attention actually devoted to careful listening.

XXX

Peter set him up as promised then vacated. Sylar stared first at the razor in his hands, then at Peter (what he could see of him). It was all rather anticlimactic. The door stood open and that more than anything confused him. _Does he want to keep an eye on me? Watch me strip? Not lock the door so he can barge in once I'm naked in a full tub? _After a moment, he realized he'd forgotten his first task and that he could think (try to) while he shaved. Cutting on the machine, he started on his right cheek first, using his left hand. The vibrations weren't pleasant in his wrist, but whatever. It felt strange to be shaving without a mirror – he'd done it before while on the run – but thankfully his balance issues didn't really extend to proverbial hand-eye coordination.

So he stared at the wall holding the towel racks in front of him and tried to multi-task, thinking and shaving. _Am I…supposed to shut the door? Will it piss him off if I leave it open?_ As he manipulated the razor around and the instrument was brought closer to his facial bones, the buzzing hit his headache and he made an unhappy sound, forgetting his audience. _Crap. Now my head's really buzzing. _His neck was easier and faster and the last thing to be shaved; his lap held a very hairy towel, which he folded up to deal with later. Taking his time standing, he cast a look Peter's way. He was pretty sure the shave job was patchy and insufficient, but it would have to do.

Sylar began to peel and pull his shirt off, lost his balance and thumped his shoulder into the wall with a grunt, still tangled in the shirt. _Get it together!_ He snapped at himself, annoyed by his own clumsiness. Growling under his breath, he managed to sit and get the shirt off. Next, he inched off the pajama pants and tossed them on the shirt, making a pile on the floor. Underwear was obviously last and the toilet seat was cold on his butt once they were off and that was right about the time he noticed the bath wasn't going yet. _Being smart really has its advantages, eh, Gabe?_ A swear word and some careful maneuvering involving flailing arms and legs to keep balance had the water running on warm, slowly filling the plugged tub.

XXX

When Peter heard the steady operation of the razor, he opened the box for the puzzle and sorted through the pieces without dumping them out. He looked across the desk at the chair, still sitting in front of the couch where he'd last been using it. For the moment he was content to stand, which was more about his subconscious being unwilling to calm and settle while he was still worried about Sylar.

The razor stopped and Peter went back to listening carefully. A thud and a vocalization got his attention. Peter leaned out to look in. It hadn't been a fall and he could see Sylar struggling out of his shirt, making a variety of unhappy noises. Peter smiled and leaned back. Sylar's grumbling was human and heart-warming, a weird way to feel about _Sylar_ of all people. Clothes were tossed off, landing on the floor of the bathroom. Only when Sylar's pajama pants joined them did it occur to Peter that Sylar was going for the full monty with the bathroom door wide open. He blinked in the direction of the small room, eyes a little wider than they should be, watching as Sylar's feet kicked into and out of view, to be followed by the sound of the tub turning on.

_Huh. I wonder what he looks like completely naked?_ He tried not to think that, but the thought had already fired through his synapses.

XXX

The door stood open. Sylar left it that way because Peter left it that way. He certainly wasn't going to be shy about things. If Peter wanted to look, he'd look; if he wanted to come in, he'd do it. If it made things awkward for Peter, so much the better – that would just be fair play. The sound of the water was positively narcotic. Sylar sat on the toilet, not jumping in just yet because he'd hated sitting in the rising water as a child while his mother watched him like an overexcited hawk. _/"I got to the bathroom just in time. She was holding you at the bottom of the tub"/ No one wants to be the monster's mother. Can you blame them?_

XXX

Regardless of the direction Peter wanted his thoughts to move, his hindbrain had him staring into the bathroom fixedly, waiting, while a more advanced portion of his brain tried to remind him that patients were patients and Sylar very much fell into that category, or else he wouldn't be hanging out here in the guy's apartment, fixing him meals and dispensing pills. His train of thought was finally broken by motion, and the leading edge of a tall, nude form entering his field of view. He snapped his gaze downward to the puzzle, hurriedly flipping a few straight-edged pieces into the box lid and trying to pretend he'd been sorting them all along.

Various sounds - shower curtain rings squeaking against the metal bar, water splashing - informed him that Sylar had settled, apparently without taking a nose-dive. Peter reached up and rubbed his brow with his left hand, feeling oddly stressed by the whole situation, a lot more than he thought he should be._ Must be something to do with this all being Sylar's head. Must be._ He gave himself a shake and made a single, guarded glance up through his fingers towards the bathroom. Yep, Sylar was in there, with a line of sight straight at where Peter was standing now. Peter's chest felt tight with the awkwardness of the situation. Sighing, and keeping his eyes very much to himself, he rounded the desk and went to retrieve the chair. He might as well get settled in.


	38. Water Torture

Day 11, Morning

Sliding into the almost-too-hot water had his stomach tickling or clenching, it stung his hip and knee and fried his toes; once in, he felt great. Of course, it wasn't going to be wholly relaxing with the door open…Sylar couldn't decide if the heat was helping his headache or sharpening it. With eyes half open, he observed the water pouring from the spout, thinking only briefly if Peter had watched him or cared. _I'm not gonna ask if he liked what he saw._ Peter's ever-professional demeanor was going to drive Sylar further up a wall or it was going to be fun to get rid of. It was getting in the way of Sylar's fun currently. _Who'd have thought he'd be a stick in the mud?_

Idly, his hand rubbed at his chest while he mainly tuned out, feeling himself melt. The water rose and he eventually turned the handle with his foot to shut it off, far too lazy and head-achy to sit up and do it. _Why didn't I think to do this before? Athletes take ice baths and get massages after working out and competing._ Given his size, though, sinking in as far as he would have liked (up to his neck, at least to his pecs) was difficult and left his knees poking up above the rim of the tub with his feet near the drain.

Sylar called out, purely to rattle and irritate his companion, "Peter, you need to try one of these. It's counteracting your fighting skills."

XXX

"Try one of what?" Peter asked sullenly, not looking into the bathroom as he maneuvered the rolling chair back to its original position behind Sylar's worktable. He sat down in it, inwardly regretting his snappish tone. The open bathroom door was bugging the crap out of him, far out of proportion to what it was. Nudity bothered him not a bit, but all Peter could figure was that this showing off was an extension of Sylar making moves at him - either that or some passive aggressive 'you didn't shut the door so I won't' thing. What was bugging him was his uncertainty as to how to respond to it - look?, don't look?, act normal?, go shut the door himself?, what? If he was talking to the guy, though, then he was going to look at him, even though he figured Sylar was trying to bait him into just that. So he looked. He could see Sylar's head and face, along with the tops of his shoulders. From his angle, that was all Peter could see, but to be that slouched down in the tub, Sylar had to be somewhat scrunched up. He supposed he was relieved.

XXX

"A bath, Peter." Sylar was smug in his amusement, shifting his eyes towards Peter enough that he could see that the man was looking at him (_Interesting…_) but Sylar couldn't see the exact expression on the man's face. That had him smirking slightly, facing forward again, sinking further into the bath to try to partially hide it.

XXX

Peter blew air out his nose and shuffled the puzzle pieces mindlessly for a moment. He frowned sourly and ignored Sylar's implication that Peter hadn't been bathing. _If it weren't for being here taking care of _you_, I'd be down at the hot tub at that hotel, soaking it up. _"I beat you up because I was _angry_. It wasn't so you'd be laid up. There was no _plan_. My plan sucks. Don't have a plan." He shook his head and dumped the puzzle pieces out of the lower part of the box, spreading them out and flipping any straight-edged pieces he came across into the box lid. He thought bitterly about recounting, yet again, his mission to have Sylar return with him to save Emma, but it seemed pointless to assert to someone who didn't even believe there was anywhere else to return _to_.

Watching his puzzle pieces as he sorted out the edge pieces and started flipping the rest pattern up, he said, "I'm not a 'planning' guy. I find out what I need to do and then I go do it. It's that simple." _I just usually don't get stranded in people's heads in the process._ All that planning and premeditation struck him wrong in a moral sense. It was too much machination, too inherently manipulative. His father had strongly endorsed complicated, long-range plans; he called them 'strategy'. Nathan had followed along, most of the time rather blindly, which Peter thought invalidated the whole purpose. There was no point in working out your personal goals if they all boiled down to following orders.

XXX

Sylar burst out chuckling, not really interested in holding it back. _Planning? How did we get on planning?_ "No shit, Petrelli." That was so funny and stupid Sylar couldn't think of anything more to say for a while, too busy enjoying Peter's random tangent. Sylar raised a wet hand to comb it into his scalp, the heat starting to make sweat start to prick on any dry skin. His face was next to be swiped, then his neck. Now it was beginning to feel weird to hold a conversation while he was in the bath; that basic instinct of talking while naked starting to get to him. _Oh, well._ "Of all the things you could plan for, getting me a bath wasn't on your list," he chuckled again; _I wish._

XXX

"Sylar … that's why I'm _here_." Peter turned to face the bathroom, looking straight at him. "Do you not get it?" Peter asked peevishly, being less reserved with his comments than he usually was, not that he was a model of restraint when it came to telling people how he felt. "I'm sticking around here to help you take care of yourself - to make _sure_ you take care of yourself. Concussion victims have a bad habit of lying around doing nothing if they aren't watched and st- motivated." He caught himself from using the standard medical term, 'stimulated', which he didn't think Sylar would take right.

XXX

He could feel Peter's gaze trying to bore some sense into the side of his face – Sylar knew Peter. He knew that look. There were different ways to handle it, depending on how much he wanted to placate, play along and make a move later, let it bounce off unheard, or just plain send the glarer into a rage. He settled for a combination of playing along and letting it bounce off because Peter's whole rant made little sense as usual, that and he'd heard it before (and it still didn't make sense). _I should have shut the door._ That was his hacked off thought about the situation. _I could have been having peace and quiet in privacy. _

Then Peter really hit it: _Motivated, huh? You make me fucking lay down, rest and let you do everything and I'm LAZY?_ Not that the theme was a new one. In all honesty, he should have seen it coming, especially with Peter's whole channeling-of-Virginia thing.

XXX

His tone short and sharp, Peter went on, "I am here to make sure that you eat. To make sure you take medications that will help you feel better. To make sure you take basic care of yourself. _And_ in case you have an accident. So yes, as a matter of fact, having you take a bath was on the list. I just didn't figure you'd do it until tomorrow," he huffed.

_Of course he doesn't get it! He's got a fucking concussion, Peter. _He gave an exasperated, purely mental sigh. _Maybe I ought to go take a walk. Maybe he'll be out of the bath with the fucking door closed when I get back. Or maybe he'll have slipped trying to get out, fell and brained himself on the edge and then drowned in the freaking tub - that would be just my stupid luck_. For the moment, the unreality of the world wasn't on Peter's mind.

XXX

Sylar appeared to calmly get out his bar of soap from the tray and shower cover he had. Inside he was seething and doing his best to think of horrible things he could do to Peter with the soap. Continuing with his same thought process as before: _And filthy, too. And stupid_. Sitting up a bit, he went about soaping up, starting with his legs. And just to really send Peter over the edge of sanity, he began to whistle '_Hound Dog_' at low volume – for now. It was fitting. He took another side-glance at Peter lest the man be eyeing him while he soaped up because that would blow holes in Peter's 'I'm not interested' stance he had trouble hanging onto…

XXX

Sylar ignored him; Peter blinked in the man's direction a few times, rolled his eyes a little and went back to the puzzle, ignoring him back. _Leave the fucking door open and want to talk to me and argue about things and … wait, did he start the argument or did I? Are we even arguing? I think we're just sniping at each other. Or maybe I'm just sniping at him. Yeah, that's a great idea, Pete - lecture the guy who has an altered mental state. I'm sure that will totally work for you, right?_

He frowned at the puzzle pieces, completing his initial sort and staring at the straight edges, wondering which ones went where, given that they were inside the lid that he needed to look at. Sylar's whistling caught his ear at that moment and he looked towards the source of the sound. A vision of his mother came to Peter's mind, talking to him with a pleased smile, some fifteen or twenty years before, about how much she'd loved Elvis when she was younger. He stared blankly at the bathroom for a moment before jerking his eyes away. Sylar was doing nothing worth watching - just washing up as far as Peter could tell. The lyrics did not immediately make an impression, but the tune was an earworm.

XXX

Once his body was clean, it was time for shampoo. Convenient that he had to get his hair wet in the waxier, soapy water…Again, lack of or bad planning was biting him in the ass. Sylar quit whistling after a few renditions of the main verse, dipping to wet his hair, clearing his eyes and going about the shampoo. Another check Peter's way as he did it, both arms raised to get all the sections of his head, which didn't appreciate the tilting and angling. He seriously debated making some sort of panicked noise or appearing to 'stay under' too long to freak Peter out. He didn't because Peter would probably come over and get a real view (if he hadn't already), but the idea of CPR was tempting. He went back under to rinse, spitting suds from his mouth, swiping his face to clear it, too.

Not to be 'lazy' and linger, he braced his foot and made a bit of a controlled lunge for the towels hanging near his head on the wall, succeeding in grabbing one. It had his head spinning to the point of dizziness and his hip complaining. Recovering, he took a moment to think how he would get out. He wanted a body-rinse in the shower to get off all the suds from the water and remaining stubble, so he leaned to unplug the tub and begin the draining process.

XXX

The different splashing noises earned glances towards the bathroom - just a basic awareness of what was going on, in case there was trouble. Otherwise, Peter was starting to zone out. Something about 'hound dog' and 'crying all the time' and 'high class' was running through his mind. He tried to recall the rest of the words, remembering having done a few Presley songs on the guitar but having a tough time, at the moment, working out if this had been one of them. Even if he hadn't played this one in particular, he figured he might be able to pick out the notes, with no real limit to the time available to practice, or to think he was practicing.

He had a few straight-edged pieces on the table that he was pushing around, but he'd let himself be distracted and it wasn't like he was in any hurry. Focusing again, he began a more purposeful project of carefully shoving aside all the interior pieces so as to create a space to transfer the edge pieces into and thus free up the lid so he could see the picture. He heard the plug get pulled from the tub, or rather, the resulting noises of cavitation.

Two things struck him one on top of the other: first, Sylar was going to be getting out of the tub and the look/don't look dilemma was still in force; second, Sylar had picked that song for a reason. One of the other lyrics surfaced from his memory all of a sudden - 'you ain't no friend of mine'. "Damn," Peter whispered, wishing he could remember the rest of it, then almost as quickly deciding that he probably didn't want to know. It was most likely insulting. He felt more deeply stung than he wanted to admit that Sylar was probably passive aggressively reminding him that they were enemies and he hated him. Peter shook his head, shoved the chair back, and got to his feet. This was an excellent time to go get a drink, or otherwise fiddle around in the kitchen.

XXX

When the tub was drained or nearly so, Sylar sat up, dropping the towel to the floor, and moved to the middle of the tub, swishing the curtain about halfway and turning on the shower nozzle. He had to move back a bit to get the spray to hit his head and front, the water disorienting, but eventually the rinse was a success.

XXX

Peter had hardly reached the entry to the kitchen when he heard the shower kick on. It was like Sylar had been waiting for his attention to wander and that thought - that Sylar might in fact be _trying_ to hurt himself so he could guilt Peter with having failed - propelled Peter back faster than he should have moved. His head pounded from the sudden surge and he felt dizzy as he gripped the frame of the bathroom door. The shower curtain was partly pulled, obscuring his sight, but he could see Sylar wasn't even standing up. The imagined, deliberate self-endangerment was merely a figment of Peter's imagination. After a few seconds of watching the back of Sylar's darkly haired head dip in and out of view as the man rinsed off, Peter gave himself a shake and returned to his seat at the worktable, all thoughts of getting a drink or politely absenting himself having been driven from his mind by the moment of near-panic.

_Sylar. Showering. Rinsing. Water running down his body._ Peter tried to focus on the edge pieces he was moving out of the box lid. That was really hard to do for some reason.

XXX

After a quick rubdown, Sylar turned off the water completely. The curtain was shoved back and he leaned out to get the towel again, maneuvering with slippery difficulty to get his left leg over the rim to the outside. It was more difficult than it looked and his head being lower than his knees every so often, the effort his heard had to put into pumping was making him dizzy, but not dangerously so. He was so not playing up to Peter's paramedic background – needing saving from the tub like a little old lady. He managed to push himself to straddle the rim (which was now freezing in comparison to the warmer material of the inside of the tub – freezing him in places that failed to appreciate the temperature difference, drawing a hiss from him), still clutching the towel in a death grip; he used it to cover himself decently. It was easier to brace himself on the far wall and spin to get his right leg on the outside so he sat on the rim.

He had either the worst or the funniest image: _/Ripping the buttons of the jacket he wore as a shirt, yanking off shoes and socks to turn on the shower as he jumped in, his jeans still very much on. A fast dip to get his hair and torso wet, he snatched a hand towel and ran for the door, already annoyed by the knocking because he knew the irritating source on the other side; what with her "Gahbrielle"-ing. Adrenaline was high, his brain buzzing most pleasantly at having conquered and dominated – ridding himself of a threat, really, a step closer to completing his goal. He slowed enough to open the door. "I didn't hear you with the water running; is everything okay?" He'd added some fake hard breathing while he pretended to dry his hair, baring his chest all the more to her former-nun's innocent eyes. It worked like a charm and he enjoyed the whole ten seconds of silence and lusty, devoted attention./ Guess that answers whether or not I walk out wet_, Sylar sniggered to himself, wrapping the towel around his hips.

Smug, still dizzy and heat-baked with a blasting headache, he padded right out of the bathroom.

XXX

Peter heard Sylar getting out of the tub, but he wasn't paying any attention to it. Sure, he would have perked up, maybe even jumped into action had Sylar fallen, but it didn't happen and so his thoughts continued unhindered. His brain was totally fuzzed up with his imagination filling in what he wasn't seeing behind the curtain, troubled about Sylar hating him and being unwelcome, troubled about having lectured Sylar stupidly and rudely, troubled about whether he needed to worry about Sylar hurting himself on purpose and trying to nail down why he'd even think that. It was too much to process, so he sat there, absently rubbing the edges of a particular puzzle piece.

A part of his brain perked up at Sylar's entry to the room. Sylar's very presence was a vague threat and there were too many mixed signals for Peter to discount it. Plus, there was that burning curiosity in his head, working at him, wondering what he'd see. Peter decided immediately to satisfy that urge rather than sit there consumed by it. Sylar had left the door open; walked out; apparently he didn't mind being seen. _Whatever_. Peter turned and looked, for as long as he thought he could politely get away with, which wasn't long. Head (bruised face); wet, hairy chest; nice stomach (bruised over one hip); black towel; thighs; calves; feet (reddened skin on the toes of one foot); and back up his eyes went, no faster or slower, just a steady, quick once-over. Or twice over. His eyes went last to the hand holding up the towel. The cloth wasn't tied off or tucked - just held. Kind of … precarious. Peter turned back to his puzzle.

XXX

Peter looked up immediately which was gratifying as was the look, head to toes to head again, all with the Peter version of a non-expression. He didn't miss the glance at where he held the towel, either. _Uh-huh, Peter. Not interested at all, are you, big boy._ Sylar wanted to smirk, but didn't because that was a solid point for him – his face was probably smug anyway. When Peter had looked his fill and returned his gaze to the table, Sylar went about his way, walking by the watch table Peter sat at to get to his dresser on the other side. He paused, though, to look the puzzle over. Peter wasn't finished getting the outline out yet, but Sylar thought he'd imbue some wisdom for when he did. "The pros use color- or shape-organization in groups of six, by the way." Then went on his way for clothes.

XXX

Peter swayed away when Sylar stopped to look over his shoulder, far enough away that Peter couldn't feel the heat that he knew was probably radiating off the man's skin. He could certainly smell him and Peter wasn't usually all that sensitive to such things. But freshly washed, virtually steaming, right next to him? Yeah, Peter was not a stone, even if all sorts of parts of him were perking up about the awkward situation.

He kept himself from snapping something argumentative and bitchy, because he knew that was just frustration wanting to talk. He kept telling himself there was nothing to be frustrated about, even if he desperately wanted Sylar to get his clothes on and stop acting _weird_. Even more he wanted to stop his brain from helpfully and eagerly suggesting that _**now**_ was a perfect time for Sylar (or someone else, like … someone helpful and considerate) to apply ben-gay to Sylar's undoubtedly sore muscles, or reapply the wrap to the man's wrist, or … whatever. Peter tried to ignore all of that, his forefinger and thumb having long since found the center of rotation for the puzzle piece in his hand, the same one that had been there minutes before, spinning it slowly and jerkily as he continued to endure this freaking water torture going on behind him.

_He's an asshole. He's a serial killer. He's a psyc- he has mental issues - he's got to. He's messed up. He's compromised. He can't be trusted. He's doing this on purpose. He's trying to get to you. Shake it off. Ignore it. Do your job. Focus!_ He set down the puzzle piece at last and started to reach for another, then changed his mind and dumped the entire lid, beginning to flip those that had landed upside down, right side up. He got faster as he went, mind slowly pulling itself out of the gutter as his self-talk finally had the desired effect.

XXX

Sylar found a problem. Well, more than one, but they fit under the sub-heading of 'one problem'. _Well, I can't ask Peter to stand up and do it. He'll think I'm…Uh…I could…kneel down….but with the towel…Bend do- no, I'll fall over. And Peter's right there. Crouch?...That'd be worse. Maybe hold the…dresser? And ease down or…something? _So there he stood, in front of his dresser, slowly getting goosebumps from being wet and drying in the cooler room while still dripping due to the dilemma.

XXX

Peter glanced back, out of the corner of his eye, wondering about the continued inactivity. It occurred to him he was a lot more calm about having Sylar unobserved behind him than he had been even a few days before, but perhaps Sylar's condition and relative nakedness had a lot to do with that. But why was Sylar just standing there? "You okay, man?" he asked in a low voice, head canted to the side, looking at Sylar out of the corner of his right (good) eye.

XXX

"Uh," he grunted. _Maybe just…get my jeans?_ Sylar pivoted to look around for the pair from the other day, "Where are my…" he whispered to himself. _Those were dirty anyway. New jeans?…I need clothes! I just need to get dressed! Can I even get into jeans by myself? Who cares? I am not asking him for help. _He wobbled his way to the closet, settling for 'plan B' of jeans and button-ups instead of the easier, more comfortable, yet inaccessible pajamas. Opening the door, looked at jeans and a shirt. He would still be missing his undershirt, boxers, and socks, but he could go commando, right? Sylar adjusted his towel, firmly tucking an end under to hold it up. It freed up a hand to get out the clothes and shut the closet door whereupon he walked back to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat again. His headache was only getting worse and he was getting tired, but there was nothing for it. He had to dress. What about the door? Shut it now or…

XXX

_Changing out of pajamas, I see_, Peter thought, watching Sylar's progression with clothes. _Does he think he's going to get out and about today? Or does he want to defend himself better? Should I say something or mind my own business?_ He exhaled voluminously, gave his head a slight shake, and finished flipping his puzzle pieces. He hooked a couple obvious pieces together and then looked at the four corner pieces, figuring out where two of them went for sure. The other two were less easily determined, but he took a guess and put them down on opposite corners. They had to be somewhere.

He watched as Sylar finished wobbling into the bathroom, moving carefully so as to hold clothes and not lose his towel at the same time, or so Peter supposed. _Really, he should have just left the fucking towel in the bathroom. If he doesn't want me to see him, then why is he parading around? _"Sylar, please shut the bathroom door." That 'please' cost him, but he got it out anyway. He couldn't do anything about the somewhat grating tone of voice though.

XXX

Sylar growled underneath an exhale. _Fine!_ Was his immature response while 'Yes, dear!' would have been his answer had he not been concussed. _You were the one who should have shut the damn door, Petrelli, but nooo…It was not my idea to leave it open_. Sylar reached out a foot and gave a swinging kick to get the door closed, but not latched properly. Conveniently, it jacked his hip and made him groan, which was probably Peter's scheme all along. "Uhh…" He made to clutch at his hip, but stopped himself short. Now out of sight, he gave himself a moment to recover from the stretch and sudden pain. Sylar removed the towel; again freezing his ass on the toilet seat, he began to rub down to dry as quickly as possible without losing balance. Jeans were shaken out and he put both feet in, wrangling the fabric around until his soles touched the floor again. He took his time to stand again, much more at ease knowing he wasn't being watched, yet still nervous for that same reason, so he didn't rush the pants process. Buttoned and zipped, he looked around the bathroom while his fingers rubbed at his abdomen, seeing nothing that he was forgetting, he still wanted to brush his teeth. _Egg breath_. Brushing went without a hitch beyond a few stumbles and blinks for balance.

He slowly leaned for the used towel he'd set on the toilet seat, hanging it up to dry. Sylar raked back, as best he could, his tangled still-wet hair, making more unhappy noises at it. It needed to dry, so he snagged a hand towel and his shirt and threw open the door, probably subconsciously to see if he could startle Peter.

XXX

The door shut; Sylar made a pained noise. Peter's head jerked up and he watched the door for a moment, but there was no other sound to indicate help was needed. Miscellaneous, normal sounds issued from the room, so Peter went back to his project. He set up the lid, nested in the box itself, where he could see it easily and started to work.

Minutes passed. Water flowed - it sounded like Sylar was brushing his teeth again. _He really seems to have something going on about being clean. Considering what he's done - all the blood - that's just so weird. Maybe there's something psychological about not being contaminated by the kills? 'Blood of Jesus washes me clean' sort of thing? I wonder what he believes in? 'I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: blood.' _Peter grunted suddenly, tensing in his seat and hunching a little as his mind stumbled over a traumatic event he had definitely not finished processing. From Peter's point of view, the whole mess at Thanksgiving had happened less than a month previous. He put his hand over his brows, shielding his eyes while the moment passed. Being forced to sit helplessly and watch while someone he loved was about to be murdered had wounded Peter in a way that had yet to heal. Betrayal stacked on betrayal that morning.

_Poor choice of things to think about. Just don't think about it. My own fault, really-_

And at that moment, Sylar flung the bathroom door open abruptly, sending Peter back along the fight-or-flight spiral with him kicking away reflexively from the desk even as his right hand skittered suddenly along the top of the table, reaching for something, anything, any of the likely and usable weapons stacked neatly on that side. Puzzle pieces scattered. His brain started catching up with his body as he managed to bump the lamp hard enough to make it wobble in his blind grasping. Since Sylar was just standing there, Peter risked a glance at the source of the new motion to his right, saw the lamp was already oscillating back to stationary, and his hand fell on that screwdriver he'd looked at much earlier.

He stared at that instrument for a half second, then lifted his hand away from it, leaving it on the table. _We're not fighting. Stop it._ He shook his head and glanced sullenly over at Sylar. Peter reached up and stroked his left hand over his forehead again as he tried to calm his racing heart, shielding the left side of his face from view even as he continued glaring with his right eye, teeth slightly bared.

XXX

Sylar stood still, eyes wider than usual, waiting for Peter's reaction to…end. _Nice to know he's calm, medicated, and well-adjusted_. His gaze followed Peter's hand, whacking the lamp before settling on the screwdriver. _Are you gonna use that, Pete? You have a serious thing for ironically sexual tools that make for great...whatever that term is_. Sylar wasn't worried for his safety, though, but his face showed disapproval, when he made eye contact, that Peter would feel the need to grab for the screwdriver at all. His head was officially killing him, the drugs he'd had for breakfast were probably long gone from his system; thinking was becoming difficult and all he wanted as a nap. Cranky and feeling a permanent frown coming on along with his own partial glare to match Peter's, "That made my top ten list of…" he paused, pushing the pounding blood in his head away to allow words to formulate, "reactions to me being shirtless. Bravo." Sylar gave a single clap, moving to sit at the head of his bed, behind Peter.

XXX

Peter pivoted the chair to track Sylar's progress. When the man settled on his bed, Peter swung back the other way, partly facing away, but completely blind to Sylar because it was Peter's left side towards him. That was intentional - he wanted to prove that he wasn't afraid of Sylar, to himself at least. Peter shook his head slowly and ran his left hand back through his hair in a single, prolonged rake. He sighed, letting the tension defuse as much as it would with the nagging awareness that Sylar was a few feet away, unseen. Peter didn't think he had anything to rationally worry about - it was the irrational responses that were getting him. He didn't beat himself up about it. It was just a thing he'd get over eventually, or maybe someday his paranoia would be proven right. Frowning at that thought, he leaned back in the chair a little and looked to his right on the desk. He hadn't managed to knock anything over. He pushed the puzzle pieces at the edge back onto the table and looked down at the ones on the floor.

XXX

_Well, that was dramatic_, Sylar thought, moving his pillow beside him, laying his shirt on it. He leaned against a tall bookshelf that served as his headboard, crossing his ankles and taking up the towel to dry his hair. Something was tickling his brain to fits of amusement because Peter had strewn puzzle pieces across the floor and Peter was going to have to pick them up. With his head buried in the towel, he chuckled a little, eyeing the pieces. "Think you missed a few, Peter."

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said blandly, having finally calmed back down. One thing the excitement had done was driven out of his mind whatever had upset him in the first place. He decided not to dwell on recovering that thought and instead stood, rolling the chair out of the way. He stepped away, used his foot to scuff some of the puzzle pieces out of his way, and used his right hand and then elbow to brace himself on the desk as he went down to his knees, roughly facing Sylar. He scooped up the pieces quietly.

XXX

Sylar watched in equal silence. Hair as dry as it was going to be from the towel, he patted his shoulders, chest and neck to rid his skin of any additional droplets.

XXX

"I'm going to go to the store," Peter said in a subdued tone, as if trying to compensate for having overreacted by going to the other extreme of sedateness. "You want anything else other than bread, eggs, milk and snacks?" He collected up the last of the pieces and dumped them on the worktable, giving a final look around to make sure he hadn't missed any before rising to his feet.

XXX

_What? But I just got here. I'm awake, fed, clean and…_Sylar glanced down at his bare chest, then back at Peter. _Mostly dressed._ He winced and his hands itched at the sight of Peter carelessly dumping the recovered pieces onto the table, atop other pieces and the border the nurse had been working on. That arrangement, or lack thereof, would bother him greatly – pieces on top of pieces, most likely upside down, all over the place with no order, the framework a mess and buried. _But if he's leaving am I allowed to play with his puzzle?_ It might be a consolation. "I don't think so."

XXX

Peter nodded, pushing the chair in as far as it would go on the worktable and walking past, making another unnecessary, nerves-driven swipe at his hair as he did.

XXX

_Are you sure he's coming back? His watch his still broken…_"I can fix that, you know. Your watch." Sylar pointed to it, looking up at Peter, his face hesitantly hopeful and resigned to pout eventually at being left alone.

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter asked, looking down at it. _I don't want it fixed_, was his immediate thought. On the heels of that was, _Why would he want to fix it? Is that like something to do in return for me taking care of him? Or just a clumsy apology for scaring the crap out of me just by opening a door too fast?_ He made his way to the apartment door and paused next to the far arm of the couch. The ritual of politeness required him to say his good-byes and receive an acknowledgement before leaving.

Speaking of acknowledgement, he had to say something a little more meaningful in response to Sylar's … not really an offer, more like an observation. It was oblique, like a lot of what Sylar said. He was very indirect in his communication. 'I _can_ fix your watch', not 'would you like me to fix your watch?' or the even more direct of 'leave your watch here and I'll fix it while you're out.' His actions weren't much better - something that was a straightforward expression of intent and sentiment in a normal person came off ambiguous and uncertain when Sylar did it.

Peter held the watch up to his ear, but it was impossible to make anything out given the constant background ticking in here. It made him wonder how Sylar managed to do repairs in here at all, or maybe the other man's senses were just more refined than Peter's. Peter had, after all, no difficulty in following Sylar's pulse or picking up minor variations in his breathing.

XXX

The empath lifted his watch up in an attempt to 'hear' it. Somehow, that gesture, to this day, still bothered Sylar. He knew the average person's hearing was far below his level, so what the hell did they expect to actually hear when they did that? They only checked it like a heartbeat – if they heard sound, they moved on, assuming everything was working properly, too stupid to know that the watch might not be keeping the correct time. Most times he saw it, the customer of Gray and Sons was double-checking his work, like they thought he was some half-trained, dim-witted circus monkey fixing their watch. They'd do it within his sight, too, insulting his profession and his talent. Then there were the times he saw that gesture made when he knew the person didn't care about the watch – they cared only about the time, rather, the time they might not have if the watch was malfunctioning. They, the watches, were rarely broken, but that flew in the face of everything Americanized, consumerist, digitalized society thought. Sylar felt a tendril of hope when Peter ceased his listening and actually examined the watch.

XXX

Peter studied the timepiece, thinking_, I wonder if it's working by counting off time as it is in the outside world? I don't remember what it was when I looked at it before … twelve something. If I measured it and it was a little different, like seconds in the real world are hours here or something, would that matter? I don't think that would tell me anything. All that matters is how long it takes to get out of here; if I can think of a way to save Emma …_ And he didn't want to admit it to himself, but he knew it was there somewhere: that he didn't want to go back and admit defeat, that he'd come here to get Sylar and save Emma, and it wasn't working out.

He frowned at the watch and his thoughts. "What do you think's wrong with it?" he asked mostly hypothetically, not intending to turn it over for Sylar's fixing, but willing to make conversation about it.

XXX

That was another thing Sylar had often heard – the DIY-er or the cheap or deal-hunting shopper, the businessman, the paranoid or fond owner's question. It was almost a test, a standard one, but he liked it. It meant the person might have a care for the watch itself, not just the time it carried. "Could be lots of things: could be general damage, age, or poor construction, a screw might be loose," Sylar listed that one with some relish; the tie-in being close to what he thought about Peter's mental state. "Some parts may be warped. I doubt water damage or weather. Sometimes the owner's electrical fields screw up the battery, but your battery is fine. It might be a dial pin getting in the way of a train wheel, something might be too tight, it might be overly magnetized, a screw might be too long…uh…The list goes on. Think of all the things that can go or be wrong about a human body and you'll come up with…a similar number of things that can go wrong with a watch. Usually I can tell from a distance, but I don't…see anything wrong with it, so I'd have to look." He noticed he'd not been given a hint of preference towards having it fixed or not beyond Peter's distance. Sylar doubted he'd be getting a peek inside, but that didn't stop his hands and brain from itching to do just that.

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar initially as the man began to rattle off possibilities. Then he looked at his watch and fiddled with it on his wrist. _How do you know my battery is fine?_ He'd gone through a number of watches in the last few years, screwy electrical fields being the least of his problems. "Heh," he grunted softly as he recalled that he'd lost one while in the future getting, or trying to get, Sylar's core ability. And then being nearly vaporized minutes later. Proof positive that regeneration could bring him back from ludicrous amounts of damage - one of those times when he was glad the perceiving portion of his brain had checked out. Either that or Claire had recovered first and shoved something in the back of his head. _Yeah, that's probably more likely._

Sylar finished and Peter looked back up at him, trying to recall the end of that list he'd … um … sort of tuned out on. "Yeah … you'd have to look." He fidgeted with it a little more on his wrist, still making no move to take it off. "I … I'll think about it." His eyes dropped, skimming briefly over Sylar's still shirtless form, over the worktable and across the floor. There was the tote, unattended and off to the side. A thought from earlier resurfaced, probably in response to Sylar making something of an offer to be helpful, even if Peter wasn't going to take him up on it.

"Hey," Peter said, walking to the tote and starting to bend to it too fast. Assailed by dizziness, he caught himself on the arm of the couch; swayed for a moment, then continued on to snap off the lid like it was no big deal. He had to go down on his knees to dig through it properly, finding what he wanted and struggling back to his feet. "Here." He started to toss over the tube of ben-gay, then reconsidered and walked the few steps over to Sylar. Peter would be throwing left-handed at a guy whose equilibrium was compromised - simpler to walk.

"Smear that stuff around before you put your shirt on. You'll be more comfortable." He offered the container. "I'm going to head out now. I'll be back in a couple hours."


	39. Puzzling Future

_Day 11, Late morning_

Sylar knew Peter was trying to make an exit. Peter balked at handing over the watch. _What's to think about?_ 'What?' started to make its way out of his mouth before the nurse looked him over again. _You'll…think about that, too? My body? _Screw the shirt; that thought was plenty warming. Peter bent too quickly and Sylar almost started up himself in response, but the empath covered it. Sylar frowned, desiring to nag 'be careful' at him. _What's he looking for? Duct tape?_

The man made to throw something at him; he reacted on instinct, sitting up, and moving his hands out to intercept but whatever it was didn't leave Peter's hand. Sylar felt his lips thin out. He took the tube of…ben-gay, following the arm that held it up to Peter's face. _Smear it where?_ He thought to ask, clueless. _Okay, I'll…figure it out. Can you find your way back, Peter? I've heard 'I'll be back' before. But he did come back. For now, at least._ He nodded once, roughly. Peter might very well disappear as quickly as he'd appeared and that was very worrisome. It wasn't above his mind to fuck him over, too, just for laughs.

XXX

Peter gave a final bob of his head in response to Sylar's uncertain nod, like the other man's acknowledgment and approval of Peter's departure was difficult to grant. _Whatever._ He left, shutting the door behind him and walking slowly to the elevator, listening. It was only as the doors dinged open that he realized what he was doing - listening for the sound of the lock on Sylar's door, which didn't come. But as the elevator doors shut, he supposed that wasn't conclusive of anything. He'd kicked the door open before, so why would Sylar bother?

It was something he mused on as he walked to the store, meandering off course for a block, but then finding it on his first course correct. He wandered inside, not feeling any great rush. Sylar's bath had not taken hours, nor had their talks. So Peter figured he had plenty of time until lunch. He found himself staring at the frozen food section, where he liberated a couple bags of veggies before returning to the front of the store. He arranged a seat for himself on a pallet of forty-pound bags of dry dog food, lounging back with a bag of broccoli on his right wrist and hand and frozen peas over his left eye. It felt good to relax, but he felt lonely and purposeless.

He shut his eyes and daydreamed about being a kid, laying on the couch in the living room and reading his comic books, having positioned himself where he could see and hear the comings and goings of people in the house. His mother, the principle one whose movements he'd followed as a kid, had meant so much to him. She still did, but there wasn't a member of his family who hadn't abused his trust in profound and what seemed irreparable fashions. He supposed it was nice he'd managed to reconnect with Nathan before … _Walking down the hallway at the Stanton Hotel … 'I love you, Nathan.' 'I love you, Pete.' _He shifted the bag of peas and wiped at his eyes, sighing. He didn't want to think about that - it just made him hurt inside. He tried to think of nothingness, tried to remember the lessons on meditation and the passages he'd read in trying to educate himself on the human spirit.

Peter succeeded in zoning out, getting up a couple times to switch cold packs until the rumble of his stomach finally signaled the end of his repose. He rose stiffly from his odd resting place, setting aside the latest slightly squishy bags of vegetables and rubbing the cold-numbed parts of his body. He took up a basket, and set to shopping. _Milk, eggs, bread and … what else was there? Snacks, right?_ He picked up a can of applesauce, hefting it. A moment spent contemplating attempting to use a can opener had him putting it back on the shelf and going for the single-serving plastic cups of applesauce with foil lids - much more manageable. He snagged a few banana pudding cups and those for clear, red Jell-O. He grunted to himself at the hospital-food-like aspect of his choices, and picked up a canister of cheese-flavored Pringles partly to dispel that image. But in observance of his still sore jaw, he added a loaf of the softest white bread he could find, and a couple bananas, then hit up the section in the back of the store for eggs and milk.

XXX

Peter left and Sylar was left staring at the ben-gay and a frazzled puzzle. It was worse than when he'd dropped Peter off at his apartment. He'd had a concussion then, too, but it was difficult to give the equivalent of waving good-bye. And to do it so casually. It was baffling. First things first, Sylar moved to sit in the seat Peter had vacated, getting closer to the puzzle. He began flipping over the wrong-side-up pieces, taking his time, using both hands. _He came out of nowhere, babbles some nonsense at me, beats up a few buildings, my door, avoids me, then comes back to beat me up…Oh, yeah. Then he takes care of me, but insults me._ A pause in his thoughts; he adjusted the border pieces, making them straight – the rearranged pieces were set inside and outside (as he lacked room to do otherwise) the border, face up now. Of course, his mind, despite being busy, prompted him to coordinate them by shape. _I suppose insulting me is…natural. But who does that? Beats someone into near-unconsciousness then takes them home and gets them ice and…clothes and food and baths?_ Sylar wasn't complaining. He loved the company, once it was established that it was fairly safe company to be in (so long as he was injured, it seemed)…_I wonder if he'll go back to beating me up once I'm better...Probably. _Sylar wondered if he would mind that cycle…_Not if he takes care of me afterwards. That's new. So long as he sticks around, that's the important thing_. And that was what worried him most now; being unable to go find Peter, bring him back if he had to. _He wouldn't leave. Little idiot thinks he needs me. _That relaxed him somewhat, enough, anyway.

The pieces organized as he wished, Sylar stared at them for a while, his natural itch present, wanting to connect the parts, make a whole. In a way, if he pushed aside his urge, he enjoyed looking at the deconstruction. His head throbbed harder; probably overheating with the amount of thought he was trying to push through it. Sylar stood and made his uneasy way to the kitchen, making an ice bag with cubes, grabbing a towel with additional consideration. A few minutes later, he sat on the bed, sat on the tube of ben-gay, actually, to his annoyance. He sighed. Putting it on would mean he'd have to wash his hands, get up again. Setting aside the towel, he uncapped the tube and began rubbing the stuff into the back of his neck. He debated putting it on his forehead and wondered if that was bad for his skin, so he didn't. _Should've had Peter do this_, he mentally grumbled, applying it to his left wrist after removing the wet bandage he'd forgotten before. After washing his hands, he slid into his shirt and buttoned three or four of the lower buttons, collapsing at last in his own bed, throwing the ice pack over his forehead for some relief._ I'll be 'lazy' while he's gone…_

XXX

Fully laden, Peter returned to the front of the store and picked out one of the reusable canvas bags hanging near the door, the products trying to encourage imaginary shoppers in Sylar's brain-space to go green. Peter smiled at the thought, although his own motivation was the thicker strap of the handle. Everything in one sack certainly wasn't what he would call 'heavy', but it would cut into his hand if he carried it for blocks in a plastic bag. He set off through the creepily quiet city, finding himself looking forward to the mere presence of another human being more than he thought he should be. He assumed that was another aspect of the place. But aspect or not, as he took the elevator up, he had to admit to the reality of the feeling. He knocked at the door, thinking the day wasn't too far off when he'd be knocking just for companionship rather than any concern for Sylar's health.

_I gotta learn how to be friendly with the guy. _"Sylar? It's me," he called out unnecessarily.

XXX

Sylar awoke with an uncomfortable start, hearing a noise, then a voice. _Peter_. His sense of relief at that thought, that name, was strange, yet very welcome. He was becoming more comfortable with the empath, faster than he thought he would. Dimly, he wondered if that should bother him, but he didn't much care. Clearing his throat, he called back, removing the bag of water from his forehead, "Yeah?" _How long was I asleep? I didn't mean to sleep…or did I? My body wanted me __to__, I guess. Is there any help for that?_ He moved to sit up as Peter came in, passing to the kitchen with a bag. A moment later, the fridge opening and shutting, he returned and Sylar looked him over, almost as if checking for trouble's fingerprints that might be all over the nurse. _There's a thought… _Peter's eye looked better, though; and that was a good thing. Sylar wondered what Peter had been doing while he slept.

XXX

"Hey, how are you-" Peter caught sight of the fact that the puzzle pieces had been rearranged. Part of the thing had been worked - at least by Peter's definition of such. He stepped over to the edge of the worktable and looked it over, an expression of mild amusement on his face, not at all territorial of it. _He worked part of my puzzle. Why would he work part of my puzzle? _He looked back at Sylar, smiling bemusedly. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes next took in the truly rambunctious hairstyle Sylar was sporting now and Peter's smile widened. _What was that I was thinking at breakfast? Peter Petrelli, Bang-Man or something? Oh yeah, Super-Bang. I have defeated Sylar's hair._ The corners of Peter's eyes crinkled up as his smile warmed further. Sylar looked … well, like really something, with his hair fluffy and sticking out in odd directions, shirt partly buttoned and chest visible, bare feet and the usual intent, threatening expression that just looked laughable given the rest of his appearance. Peter managed to succeed in not chuckling, but the desire was probably clear on his face, or as clear as it would get with one eye still mostly swollen shut.

XXX

His companion shamelessly checked out first the tabletop (at which Sylar's face took on a 'what?' type of innocent expression. It was clear his work had been spotted) then Sylar himself. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. _No idea why he's smiling at me; don't really care – its nice_, Sylar thought of the smile. _Make that very nice._ It wasn't hard to see or imagine how Peter got around considering it; that dazzling, disgusting combination that was the Petrelli charm. It was hard to play Johnny Raincloud to that face, too; Sylar's own mood boosting or staying lifted even after waking. "About the same," Sylar said, neutrally positive. _Better now you've brought your smiling face, sexy. Seriously, what is so funny?_

XXX

"Yeah? Listen, my stomach's been rumbling all the way back from the store, so I'm going to make some sandwiches." He started for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "What were we going to have on them, anyway?" The raised voice and twisting his neck hurt, so he stopped and turned back around near the far end of the couch. "Peanut butter and jelly? You've got jelly, right?" _Damn, was I supposed to get that at the store? Did I even check it this morning? I checked the eggs this morning. Did I put the eggs in the fridge just a minute ago? No, just the milk. Probably doesn't matter … they're just eggs. I don't think they go bad quick._

Peter seemed companionable, cooperative and relatively cheerful, all things considered.

XXX

_Why does he keep asking me what I want?_ Sylar thought once he got over his slight surprise at getting away, sans lecture or beating, with the rearrangement of the puzzle. _You're weird, Petr- hmm?_ Sylar's quickly moved his gaze from 'unfocused and thinking' to Peter's as the man turned. He couldn't help his grin. _Yes, Mom, I have jelly for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches_. "I have jelly," was the ambiguous reply.

XXX

"Good." Peter turned to head on into the kitchen, setting out the bread and putting away the eggs. He found jelly in the door of the fridge while he was in there. The peanut butter was also an easy find. He'd already located where Sylar kept most of his canned food (other than that which was shelved next to the front door). He put together two sandwiches, heavy on the toppings for both, and poured two glasses of milk. He put the jug away, standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what it was he was forgetting.

A few moments of silence later, it came to him what he was missing and he fetched painkillers and decongestants, portioning them out on the appropriate plates. A few moments more passed as he pondered. _What's next? Eat out there, or in here? No real reason to eat out there … and getting him to walk in here's probably useful. A little activity. Probably good for him._

"Hey, it's ready." He moved plates and glasses to the table, looking out several times to watch Sylar's progress.

XXX

Sylar easily slid back into catatonia without the stimulus that was Peter in the room. If pressed, he'd say he was thinking about his injuries, and he was. After the bath his muscles (all but the worst bruised ones) had done a fairly good job of relaxing. After his nap, they'd stiffened up, lost their heat, but the rest of his body did feel better, however it served to make the key injuries feel that much worse. "Huh?" Sylar asked to the empty room when Peter called out. Blinking, he focused. _Lunch, right_. Standing slowly, checking his balance, Sylar then limped to the kitchen. At the door he was forced to brace, pause and scrape his wild hair back as it fell in his face before continuing to sit. Faced with sandwiches, he grinned again. _That's right. Peanut butter and jelly Petrelli. I don't have the heart to tell him five year olds can make these themselves._ He did wonder why Peter kept pouring milk for every meal with the occasional break for water and once for juice. Was there significance or did Peter just want his hand to heal up faster with all the calcium in milk?

He lifted the top piece of bread to check the contents of the sandwich. Satisfactory, nothing odd going on, not that he really expected it. Picking it up, he took a bite, carefully around his bruised face. Peter did the same and Sylar really couldn't find anything to point out or criticize or bring up, so the meal was an exercise in chewing.

XXX

Peter's brows pulled together in mild surprise at Sylar double-checking the sandwich. _Paranoid, or just weird? Like you'd even be able to tell if I'd slipped something into the peanut butter, Sylar. _When Sylar gave him no suspicious look to see his reaction and carried on as normal, Peter dismissed it as merely weird. Not that he was above unexplained, outwardly odd behavior himself. He was eating his sandwich in very small bites, drinking frequently and trying not to actually chew so much as gum his food and swallow. That made sense to him, though probably not to Sylar. Peter's jaw didn't hurt very much at the moment, but the key to getting it to _stop_ hurting was to avoid doing things that aggravated it. If he could do that, then the inflammation would fade all the faster.

XXX

Sylar was not very hungry, the time elapsing between lunch and breakfast, the nap not included, was hardly enough for him to digest let alone work up an appetite. He was eating about the same speed Peter was, but the guy had said he was hungry. It wasn't like finishing a sandwich was going to insult Peter's cooking skills…anymore than they were already insulting. As Peter looked to be finishing, Sylar having ground to a halt, he thought to ask something. "So, um…why milk all the time? Milk is fine, doesn't…bother me, but you just…drink it a lot."

XXX

Peter wiped at his lower lip with his left thumb, thinking he felt a crumb or a dribble of milk, but the skin was just odd-feeling as usual. "No, it's, uh … concussion victims don't have much appetite. I'm told for severe ones they sometimes refuse food altogether. Sometimes they're nauseous. Sometimes nausea comes and goes and it can be like that for weeks." Peter gestured at Sylar's plate. "A single sandwich for lunch, a couple eggs for breakfast - they're small meals. Your body needs a lot of nutrients to heal. I'm trying to get as much into you as I can without nagging. I _should_ be pushing fluids, too, but …" He shrugged. "I don't want to wear out my welcome." Peter looked up at the ceiling over Sylar's head, then off to the right as his mind played out the likely consequences of that. "You're not being a combative patient. Last thing I want to do is give you reason to be."

XXX

Sylar blinked and looked down at his sandwich. "Oh…" _That explains it. Wait…he hasn't been nagging, has he?_ He gazed up at Peter a little from under his brows as much as his injuries would allow, "If I kicked you out, you'd probably come right back in." Peter surprised him. _I'm not combative? Hold on….He's…afraid of setting me off? _After a moment's thought: _He is treading carefully, isn't he? I've got him right where I want him._

XXX

Peter looked back at Sylar, giving a small dip of his head. "Speaking of nagging, don't forget to take your pills there." He took his own advice, swallowing down his dose a moment later.

XXX

Sylar was dragged out of his discovery by Peter's voice. Once again, he blinked in surprise. _Did he really-?_ The nurse's last delivery had him chuckling loudly, nearly a laugh. "Okay, okay." He didn't think he'd forgotten the pills. "But I don't think you have the right tone down to be a nag." A compliment disguised as insult. _Nagging is…usually….really bitchy_, at least what he knew of it.

So he didn't finish his sandwich, but he took the pills as directed, making attempts at drinking a lot of milk. _You should be a house-mother, Peter. Such an odd duck._ It got him thinking, though, something that had been on the back of his mind. "What's the order of the day?" He asked when Peter's back was turned. _He's running the ship, I suppose I should ask. He's not…forcing me to do anything._ And again, he had a moment of being mind-blown. _Whoa…he really isn't_. That put his thinking-face on.

XXX

Peter helped put away the plates, eyeing the growing stack next to the sink. "At some point I'm going to have to wash those. But for now, I thought I'd look at the puzzle and see what you did."

XXX

_Yeah, because that's not weird, you doing my dishes_. Sylar stared at Peter, his face blanked and patient. _So he knows I did something. And he's….confronting you about it._ His head tilted slightly in curiosity.

XXX

Peter asked, "Do you want to help? I've never worked one with someone else. It was always something I did alone, when it was raining and I couldn't go visit friends."

XXX

_An invite?_ That was unexpected. "Yeah, sure." He wasn't so much into thinking about the rest of Peter's words; those told him he was a last resort, nothing new there. Or maybe Sylar _was_ his friend and Peter was just stuck home by the rain? Sylar doubted he'd be able to sleep again – for one thing, he was starting to think oversleeping like this was worsening his headache. He'd be at a loss of what to do with himself beyond reading which wasn't much of an option. A puzzle, though, with Peter…

Sylar stood as that seemed to be the thing to do, slowly hitting on what to do next. He brought his glass to the sink and then, wobbling, went back to hover over the puzzle. He knew the bed was too far from the table, the couch was leagues away and there was only one chair…_I must be standing. Maybe I'll be directing or something…but won't that annoy him?_

XXX

Peter half-dragged, half-carried one of the kitchen chairs along behind him with his left hand. Sylar was standing next to the worktable, apparently lost in thought, maybe already putting the pieces together in his mind. Peter remembered that flash of brilliant clarity he'd felt in that future world, where he'd learned how to tap into Sylar's ability. He set the chair down next to Sylar. "I get the good chair. You get this one," he said lightly, making it a joke even as he wondered how Sylar would take the humor. The guy had, after all, called him a loser or something like it the day before, but just because he dished out ribbing didn't necessarily mean he'd take it well.

XXX

Head whipping around as fast as he could, he saw Peter bringing him a chair. _He brought me a chair. Like a girl. He brought me a chair. That was…How'd he manage that with his hand? Oh, well, he looks fine._ Then Peter went about…what, being sassy? Clearly, this was Peter's project and Sylar was just a guest. He stared after Peter, boring his eyes into the back of the man's skull. It took him a moment with his concussion to dig up a response. "Typical Petrelli," he said in the same tone as Peter, seating himself calmly. Peter hadn't delivered it to be a dick or 'put Sylar in his place' so he was much more forgiving of, what he took as, a harmless joke.

XXX

Peter settled in on the other side of the table, his thoughts returning to when he'd held a Sylar watch in his hand and disassembled it with a deft telekinetic touch he hadn't known he possessed. "These puzzle pieces … they're not like … clock parts for you, are they? Something you feel, like, driven to fix?" He gestured across them, looking up at Sylar with particular attention. It seemed pretty unlikely that the guy would go all brain-man on him (no abilities, after all), but Peter was remembering his own sudden descent into, if not madness, then at least homicidally skewed reasoning._ Might be important to know that before we get started. I'd really hate to find out that he's been trying to fix stuff in his head all this time and failing … and that if he succeeds in putting the puzzle together it will turn on his ability like it turned mine __on__ that time. I wonder if that's why he was asking about my watch?_

XXX

As he was getting comfortable, Peter posed an odd question that gave him pause. Generally, questions about his former profession or his ability were not a… positive thing. Quirking a brow, he answered slowly, carefully, looking right back at Peter, "I didn't know they were broken, Peter. I thought the point of a puzzle was to put the pieces together." A tilt of his head was the only inquiry he made in return, keeping his hands to himself the moment. "I hope you're not one of those weirdos who cuts the pieces to size or mashes them in to make them fit."

XXX

Peter snickered. _Ah, that would be funny! I bet I could drive him up the wall by screwing things up intentionally. I wonder what he'd do if I pocketed a couple pieces? Yeah, not that I'd really do that, but it's nice to know my options._ "No, I'm sure I'm some other kind of weirdo than that." Peter smiled and shrugged a little, letting himself be distracted from the moment of mirth by eying the division of pieces Sylar had made. They were grouped up in some sort of pattern. It wasn't by color, so he wasn't sure what the difference was. All the straights were still together as he'd left them, so he mentally settled himself on working on the frame first and leaving the rest alone until he understood why Sylar had sorted them as he had.

XXX

That said and done, he reached for a piece to see what Peter would do, fingering it and batting the box around so he could see the picture on the front of the lid, comparing the piece to it. As an afterthought, he decided to address the actual question. "But, yes, they are like clock parts. Why do you ask?" now he was curious.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar turn the box, and true to human nature, felt a sudden desire to look at it himself. He craned his head a little, but Sylar was on the opposite side of the table, box pointed towards him. Peter couldn't see it now and he made no rude attempt to reclaim it. Instead, he tracked Sylar's next motion, watching which piece he picked up - just one at random as far as Peter could tell - and Peter picked up a straight edge piece as well. Since, you know, it wouldn't do to sit there empty-handed if Sylar had a piece in his hand. Peter looked at the piece, then at the four corner pieces he'd placed earlier.

He glanced up at Sylar's question, then put down his piece and picked one out more intentionally, trying to match it to the corner he was working from. It didn't fit, so he took the corner and held it over the straight edges, looking for a better match. Still looking, he said, "I got your ability once. Got it and actually used it, you know. But to use it, I had to … you … there was a …" Peter grimaced, put the puzzle piece down and rubbed his forehead with his left hand, then down his jaw and across his chin.

He picked up the corner piece again and started over. "I went to the future. I met a future version of you. You showed me how to activate your ability, but to do that you had me fix a broken watch." Peter looked up at Sylar now, focusing on him. "Once I got started on it, everything was … well, it was kind of weird. _I_ felt weird. Like my thinking was weird. And you'd kind of warned me about that, but I didn't …" He gave a pained smile. "You know me. Anyway, I sort of wondered if maybe fixing something, or putting things together had something to do with triggering your ability." He gestured at the puzzle board. "You've said we don't have any abilities here. This is safe, right?"

XXX

Sylar's lips pursed in lieu of his jaw clenching at hearing that news. _I knew that already – he comes out of nowhere to break my neck, snarling about 'not being me'. Ha._ He still didn't take kindly to having his ability jacked, in any tense, past, present or future. He'd thought to question it at the time, but then dismissed it given the nature of Peter's natural ability. Then, _Admission of use…interesting. I knew he used it; of course he did._ Sylar didn't feel like ringing the bell for round three in (again) asking Peter who he killed and what ability he got. Peter got to the part about his watch, which watch wasn't even in doubt; he knew it was the Sylar. He felt the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist defensively as it lay on the table, but didn't otherwise move it. _That…isn't what he's here for._ Sylar kept wary eyes on his companion; he'd had thieves try for it before, unworthy thieves. _He doesn't want to take it, he can't anyway; he came here for me, something only I can do…which is suddenly saving girlfriends._

His face didn't move except to relax a little from 'high-alert' wariness, but being called weird? Peter really wasn't one to talk, it was not _his_ natural ability. Sylar exhaled an 'I told you so' breath. _Yeah, I do know you._ A few greatly amused, rough chuckles came from him; bitter and a bit hysterical in feeling though the sound spoke of being dry. "Yeah, as far as I know, it's safe," he gave a hint of a nod and moved on, trying not to feel like he was losing it, ditching the puzzle piece he had and going for another. It gave him time to think.

"So…Why the hell would I give you my ability?" _He's seen my future? Like, actually been there? There was something about my name earlier, too…Is _this_ that future?_ Sylar shoved down his instant momentary panic that Peter's warped abilities might reach out for his and the puzzle would have Peter turning into that neck-snapping psycho again. There wouldn't be any Angela or other family members, not even the Haitian around – just Sylar and a hungry Peter, on the hunt for his next, obvious victim. With said victim loaded up with lots of delicious powers, the grudge between them and Sylar's inability to defend himself at the moment, he was explicably nervous. Until he remembered that Peter was a complete doofus with his powers and the hunger didn't work that way.

XXX

Peter sighed. "I … talked you into it. I think the future version of you cared a little more about people getting hurt." He found a match for his corner piece and hooked them up, unduly pleased to have found a link before Sylar did. He thought back over what he'd said and realized it sounded like he'd threatened someone (like the child named Noah) to get Sylar to cooperate. "No, that sounds … well, wrong. The thing was, if you didn't give me your ability, the whole world was going to be destroyed. And I don't mean ninety-some-odd percent of humanity, I mean the planet _exploding_. You didn't believe me, so I had you paint the future. You saw it. You gave me your ability." Peter's face made a tiny smirk. "I suppose you weren't keen on not having anywhere to live anymore." He swallowed, trying a likely third piece and then rejecting it. "But you had other reasons, too."

"I think the planet thing had something to do with everyone getting abilities. Or too many of them getting them." _Kind of a bigger version of Kirby Plaza. Doesn't even have be a bad person getting them - just a misunderstanding, bad place in their life, family members with plans of world domination. Could happen to anyone, right?_ He snorted softly at his thoughts, trying a couple other pieces fruitlessly.

XXX

Sylar forced himself to relax further as Peter spoke, yes, telling him another kind of story. This one of the future, instead of the past. The world was barren so whatever this future was, it couldn't come to pass. He'd practically forgotten about the puzzle, going mindlessly through the motions, much more taken with listening and trying to reason things out with his limited capacity. The puzzle, he suspected, kept Peter busy enough to talk comfortably. _What does that mean?_ He was surprised to hear about the whole planet going 'boom!' But knowing there were loons like Samuel on the loose…"Ha," he said to that. It was true. The downsides of regeneration. It put 'going green' in a completely new light, actually. Interested at the new food-for-thought, he only replied, "Huh," otherwise invested in solving the mystery. He was sure he'd enjoy thinking about it later, when he could process better, maybe pestering Peter about it more.

"Why would I have other reasons? That sounds like a cause everyone should get behind," _For once. Stopping the destruction of the world for once instead of causing it. _His brain was too tired, thankfully, to cue up the host of Nathan's memories surrounding those instances (plural), but he knew there were plenty. He sat up straighter as the thought of something, a hand making a quick patting gesture to get Peter's attention. "Wait, this doesn't, like, violate the rules of the universe in telling me this, right? I know you're not from the future." _Right?_ He knew that because Peter said he'd had a 'dream', not visited the future, although neither of those had to happen in that order, nor were they mutually exclusive. _Not that that future is relevant anymore, so…it should be safe._

XXX

"Yeah, you'd think so. The world was pretty messed up, to tell the truth. Not that blowing it up or whatever would have been an improvement." Peter toyed with the puzzle pieces, mulling over Sylar's question in his mind as he found another piece to connect. His moment of elation drained away as he realized Sylar was just sitting there idly fingering the puzzle piece he was holding, watching Peter and his movements. _Well … okay. Stop patting yourself on the back for outdoing Mr. Traumatic-Brain-Injury. _He considered prompting Sylar on their joint project, but decided to space it. Sylar was calm; they were interacting, if not happily, then at least well. Sylar was listening to him and that was nice. Very nice.

"You had people you cared about. You'd settled down, I guess. I don't really know everything that was going on there. It was like a Bizarro world - everyone who had been an ally was an enemy; everyone who had been against me, like you, was my friend. You came up and _hugged_ me." Peter grinned and chuckled, remembering how utterly freaked out he'd been about that. "You patted my cheek and were … real friendly." He shook his head, shooting Sylar a smile, then reaching out and turning the box lid towards him so he could figure out why he wasn't finding the next piece on the edge he was working on. "Ah, that's what those little marks are. There's a signature there." And a rust-colored splotch of mud on the otherwise light grey, rain-slicked street. He reviewed the available straight-edges for 'rust-colored'.

XXX

Now Sylar was really all ears. _I had, like…a life?_ He pondered that, eyes shifting back and forth over nothing of note. _Settled down…How…? It must have been – 'Bizarro' world_, Sylar thought amused and annoyed, hopeful yet sad about the situation. A part of him always noted that particular word being used between Peter, Nathan and Claire. Right now, he was almost wishing he could have seen this future himself; it was one of those 'see to believe' things. Sylar ignored the chance to take shots at the Petrelli family, this once. Poor Peter, everyone he counted as an ally usually was an enemy; odd, though, that he'd wind up turning to Sylar a few times. His eyebrows went up in surprise, eyes widening as the man went on. _I did…what now? I suppose I shouldn't look so surprised…_ _I'm trying to sleep with the guy now. I guess he did? Does, then? God, I hate the future. No wonder Angela's crazy, dealing in…half-possibilities. Some of it might come true, some of it might not…_Dare he hope?

"That's, um…a new angle," Sylar reflected aloud, clearly confused about it, doing his best to think in what universe he would hug Peter from Clan Petrelli. _What did I hope to get out of that?_ Generally, hugs were the kiss of death, so he'd noticed. Not that, you know, he ever got hugs from any Petrellis, not even Angela when she'd been his mom. He didn't spend much time thinking on what it would have been like otherwise; reminiscing was pointless and rather sappy. _Maybe Peter's…bringing that up for a reason?_ His face lit up a little and he grinned. Ignoring Peter's blurt about the puzzle artist's signature, Sylar asked, without lewdness as he was genuinely pleased to have reached this conclusion, "You liked the hugging?" _I can do hugging_.

XXX

_Yeah, you don't say,_ Peter thought of it being a new angle. He found the right puzzle piece, rust-colored and all, and hooked it up. He looked up at Sylar's question, his gaze fixing sharply on Sylar's face for a few seconds, then drifting down as he mentally backed off from reflexive near-hostility to think about the question, rather than the motives behind it. _Simple question. Obvious. He's not necessarily still making a pass at me, so get over it. We're just talking._ Peter shrugged exaggeratedly. "Yeah, I liked it. I was shocked. I'd come into the house expecting a fight, and then …" He tilted his head to the side, shrugging again with less affect. _Then there was a kid there, and that changed everything._

"I've had some pretty rough days … in my life. That one certainly ranks up there in the top five." He drew in a deep breath and blew it out. "That was pretty much the only decent thing that happened to me all day." Peter shook his head and made the mistake of actually thinking about it. He'd woke up in someone else's body, got hauled along on a bank heist, then got yanked out of the body and into the future by himself of all people (made it hard to lay blame, that did), then future him got shot dead in front of him, he had to flee Claire, met friendly-Sylar, got a little kid killed, got blown up along with part of California, woke up to be tortured by Claire and then killed his brother. Oh, then teleported back home in the midst of a psychotic rage, assaulted _this_ Sylar, tried to kill his own mother, and was knocked out, neutralized and tied to a table. It was probably for the best.

His right hand hurt. He looked away from where he'd been vacantly gazing at Sylar's right elbow to see he was trying to clench his fist, having already done the same with his left. He stretched out his fingers and tried to focus on his breathing, tried to relax, tried to keep the tremor he could feel in his hands from becoming visible. Peter's voice dropped to artificial calm, like the voice he used with patients who were hurt bad and needed to know someone was still with them (_'Yes, I'm right here. No, everything's going to be fine. We're just going to get you to the hospital so the doctors can take a look at you. Stay with me, alright? I'm right here.'_) "I'm going to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

He pushed himself upright and weaved towards the little room uncertainly.


	40. Bizarro World

Day 11, afternoon

Sylar's elation at being the best thing someone had, in a mutually positive way, in an otherwise rough day wasn't lengthy. He didn't think he'd have any better luck wrapping his head around whatever scenario while at full mental strength. But when was the last time he'd been a highlight in someone's day like that? _Probably never._ It was completely novel even if his present self wasn't responsible. "Oh," he said, not knowing what else to say yet feeling the need to respond. Peter started to coil up. _Maybe I screwed it up then?_ The guy didn't look good and Sylar leaned back a little in case Peter leapt at him or something, but Peter excused himself. Sylar just blinked and watched him mournfully because something wasn't right and, since it was a person, he didn't know how to fix him, Peter. He replied quietly, hoping he wasn't intruding on Peter's thoughts too much, "Okay."

Pouting, partly for or because of Peter and partly for the loss of company, being self-centered as he was, he slowly focused himself on the puzzle. He held a vaguely gray piece and he found that unhelpful. The majority of the puzzle was a rainy gray, including the buildings and street. He tried to think, he did, but very little came to him. _What makes a day bad for Peter Petrelli? Losing Nathan or finding his body wasn't the worst day ever?_ He frowned. _No, he said…top five, so it still probably is. Damnit._ He sighed and went back to fiddling. Sylar couldn't tell Peter to quit with the moody, but he sure thought it because he did not want to go back to being on-guard. This talking business was much nicer.

XXX

Peter gently shut the bathroom door behind him and sat on the toilet, forgetting to put down the seat. It felt awkward to sag into it in the middle, but at the moment he had other things on his mind. Getting a grip on himself, primarily. He appreciated Sylar leaving him alone. All he needed was a few minutes of quiet to clear his mind, stuff the bad memories back into the archives and re-establish the 'Do Not Retrieve' sign over them. He put his face in his hands, finding spots that weren't sore and rubbing them lightly.

There was a lot of his past that he spent a great deal of mental effort on not remembering, not integrating, keeping it separate and not a part of who he was. Sometimes things were so big that he couldn't avoid them, but a lot of the traumatic events that had happened to him were neatly compartmentalizable. Most, in fact. The very nature of being special had restricted the circle of who he might talk to about these things, so that it was easy to get along at work without ever speaking of the things that were important. Instead, they could talk about Donald Trump's hair or the latest Saturday Night Live skit.

He pulled himself back to his feet, turned and put up the toilet rim, using the appliance for its purpose. He put the rim down after and washed his hands, then his face. _What's it gotta be like for Sylar? How does he sort things out? He's got to have more crap than I do to deal with, and from the sound of it, he's had even less opportunity to discuss it with anyone._ He realized that he was, oddly, in a reverse situation from normal. His main, shared frame of reference with Sylar was the very subject matter he usually tried so hard not to disclose. Peter sighed and got out a fresh hand towel, wiping his face carefully. He looked at himself in the mirror, then picked up Sylar's comb to bat loosely at his bangs. He looked at the comb blankly. _Maybe I _should_ talk about this with him? It's the main thing we've got in common._

Peter gave a mental and physical shrug, then opened the door, exiting, comb still in hand. "Hey, Sylar. Comb your hair, would you?" He offered the comb, looking over the guy's hair, wondering if he should offer to do it. He let Sylar take a stab at it first and looked instead to the various puzzle pieces, asking quietly, "Do you mind me talking about … what happened in the future? Some of it wasn't good. I don't know if you'd want to hear it. And I'm serious about that." He walked around to his chair, glancing at Sylar again. "There's other things we could talk about, like Giulani's political chances or your favorite comedy routine." These were things Peter was more practiced in discussing - meaningless social niceties - and ones where he was unlikely to hit landmines, both for himself or for Sylar.

XXX

_So the guy had to pee_, Sylar distantly noted. He wondered which Peter he'd be dealing with when the man emerged. Leave it to Peter to be unexpected – on exiting he slapped a comb into Sylar's instinctively outstretched hand, the other going up to touch his hair in surprise. _What's wrong with my- oh, geez. _That was embarrassing. He had no idea how bad it looked; yet Peter hadn't laughed so it must not have looked too clownish. Fighting the desire to throw the comb into a wall across the room from being commanded to groom or from the implication that he looked bad and needed 'fixing', his hair was still a mess. Sylar used first the wide, thick end of the comb; working out the slept-in tangles took him a moment and some interesting facial expressions. Then he switched to the fine-tooth side and swept his hair back. Without water or gel it wouldn't stay long. _No wonder he's relaxed, you look like a fool. He can't take you seriously. Giving you sandwiches…playing with a puzzle, crap crap crap. _His loss of decorum was probably aiding the current friendly-ish aspects of the situation; his pride stung a little regardless. Peter again did himself a favor and didn't rub it in and he'd sounded normal enough.

Peter actually watched him comb a little and that made him feel a little tingly. Sylar slowed down the actions, dragging them out for show just because. It didn't hold Peter's attention forever, but it was enough. And entertaining.

Peter spoke as he finished and Sylar looked up at him, setting the comb aside. He gave a small chuckle about Giulani's odds – it was so irrelevant. Sobering, he thought about if he minded talk of the future. Answering slowly, he intoned, "I don't mind it if the universe won't unravel. And if you're not from the future." His look was serious as he stared Petrelli down. "I think you'd be a lot more bitter and I'd be in a lot more pain if you were, but…I won't rule it out." _My life really is that weird. I don't know what I'll do if you are from the future._

Sylar's gaze lost focus, eyeing the tabletop as he considered his answer carefully. "And provided that future isn't….possible anymore?" He really refused to be one of those idiots that demanded to know about his future. Inevitably, as Peter said, if it was bad, he'd try to change it thereby screwing it up. The trick with the future was just not to know. He tried not to pity Angela, the pitiless, merciless Medusa, but her ability, much like his own, came with the fine print in invisible ink about insanity side-effects. "The future's never good, Peter," he stated simply, looking back up at the man with dead certainty, trying to break bad news and challenge at the same time. _/"You die alone. No one will mourn your death."/ I mean…has he looked around lately?_

_Provided all those things are answered for…_"I don't mind talking about it, no." _Whatever happened…happens? to me…it isn't me. Its nice he's actually offering. I usually have to pin people with my mind and threaten to get this kind of face time. _

XXX

Peter considered Sylar's points. He couldn't see how discussing something that had actually happened to him would be a problem. _The information is in my head. How is speaking it out loud gonna make a difference?_ "That future isn't possible anymore." _Nathan's dead, for one thing._ He frowned and herded his thoughts away from that. "The universe isn't going to unravel if I tell you. And I'm not from the future. If anything, I'm from the past, relative to you. For you, it's been three years. For me, a few days." Peter knew how he got here, but hey, time travel made as much sense as anything else and Sylar had already rejected the truth. "Let me think about what I'm going to say. Gimme a minute."

XXX

Sylar simply nodded, partly amusing himself with the puzzle (what little he cared to do of it right now).

XXX

He pushed around a few puzzle pieces randomly as he reviewed the events of that day again, this time without such a strong emotional reaction. He reached up and rubbed slowly at his forehead with his left hand. He put it down and started with, "Okay. The part with you in it. To explain what I was doing there, I have to start earlier than that." He sighed, looking at Sylar for a moment before looking down and going on. "A future version of myself … came and got me, then teleported both of us into the future. His time. Lots and lots of people had abilities. I was in New York, and it looked like _**everyone**_ had them. He said the world was going to explode and showed me a mural of it. I don't know if he painted it, or someone else who could see the future, but there it was. He said he'd been trying to figure out what to change in the past to prevent it, but he couldn't understand all the factors. He said I needed to find you … the future version of you, and get your ability, so I'd know what to change."

This was where Peter lifted his head and paid careful attention to Sylar as he spoke. "Then …" Peter shrugged. "I told you it was Bizarro world? Yeah. Claire showed up, shot him right in front of me - probably fatally. Then she turned on me. I ran. Our powers were jacked by the Haitian, but she missed me. Once I got a little away, I teleported to where you were. You were … in the Bennet house. With, uh, the Bennet's dog. And with a little boy, three or four years old, who called you Daddy, and called me Uncle Peter."

Peter paused to let Sylar digest that most unlikely of news. Everything he'd said had been delivered fairly slowly, as he was trying to feel his way around what he wanted to say, as he said it.

XXX

_Um…whoa._ That was all he had to think about that clusterfuck. Sylar watched Peter steadily, tilting his head slightly, blinking, raising his eyebrows and frowning in reaction to the shocking details. He pictured the events in his head, helping him get through it, but Peter's speed was manageable. Then he went back and linearly thought things out. He felt a pinprick of something that he'd almost aided Arthur in creating that future. Nathan, well…Peter had been right all along. Somehow, that didn't really surprise Sylar. He frowned at the part of Peter, any Peter, needing his ability. If Sylar was stuck in that world where he was no longer special…how was Peter going to do any better, ability or no? Clearly, Sylar had dropped the ball somewhere. _I'm the perfect example of…power, I guess._ He wanted to pursue that thought but the damn concussion was inhibiting – the thoughts weren't important per se, merely self-reflective, but that was still annoying. _What about Hiro? He must have been…an enemy, Peter said. So that left me?_

Then things got a little harder to process. _Claire shot him, she shot Peter. I mean, I told her she was like Daddy Number One, but that's taking things too far. Why the hell would Claire, who loves Peter, shoot h- But that scary-ass future Peter shot Nathan. That makes more sense._ Peter was giving him the space and time to think this through. Sylar scratched a fingernail at the cardboard side edge of a puzzle piece as he did. _Peter is hard to follow sometimes_. What else had Peter said? There were some serious details that were….preposterous, truly almost unthinkable. He wanted to call Peter a liar, he did, but Peter was a better liar than this and he could come up with a lot better material – the really, really ugly kind - when the inspiration struck.

_The Bennet's house? Were they there? It is a nice house…I mean…why would I-? With their goddamn dog? I hate that yappy rodent! _He quit trying for linear and rearranged priorities from least emotional first, the proverbial bomb last. Assuming of course that he has a kid, some way, some how: _Uncle Peter. It might have been Nathan's kid and I thought I was still a Petrelli?_ That made his head hurt. _Unless I…married a Petrelli and there aren't that many females. (Dear God, I hope it wasn't Angela…but that would make the kid Peter's…well, not his nephew. Thank God). Or maybe its an….what's the- honorary title, yeah. But even so, that's a stretch. That would require Peter and I to be somewhat friendly. Maybe he babysits?_

But the real kicker was 'Daddy.' The assumption was obvious, the truth…it was safe to say Peter hadn't dug for it. In their 'specialty', Daddy didn't always mean biological or even legal parenthood. Hell, parenthood was a loose term, barely defining the reproductive sperm-giving process. Of course this was the first thing he wanted to address, blurting out, "A kid?" _Not just a life. A real live kid?_ Sylar leaned back, frowning deeply at Peter. The thought made his heart beat faster and ache at the same time. He'd thought for years he was infertile. Like Bennet said, he'd screwed up his own DNA. Surely shapeshifting had been the final nail in that tiny coffin. _How on earth did the kid survive all that time? I must have been a Petrelli, had some kind of…protection or deal in place. I wonder if that was before or after the kid._ "I had a kid?" _Are you sure? Mom's dead, I don't need kids, I can't have them – it must have been an accident. Unless someone stole my sperm. Was it a clone or something?_ Given his and Samson's ability, it surprised him the power would allow for that kind of…competition a child with potential abilities represented – or perhaps the infant was prey being groomed. Sylar knew his own conception had to have been an accident. Or maybe one of those tricks to keep his mother quiet and unaware while Samson hunted. He ignored the shiver in his spine, putting aside those ideas.

_It called me Daddy? _He tried to picture what three or four years old even looked like and failed pretty miserably in ways that had nothing to do with his injuries. He didn't really know what children looked like at any given age; he didn't see many children except on television. Hell, he'd never even held a baby before. _(Was I a good father?)_ None of that mattered. Peter said that future was gone. And it wasn't the end of it; Peter had implied that the story didn't end well.

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said quietly, looking him over to see how he was handling the outpouring of information. "You had a little boy." Sylar seemed to be doing okay, but moving very slowly on indicating when he was ready for the next sentence.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and let it out slowly. "Go on."

XXX

Peter nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't speak right away. He moved around the edge pieces, sorting them roughly by color, and tried to fit a few more together. He found two pairs that linked up in the pool, but wasn't sure where they went. He referenced the box and put them along the sides where he thought they belonged. "You know, I've never told this to anyone. At all." He glanced up at Sylar for a brief, still moment. "Never had anyone to tell it to." He smiled a little and went back to segregating puzzle bits for a while.

"Kid's name was Noah. I don't know what that means, really. I spent most of that day in shock, running from one thing or another - too many things I didn't understand hitting me all at once."

XXX

Sylar gazed back at Peter, serious and astounded. _Never? Not even your family? But why tell me, why tell me now? Maybe its not…important since its not a possible future anymore, but its sure interesting. I know something Nathan doesn't?_ That was a serious boost, being told something new (from Peter's standpoint) without having to demand or threaten or blackmail it out. Information was power and Sylar wanted both, as such, information didn't flow on tap around him like it did for the other specials. The closest he'd ever gotten was with Mohinder and as a Petrelli twice. This was like being treated as an equal, as someone on the same level of Peter. It was like being one of the hero gang almost (never mind that Peter had no one else to talk to). Sylar couldn't help but feel a little touched by the trust and honor and vote of confidence in his intelligence and capabilities to have this shared with him. And that someone, a hero, would tell him something about Sylar himself? When had that ever happened? Secrets were power and the more everyone knew about Sylar that he didn't know himself was another playing card against him. But now, it was almost like being told a secret in confidence. He couldn't help but feel a little bit special. Of course he wanted to live up to that trust.

Okay, now Peter was just pulling his leg. _No son of mine would be named Noah, that's for sure. Pulling names out of hats, gimme a break. Bennet's house, Bennet's dog, probably Bennet's kid. Like Noah Jr.?_ Strangely, that the kid might not be his was…equal parts relief and longing, which was just really confusing and stupid of him.

XXX

Peter glanced up a few times, but otherwise kept to his work, letting Sylar think and process - letting _himself_ think and process. He'd certainly brooded over the incident since it had happened, but he hadn't done it much and it was different to mull it over in front of someone, imagining what sense Sylar might make of it.

"You … the future version of you, pegged me as being from the past almost right away. You left Noah with his breakfast and we went in another room to talk. You told me we were brothers, which was the first I knew of it. Or rather, you said you were sorry I'd come so far to find that out." Peter's lips pursed. He'd troubled himself over that line in particular, because it didn't make sense. Why did Sylar, so sharp on so many other issues, believe they were brothers in that future? Was Sylar adopted … somehow? Why did he think that Peter didn't already know this? Had he instantly understood the exact moment from the past Peter was from? Because a day or two, or a week ahead of when he'd left and Peter would have known. And why did he think the reason Peter had come to see him was to discover that? Wouldn't it be easier to find that out in his own time, if he just found a phone and called the right person? Also, Sylar had been so certain that future-Peter hadn't told him, which was a huge assumption to make. Unless he'd been clued in to Peter's impending visit … but he'd seemed surprised … This was a puzzle Peter didn't have all the pieces to.

"I've begun to wonder if that wasn't just a different timeline, but maybe an entirely different dimension. Like I said: Bizarro world." His brows drew together, unsettled by what that meant. There were too many ramifications for him to wrap his mind around. "Maybe there were things that were true there that just weren't true here? I could have picked up the ability to cross to another reality from that other version of me …" He grimaced and shook his head. He'd like to think he would have known which ability he was using to teleport back to his own time and place, and that dimension-hopping would be noticeably different, but he used a lot of powers reflexively and some entirely unconsciously, so who knew?

He sighed and reiterated the part of the story he'd given earlier, so Sylar knew where it fit. "I told the future-you why I was there - I'd been told to get your ability. You warned me about it and refused. I had you draw the future. You did and agreed to show me how to use your power. You gave me your watch," Peter gestured at the one on Sylar's wrist, which indeed looked like the same one. "It was brok … broken." Peter's voice caught as he realized something, putting together words from then and much more recent. He tilted his head somewhat, looking past Sylar at the apartment door and the bloody handprint. "Funny - you told me then that you kept it for the same reason you told me, here, that you have that handprint on the door. But the you here couldn't have known …" He smiled a little, looking back to Sylar. "Well, I suppose you're both the same person, essentially. You said it was a scar - a reminder. And you had me fix the watch."

XXX

_I made it- him breakfast? The kid?_ Thoughts of dimensions had him stumped. Sadly he was nowhere near up to task when it came to dissecting the difference between the linear future and a dimension, but that was kind of a new thought to the power of teleportation. 'You're both the same person, essentially'. He'd blinked because those kinds of…echoing words from the mouth of some domesticated future self was weird in anyone's book. Yeah, but the future Peters he'd seen weren't exactly cut from the same cloth. The only times Sylar had seen his future…well, it hadn't gone three or four years out, although there was that one time where he painted Nathan in his office. That had been weird, too. Sylar had painted the nuclear guy and assumed he was the bomb. (He gladly ignored the part about using his mother's blood to recreate the explosion on her floor – that was traumatic enough). Then he painted himself opposite Peter at Kirby and that was the end of that ability.

Sylar waited until part two of the story concluded before chuckling about Peter explaining how he'd found out about the whole brotherhood thing, the first time around at least. "That explains you popping into my cell with a bone to pick all of a sudden. Well…extra bones." _(Stop saying bone…) _He'd kind of wondered about that at the time. _Convenient of Ma to show up, too__._ Funny of Peter to be talking about scars.

_But hang on__._ "I gave you my watch?" Sylar motioned with the appropriate wrist. _Broken or not, I've never let anyone touch it. Its connected to my ability? I can give it away? Oh, Samson, you fool! _Sylar enjoyed an internal cackle about that, but it was cut short as he thought some more: _I could have had abilities before 2006 if I'd only fixed the Sylar faster? Holy shit…__. _That was mind-boggling. _Chandra, you fucking asshole. Enjoy rotting in hell._ "What's more, you fixed it?" his tone was extremely dubious. Not that the watch couldn't be fixed – obviously it could, the one he wore currently was in working condition – but surprised that Peter, untrained and really clueless had managed it. The kid was like a sponge, maybe it was fitting that he got the easy way out of everything. _Stand next to me, tinker with a watch, ta-da! He has ultimate power. It's not fair. _That caused a spike of pure jealous, righteous anger in him on instinct. _I don't play well with the other little children__. _He felt better that his future self had resisted. And warned Peter. _I wonder if we fought about it._ Heaving a grouchy sigh, he eyed Peter as he crossed his arms, muttering warningly, "You're lucky when you came back your mother thought she had me by the balls." _She so did._

XXX

"I …" Peter shook his head, not sure how to respond to that last statement, or to Sylar's accompanying semi-threatening posture. _I _should_ have come back to some other time, like right before Kirby Plaza or before I thought Dad died or maybe some night while I was in college, studying human physiology. You know, like sometime when I could have changed something. Not so that I could … wait, did Sylar think I teleported from his house to the cell? Why would he … oh yeah, I haven't finished the story._

"Yeah. Um, yeah. I held it in my hand, it came apart, you talked me through it and all of a sudden everything made sense." Peter held his hands in a remembered approximation of how he'd done it before - left hand palm up like he was holding something, right hand poised over it as if manipulating, but a good foot or more between them. His brow furrowed. "Sort of made sense. Like I said, my thoughts got … weird."

XXX

_Well, did it make sense or didn't it?_ Sylar thought. _And there we go again with this 'your ability makes my head feel weird' business. That's kind of insulting._

XXX

He sighed. _Might as well get the bad part of the story over with._ It was part of why Peter hadn't dwelled much on Noah or Mr. Muggles during the story. He knew how this ended, so there was no point to trying to get Sylar emotionally invested in them. "Right after I got your ability, Claire, some blonde speedster woman, and Knox showed up. I don't know how they tracked me. I don't know how they got there so fast. We … you and I, that is, fought them." _You told me to leave, but I didn't listen._ "Noah was killed." _It was all my fault. _"You …" Peter reached up with his left hand to scratch at his right temple. He touched at his injured eye briefly, checking to see if it was still, in fact, injured. _Of course it is._ _I'm stalling._

XXX

Sylar gave a slow, solemn blink, tilting his head as he watched Peter_. It was inevitable_. The irony of losing his child to a victim who's brother he'd taken wasn't lost on him. _Eye for an eye, as it were? Kid had to pay for 'Daddy's' sins I'm sure. _Still he knew that was beyond the pale – a four year old who was innocent except by genetics and tainted only by his father's association was leagues different from a forty-three year old mobster politician who'd dug his own grave. Or his mother had dug it for him, either way. The point was, Nathan had lived his life and made his choices, the kid, 'Noah', hadn't gotten the chance. Of course, the whole thing was probably an exercise of some sort - _Ma taking evil to new levels._

XXX

"When you saw that, you got really angry." _Grief._ He looked up at Sylar, taking in his expression and determined to get past this and get it all told. "I'd already dealt with the speedster and Claire was still trying to pull herself together. You took care of Knox. Then you blew up just like I did in the sky over Kirby Plaza, except … uh … you know, you were on the ground, in, like, a residential area. And about ten feet away from me." _The only good thing I can say about that is that it was fast. _He looked down finally, shaking his head.

XXX

Sylar observed Peter, getting something of a kick out of taking the news (that he'd had a kid and said kid had been murdered) better than Peter expected. That type of thing was to be expected. Besides, the kid never existed and now, never would. _So Peter shows up, takes my watch and my power, gets my kid killed and I explode._ "So I really was 'the bomb' after all." Obviously Peter healed so he wasn't going to apologize for something as ridiculous as a future he had no part in.

"So after all that you decided to come back, kick my ass, rub my face in it and try to kill me? Because, four years in the future, I blow up the California? I think you should be thanking me – I stopped that future without your help." _I held your mom and Claire and Bennet and Meredith at Primatech and played twenty-goddamn-questions with Angela about my parents. Finding out I wasn't a Petrelli was…difficult. No, well, yes, but surely that interrupted things. Hell, I stopped the group from waltzing over to Pinehearst if you want to look at it that way. Bennet and Elle were most useful in finding the right path._

Tapping the puzzle piece on the tabletop, he pondered the story as a whole. "Was that the future you…mentioned the other day? The one where you heard that other….name?" _My first name. I hope to God you've only seen one future of mine._

XXX

"Yeah. Yeah, it was. You told me not to call you Sylar there, and you winced like the name … bothered you. You said to call you Gabriel." He'd also heard that name in the memories he'd inadvertently stolen from Sylar - not that he'd used Rene's power accidentally, but he hadn't expected that side effect. And not that Peter was going trolling around in those memories, tempting as that was to aid in understanding his companion. The least he could do was to stay out of them. He supposed he was lucky that he was concussed enough not to remember his recent dreams. It was either that, or his subconscious was getting better about observing boundaries.

"I didn't teleport from the explosion to your cell," he said a little petulantly, despite how much he wished that were true. He shook his head and grumbled out, "The day just kept getting worse after that." His mind struggled to compare the death of a child plus mass death and destruction to the very personal experience of Claire torturing him and then him losing his mind and killing Nathan. "At least, it sure didn't get any better. I was not in the best frame of mind by the time I got to your cell." _Which is to say, I was crazy, or at least crazed. It's not an excuse. Sort of sounds like an excuse - 'I had a bad day, so I decided to kill you'. I think I was blaming him for me killing Nathan. _He sighed. _Almost added Ma to the death toll. How many people did I get killed that day? Few hundred thousand? The sucky thing is that it isn't shit compared to the ones I got killed in that other future._

Very quietly he added, "Thanks for knocking me out, there." _Lucky my mother had you by the balls, like you said._ It was a disturbing image when taken literally, but there was little he would put beyond his mother these days. Peter went back to work on the puzzle, head down enough to hide most of his face as he turned his attention away from his companion. He carefully blanked his mind, going through the usual, well-practiced mental routine he used to avoid thinking about something he didn't want to think about. He hunched inwards, head pulling in and shoulders up. His arms drew in a bit closer to his sides. He might not be thinking it consciously, but there were a lot of deaths Peter counted himself responsible for.

XXX

Both brows went up in shock. "I'm sorry, was that a 'thank you'? Is that allowed?" That was a first. It took the guy how many years to say it? Contrary to popular belief, Sylar had saved some lives in his time, including Peter's more than a few instances. And that wasn't counting the people he hadn't killed, chose not to kill or couldn't kill, the people who'd been spared for whatever reason. Not Claire, Angela, Bennet, Micah, or Luke. Some disbelief was required. _Just think, if I'd have let you kill her then, we wouldn't be in this mess! Nathan would be alive and Peter wouldn't have problems with me – my life wouldn't be so fucked! Fuck the future. _Those assholes preaching about doing good deeds (doing none themselves) and when he saved a life, he was rewarded with death, violence, imprisonment, biting replies or stone cold silence. Truly a fucked up reward system. And they wondered why he wouldn't play ball? "Are you sure you want to be thanking me for preventing you from, you know, saving the world?" All that after having his neck snapped in half. Sylar heaved a tense sigh, tossing the puzzle piece down and snatching up another, too angry to communicate more, he turned his focus to the puzzle. _I swear to God, if he tries to blame that on me and my ability in any way, I will crush him._

XXX

Peter looked up for a moment, watching Sylar's angry motions. With a slight, conciliatory lift of his brows, Peter said, "By the time I got to you, I was so fucked up that if I'd saved the world, it would have been a complete accident." He assumed that his statement would help Sylar, as it was a sideways confirmation - yes, Peter had meant his thanks genuinely, and yes, he understood as much as he could, what it might have cost. Maybe if Sylar hadn't stopped him, Peter's psychotic careening would have taken Arthur out instead of being a bit calmer, later, and allowing that ill-fated hug that drained his abilities. But Ma would still be dead. Peter was content Sylar had done right.

_If only I could have been stopped sooner_. He looked down again, brows pulling together. He reached up aimlessly with his left, fingers roaming around his forehead and pinching the top of his nose briefly before letting his hand return to the table and his attention go back to the puzzle. Sylar muttered something Peter didn't catch, nor did he care all that much, not feeling very defensive at the moment.

XXX

Under his breath, "Typical empath." Moments passed as Sylar did try to find the piece's location in the puzzle. The idea of interlocking parts was enough to calm him some. As quietly as Peter had spoken before, he said sadly, "Seemed the least I could do for a fellow sufferer of an ability." That was, at the heart of it, the truth. A son had lost his mother and to watch that same scene replayed right before his eyes…At the time, he hadn't wished that burden of guilt on his brother and he'd longed to protect their mother.

Sometimes he thought it made sense for him to have sprung for Angela's womb, the root of all devastation. Evil begat evil, after all. Now he was forever locked in her shadow, tied to Nathan like an anvil, one of her brood in one way or another. Blood was fickle as well he knew.

XXX

Peter gazed at Sylar steadily for a long beat, then looked down at their joint project with a generically displeased grunt. He felt rather down, emotionally, which was hardly surprising given the subject matter, but at the same time he was glad to have gotten that out. _Here we are, telling each other secrets_. One corner of his mouth lifted a little and he found another piece to link up on the continuing border. _Or at least I'm telling_. It wasn't something he'd kept a secret intentionally, but it felt better to know the information was out there in someone else's mind now. It was a tiny, hair's breadth connection and maybe it gave Sylar some context for Peter attacking him out of the blue. Peter hoped so.

He watched Sylar finally connect one piece to another - the first he'd done as far as Peter had noticed. Before the man moved on, Peter pointed at the corner closest to him, where the bottom third of the signature was visible on the linked pieces. "Hey, look around for the rest of this signature, will you? There should be two more pieces with writing on them." He started to add how easy they should be to find, but some intuition about Sylar's ego stopped his tongue. And on second thought, he wasn't sure at all how Sylar would take direction, but he'd already spoken. Nothing for it but to find out.


	41. Piece Offering

Day 11, afternoon

_Finally!_ Sylar purposefully did not consider how many pieces Peter had connected since the start. He huffed as Peter addressed him, or the puzzle. _Don't catch me telling you how to connect your pieces, do you?_ But Peter had phrased it nicely enough that he didn't snap. It was actually…kind of friendly. _Its one of those things friends do_. Or brothers. Ehem. _Right? Does that make us…friendly?_ "I thought you were working on the signature, Peter?" He inquired, teasingly innocent and somewhat serious. _You know, that whole bein' important thing you've got going on? Or does he think I just magically know where all the pieces are? _Sylar made a 'whatever' face and went back to eyeing the puzzle. Another question struck him, "Did that future Peter have a scar and scare you shitless?" It would be interesting to see how Peter answered that one and what he thought of it.

XXX

"I'm working on the border. You have …" Peter waved his hand generally over the other 90% or more of the puzzle. "I'm still trying to figure out why you sorted them like that earlier. But if you want to clue me in, then I'll help out when I get the frame done."

XXX

_Oh, I do, do I? I have all that?_ Sylar chuckled internally. "I told you earlier," _Or I think I did,_ "They're sorted by shape," he explained without much lip, making it more of a simple statement.

XXX

"That future Peter had a scar, yeah. I didn't like him." He shook his head, tucking his chin closer to his neck and shaking his head in refusal. "I didn't know how to take him. It's a sort of … I don't know, something existential? To be faced with a, huh," Peter grinned briefly, chuckling and gesturing, "a future version of yourself who's trying to tell you not to make the mistakes he did?"_ I don't know. I had the feeling I was a loser in the future. People thought he was a terrorist, the bad guy_. "I figured he wouldn't kill me, but … His idea of leaving me somewhere safe was ridiculous. He shot Nathan. And …" Peter shook his head and shrugged, because even though Nathan had been brought back, the whole situation was just sort of unforgivable. And he was telling this to Sylar. _Um … yeah, bad move_. "He didn't explain himself very well."

Peter leaned forward suddenly, saying, "You know that kinda creepy feeling you get when you hear your voice on a recording and you think you sound weird? Or you see a video of yourself and you think you look, you know, awkward?" _Like a dork. Like a __**complete**__ dork. And really stupid?_ "Seeing another version of myself was kind of like that." _A huge disappointment, too._

A thought struck Peter out of the blue as he pulled back. "Wait, where did you meet him?" Peter cocked his head, not able to work that one out at the moment.

XXX

"Ah," was Sylar's reply, thinking that over – existentialism, mistakes, Peter's lack of clear communication and then memories of hearing his own voice on the phone's message machine (he'd never seen himself on tape, but Nathan had many times) and thinking he sounded like an absolutely deep-voiced ghoul. _Uh-oh_. Peter had dinged him on it. "I didn't meet him." Sylar placed slight enunciation on 'I', but no more. Then he wondered if he should explain, if that was in any way 'in bounds' or if the mere mention would get him killed.

XXX

"What?" Peter said dumbly. _What does he mean? Then how did he know he had a scar? Wait, maybe he saw him on tape, like video from the Company or something?_ He started to ask about that, eyebrows raising in question, and then shut his mouth with a snap. _Nathan._ "Oh." That made so much more sense, explaining also the small shift in emphasis that he'd initially discounted. Peter pulled in a deep breath, looking up at Sylar's careful scrutiny. Peter looked away immediately, the image coming to mind of Sylar from only the day before, cowering at the corner of the couch. _He's waiting to see if I flip out and attack him._

Peter looked down, picking up one of the pieces and trying it fruitlessly. He tried another - also failure. He started through the straights with simple determination, thinking of nothing except the need to try every single one until he got his match. That was so much easier than thinking about whether he should accept Sylar using Nathan's memories for casual conversation - a casual conversation Peter had been enjoying.

XXX

Peter went back to the puzzle. The lack of reaction made Sylar exhale in relief and appreciation. Not so much as a pointed look or a sound made to express disgust or anger or pain. Sylar might have slumped a little, too. He almost wanted to ask 'that's it?' Swallowing, he poked around in the available pieces applying himself the same as Peter. The memories were boiling up inside him and he clamped his mouth shut, head down to keep them in with no luck. "You weren't around after I got shot and it was that other Peter, with the scar. You were in that inmate…Jesse. He said he came back and shot me to stop a future where people like us were being used, then asked for my forgiveness. He said he didn't think he'd changed anything."

XXX

Peter wasn't listening at first. He was trying one puzzle piece after another, trying to pretend Sylar wasn't sitting across the table from him. So when the other man started talking, he heard him, but he didn't really process the words. It wasn't until the bit about Jesse that Peter's brain starting lighting up with incongruent phrases: 'I got shot', 'that other Peter', 'I didn't meet him', 'people like us', 'asked for my forgiveness.' It was wording that Sylar didn't use, but Nathan sure did.

Peter surged up, partly out of the chair, his left hand balling into a fist, knuckles hard against the wood of the table as he used it to rise. His right hand ached as the muscles tried to obey a similar command. The pain from that, and an uncertainty on what he wanted to do, paused him with his butt a good foot off the seat, not quite standing up. He wanted to lunge across the table and hit Sylar, smash his face in, but he knew he shouldn't. _He isn't trying to pick a fight, right? What the fuck is he doing? Why does he keep doing this shit?_ Half of Peter's mind was saturated with the idea of grabbing Sylar by his badly combed hair and … he couldn't finish the thought. Sylar was concussed and his patient. It short-circuited Peter's head.

XXX

Sylar's body tensed as he tried to react to the shifting threat and failing. He hoped the fade-to-black was quick. He was trapped in some kind of memory Jell-o - unable to move to defend himself yet bogged down. His voice grew strained, "He said my future was changed and I was…on the path to becoming the brother he'd always looked up to. You- you missed a lot of strange things, Pete." _Like Tracy and Linder__man__ and that 'sent by God' routine._ Sylar inhaled quickly, coming back to his own reality, his own life. _Memory Lane is one bitchy neighborhood_, he mentally groused, cringing a bit, hoping again not to get punched. _Shit, this isn't going well. It was going well and now it isn't._

XXX

_He doesn't even__** sound**__ like Sylar._ 'My future', 'I was', 'the brother he'd always looked up to', 'Pete'. _What the fuck? He's talking as __**Nathan!**_ Peter's eyes flew over Sylar's face, over and over. It wasn't a taunt. It wasn't mockery. If anything, Sylar looked … troubled, freaked out, struggling maybe. And cowering again. Peter backed off, sinking down a few inches as if to say, 'okay, I see you cringing; I wasn't going to attack you anyway.'

XXX

Sylar cleared his throat, desperate to recover, to distract, weasel his way out of this situation. The nearest thing was the puzzle. Adrenaline was rushing through him painfully, his head feeling swelled and useless even though he was freed from the memory haze. "Uh…" He spied a useful piece and snatched it up, extending it towards Peter and that section to lay it near the man. Perhaps a peace offering of sorts. _Or a piece offering_. He withdrew his hand and hunched over the table somewhat, keeping his distance from Peter. He didn't want to die over something he couldn't help and that something was only half his fault.

XXX

Peter stiffened at the motion, his eyes, which had begun to widen, narrowing sharply again. Had he not been relying on his left hand for balance at that moment, he might have batted reflexively at Sylar, but instead he just jerked a little. He glanced briefly at the piece, then at Sylar. No threat from Sylar, whose head was down, chin tucked defensively even as he kept enough of his head up to keep a wary eye on Peter. Peter looked back at the puzzle piece, then at Sylar.

Sylar wasn't doing anything, so Peter took a longer look at the piece. It had half the signature on it. He picked it up with his right hand, looking at it more closely. _Yep, that's one of the pieces I asked him for_. He exhaled slowly and moved it into place, fitting it on top of the others. He glared up at Sylar, who watched the process, but wasn't meeting his eyes.

The small of Peter's back was killing him from the posture. It was not normally a big deal to hold such a position for a few minutes, but the strained muscles were in play, limiting his ability to stand this way, even supported by his arm, to only a few seconds. He had a choice between standing confrontationally or sitting. He sat.

He exhaled slowly and shut his eyes for a long beat. Sylar was not a threat; he was not being threatening. He didn't look snarky or even in possession of all his faculties. _He's scared. This is Sylar scared._ Peter opened his eyes and looked across. Sylar avoided his eyes again. _Yeah. He doesn't show it like normal people do. _Peter filed that away for future use, but in the meantime, his head was starting to hurt and the same confusion he'd had the night before was beginning to settle in. The wind-down from provocation scrambled his thoughts, but this time he was at least cognizant of it. "I need to … take a minute." He reached up with his left hand and rubbed his brow, covering and then shutting his eyes, feeling safe enough in Sylar's presence to do that. He suspected he should be offering the guy some reassurance - 'no, I'm not going to kick your ass for that' or 'I'm not going to kill you later' or even the generic, 'it's okay'. It was hard to wrap his mind around the implication of the words at the moment, so he said nothing.

XXX

Nausea kicked in. Peter was angry, desiring to hurt him, possibly kill him by intent or convenient accident, it didn't matter. Peter was poised and tense, half risen and bent over the table. Sylar hadn't moved because there was no point. What could he do? Crawl away at high speeds and hope not to incur fatal blows on his way to falling head-first down the stairs? If there was going to be another beating, he'd take it like a man. _Maybe half a man the way my brain's working lately…_

Peter sat and spoke, which was relieving, but it was ambivalent about potential violence. So Sylar waited, not moving a muscle beyond his eyes, his fingers laid atop the table, unoccupied with their project. He slowly traced his eyes upwards over Peter's body for a moment, his gaze cautious before returning to the table while thinking. _I wonder if throwing up would make me feel better. Purged, maybe, of a ghost?_ His insides, those nuisance emotions, were a mess. Gratitude, fear, anger, disgust, relief, frustration, sadness, strangely grief, paranoia, apology, helplessness were all on his Wheel of Fortune: Emotions Category, but the indicator arrow was still spinning. Sylar had no idea what to say, what Peter would hear or wanted to hear, and what would sink him. He knew the window of punishment opportunity was still wide open. Peter surely wanted to get his balance again, plot his revenge, walk around the desk to enact a proper discipline. _I suppose that's the end of talking. I hate this! He was talking to me! Why'd he- why'd he have to go ruin it? No one wants to hear what he has to say – he's dead! Look, Peter doesn't even care what precious Nathan has to say...He was talking to me_, his mind circled back to that pitifully. _He told me things. _

XXX

More than a minute passed. Peter wasn't sure how long, but the silence of the place started bringing him out of it. He opened his eyes, looking over at Sylar, who was sitting exactly as he'd been before. The guy was hardly even breathing. He looked ill. _Is he … terrified? Of me?_ Peter put his hand down and swiveled the chair to the side, made nervous and uneasy by that quiet indictment. _Of course, I beat the crap out of him for this last time and yesterday we were all talking about me and my bad anger management. And a few seconds ago I was about to … yeah._

XXX

Peter swiveled around, the motion a precursor towards standing and walking around. Sylar just sighed in resignation. _The fun had to end sometime._ But Peter wasn't moving and he certainly wasn't aggressing…Sylar was clueless as to what was going on. _Why the delayed reaction? Is he going to rub my face in things first? He was so close, he wanted to do it, why pull back? _His body was still one giant ache; he knew he wasn't healed or functional; the thought of incurring more damaging blows already hurt.

XXX

Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, raising both hands a little, palms outward. "I got this. I'm fine." Then he grumbled, "Better, at least."

XXX

_Yeah, I've heard that before_, was Sylar's sole thought.

XXX

_What the hell was that? Why does he keep doing that? He knows it sets me off, but he genuinely doesn't seem to be able to stop doing it. Is that why he's a killer? What is it in him that's causing this shit that he can't control? Is he … one of those multiple personality people?_ Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment, then looked at the puzzle blankly. _What do I do if he is? He doesn't want me to treat him like he's crazy … but what if he really __**is**__ crazy? What am I supposed to do then?_ He felt helpless, frustrated, and still angry, even if that last was ebbing.

He sighed and turned the chair to the side, telegraphing his motion so it wasn't abrupt. "I'm going to get some chips from the kitchen," he said, an unnecessary line under normal circumstances, but he had the feeling he needed to tread lightly with Sylar at the moment. For one thing, if Sylar jumped wrong, Peter's upset was still lingering under the surface. One quick motion might set him off again. For another, Sylar was still reading as so totally defensive that Peter wanted to sooth him, even in the face of his anger.

XXX

_Chips?_ Sylar's mind and any reaction he may have had arrested at that. His next thoughts were directed towards his own movement – whether to stay still or mobilize to keep Peter in his sights. He went so far as to move his hands into his lap after Peter had passed, doing nothing, deciding that any more than that would just bring his attacker down on him. _Why do I have to deal with this? It's not my fault_, he thought miserably. His back was to the kitchen. _Die alone, after all._ _Hoping for a quick blow to the back of the head? Just fade to black?_ That was fairly accurate. _Chips. Anger makes him…hungry? Or he just likes to snack before beatings. Probably wants to rub the food in my face, too. Typical bully._

XXX

Peter walked to the kitchen, finding what he was looking for easily enough, over on the counter where he'd put the stuff down earlier. He racked his brain for what to do about mental issues, but all he really had was a rundown of what physical conditions might cause 'altered mental state' and what to do about them as a paramedic. When the EMTs got called for a 'violent psych', it was just a 'violent psych' - there was no psychological diagnosis or treatment. His job was just to get them to a psych ward where they'd handle whatever the problem was. They didn't have those calls very often. There'd been once when it was a kid throwing a tantrum. Another time was a late teen/young man with autism. Then there was the guy with carbon monoxide poisoning and there had been a demented elderly woman in a nursing home that Peter had managed to talk down. He'd just talked to her in a low, calm voice, navigating through her misunderstandings and delusions until she stopped being threatening and did what the staff wanted her to. He remembered Hesam complimenting him on his patience. He tried to summon that patience up to help him now.

XXX

Peter returned with a tube of Original Flavor Pringles (_so presumptuous_), seating himself and offered him some by extending the tube with a questioning face, and a "Want some?" Sylar shook his head after a glance at the tube. _Why would I want Pringles? Why would I want any chips or any food? Am I supposed to want food right now? Is that code? He's the nurse, does he know something I don't? Why would you offer? Like, final supper in prison or something? Fattening the prize pig? Is that what all this is? What is this?_ Sylar exhaled queasily with a small sound of distaste as Peter opened the can and began to crunch down on the chips – the smell permeating the air enough to set off his stomach. _Yes, I think vomiting will be dignified. _The sandwich digesting in him suddenly felt unwelcome, so he turned his face away a few inches so he wasn't presented with the large visage of Peter chowing down.

_He did this the last time he concussed me. He had….crackers. Does that mean something? Does he….get off on this?_ Sylar wouldn't be surprised, or particularly bothered now he saw the pattern. It wasn't far removed from how he'd grown up, the only difference was they weren't actually related, Peter had more legitimate reasons to hurt him and those reasons were different from Martin's from the past. Not bothered by the situation, maybe, the pattern, but that didn't mean he liked it. It was familiar enough that he knew his role and there was some security in knowing that. _Maybe he doesn't…want me here? Should I go lay down? Does he want me to go away now, like, 'go to your corner'? Could be worse…_

XXX

Peter ate a couple chips slowly, not in any hurry. Mostly he looked at the chips themselves, and the container, mulling over how Sylar still hadn't spoken, still hadn't moved, and was still watching him whenever he thought Peter wasn't looking, like now. Peter took several slow, deep breaths, looking around the apartment and trying to think of what it meant for Sylar to speak as Peter's brother. _This place is all his head, in his head. This is how he thinks of himself? Or maybe what he thinks is normal. Books, clocks, little bed, little apartment._ His neck hurt from twisting it to continue his evaluation of the other side of the room. _Nothing here says Nathan. Not in the least. This isn't Nathan's apartment_. He looked at Sylar himself, giving him brief study, easier because Sylar wouldn't look at him. _He doesn't look like Nathan. He could. Here. He could look like whoever he saw himself as, right? Wouldn't he look like whoever he really was?_

Peter sighed and looked down at the puzzle, momentarily distracted by a piece that looked like part of a horse's head. The carriage in the middle of the picture was the next easiest to piece together, or so he imagined. He felt the urge to look for the related pieces. _No, leave that for him to do. I'll do the harder parts. Why didn't he sort by color? Then the white horses would be together in one spot and the black carriage pieces would be together somewhere else._ Peter turned his head, brow slightly furrowed. _I don't know him very well, or why he does the things he does. If I can't figure out the puzzle pieces, then how am I going to figure out this identity thing?_

"Sylar?" Peter glanced up briefly, then away politely. His voice was even and normal, maybe a little tired. "There's something I need to know. Do you think … you're Nathan Petrelli?" Peter's tone wasn't accusing. He was genuinely asking, without judgment, because the honest answer, if he could get it, mattered a lot to him. He didn't stare at Sylar, but looked to his face several times, then away, trying not to be challenging. _He came to me for help, when he was Nathan. He came to me because he thought I __**would**__ help._eHe c

XXX

Sylar was left to wait – agonizingly. He detected the disrespect as it was intended: Peter was making him wait _and_ watch the man eat. There was nothing he could say or do, Peter would pummel him into a quick submission. Besides, Peter's justification, the Nathan moment, would be valid. _Will he break a leg? Snap my fingers as double payback? Or just punch everywhere non-vital?_ The thoughts gave him pause. _Won't that mean more recovery time? He doesn't want that, surely. Will he be guilty, and hungry, after that, too?_ His head was under pressure with his raised heart rate, his stomach still turning, his nerves pinging, the chair, the setting, was uncomfortable.

Peter spoke and Sylar's attention snapped back to him, gaze going to Peter's, head coming up, the only thought in his head was _What? What now?_ The nurse's phrasing meant the question wouldn't be pleasant, obviously. He was rather stunned by the question; he'd expected it…earlier and…with different delivery. Peter, now, was calm (near as he could tell) and polite, unbothered, his voice…it was bizarre. Sylar would have expected this question mid-punishment, but no, here it was now like he was…well, a host of things he wasn't: an equal, a good guy, an acquaintance human, maybe. Things like that didn't happen to him, he was not treated that way. For some reason Peter hadn't gotten the memo.

The question itself had his chin rising slightly while he watched Peter. _What happens if I say yes? What happens then? Is this a 'tell the truth' or 'lie my ass off' moment? _"No." He intoned first. "Well, the-…um…" he scratched his hair back even though it wasn't falling in his face to the point where he needed to adjust it. His eyes shifted away from Peter's face as he spoke, "It…started when you got here," he blurted. "I'm not him, but…sometimes I…forget?" Sylar's voice tipped lower at the last word, hesitant.

XXX

Peter thought about those words and the uncertainty in Sylar's tone_. When I got here? Do I remind him of Nathan? Of him being Nathan? Does Nathan have some last message for me? No, he said good-bye. He got to say good-bye_. Peter tilted his head slightly and reached up to rub at his eyes. They itched a little at the memory. _And here, sitting across from me, is the guy who dropped him. Well, actually I dropped him. He made me drop him. What made him throw himself over the edge anyway?_

_I can't think about this. My head hurts._ "When I got here," he repeated unnecessarily, pulling his thoughts away from the troubling memories. "So when you forget, do you think you're Nathan then?" _Or not? Is this like when Sylar was trying to break through on the rooftop at Mercy Heights?_ "Do you feel like you're having to fight to … stay you?" _Is it like Nathan's trying to break through? Or is it Sylar-acting-like-Nathan trying to break through … a personality of Sylar's that he's called Nathan? I think the real Nathan's dead. (He's dead, right? There's no hope there … right?)_

_Was he Nathan before for all those weeks? When __**I**__ thought he was Nathan and __**he**__ thought he was Nathan, pretending to be him? When he came to me for help? He couldn't have been. Nathan died at Stanton. Then who the hell was that on top of Mercy Heights? Why would he pretend __**then**__? Why would he pretend __**now**__? But I asked him to, then. I asked him, __**told**__ him to be Nathan, and to throw away everything that was Sylar. _A shadow of the enormity of what Peter had demanded of Sylar crept over his mind, making him tense up and try desperately not to continue his thoughts down that path. Instead, he looked for Sylar's answers to the questions he'd asked.

XXX

This was starting to hurt Sylar. Strangely, it was hurting him because he knew Peter and he knew, he could see that this was upsetting the other man: _Let's talk about your dead brother, shall we?_ He hated that feeling and liked it at the same time. The more Peter talked and the less Sylar pissed him off, maybe he'd get out of more bruises. "I don't know!" Frustration at the unknown that was inside him was sliding out, he blurted it before he could censor or think about it. _I'm probably supposed to know all this, know how it all works and know everything that goes on inside my head._ Forcefully, he toned himself down with great difficulty. _As if I didn't have enough problems with people seeing me for who I am, now I'm stuck here with Peter who thinks I'm his brother. Great._

"I don't know what it is, Peter," he added the man's name as some sort of entreaty. _Please understand this. I can't… _"Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can't…." Sylar sighed. _Can't do anything about it, but you won't believe me. Can't move when it happens, I'm helpless, you almost hit me._ It was also hard to accept that the inside of his mind was now a legitimate topic for discussion – his personality was now a commonplace subject; this literally was Peter's business. "I'm not your brother. I'm Sylar." _Nathan's dead. It might be nice to be your brother, though. You'd have to put up with me somewhat. Make sex next to impossible. You're fucked, stop thinking about that. Do any of these questions or answers matter? He'll believe what he wants at the end of the day._

XXX

"Okay," Peter said evenly, his left hand rising a few inches, palm facing Sylar as Peter leaned back in the chair. Giving Sylar space. Distancing himself from the conversation and the pain he could hear in Sylar's voice. Not sure what to do about that pain, but the part inside of him that always wanted to help people fidgeted, wanting to be there for … Sylar of all people. Especially given the topic of conversation (Sylar's possible identity issue as Peter's murdered brother), Peter put the brakes on that part of himself. However, his head hurt from trying to figure this out and Sylar was getting upset. Pushing it wasn't going to get them anywhere good.

XXX

_What does 'okay' mean?_ Peter still failed to sound or give any other indications that he was upset. Sylar tried to ignore him, but his eyes were drawn even more towards Peter, trying to understand the strange behavior.

XXX

"Okay," he repeated, putting his hand down. _I don't need to know right now_. Slowly and quietly, Peter said, "I don't understand the half of what's happened to m-" He paused, drawing out the 'm' sound before continuing, "us … over these years. We can talk about it later." He made a concessionary dip of his head as he leaned forward again, mostly looking at the puzzle. "We'll have plenty of time." Peter sounded distant. He was disappointed - that the matter was unsettled, that he had so much time and nothing to do but wait. But that was how things were. Something clicked over inside as he accepted that and moved on.

XXX

_Nice of you to include me in that. That's certainly not a necessary gesture. Why would he do that? Doesn't he think I was always a monster who deserved everything I got and then some? _Then Peter floored him. Sylar looked up at the man's face. _He cut me a break? When's later? What is this, I'm so confused!_ "You're not-" was out of his mouth, straight from his brain, lacking censor. _Going to push it, force me, beat me into submission until you get the answer you want, whether or not its true?_ He shut his mouth over the question, deciding not to aggravate his keeper.

XXX

Peter shifted the chair closer, making a vague, but inviting gesture towards the other man, trying to draw his attention back to the puzzle pieces. "The other piece of the signature should be around here somewhere. I'm going to keep working on this edge here. Maybe you could tell me why you grouped up the pieces like you did. You said earlier something about groups of six?" Peter glanced up at him, hoping the firm detour of the conversation would take, steering it out of the dangerous waters it had been in.

XXX

But when Peter only kept up the odd responses, completely deviating from anything Sylar knew, he was forced to ask questions. "That's it? We just go back to the puzzle?" Not that he objected, hardly. Anyone else would have strapped him down and tortured him silly until he answered, never mind the pain he incurred during 'questioning' (Nazi-style interrogation). This was unexpected reprieve, niceness.

XXX

Peter glanced up at him and then back down. "Yeah, that's it." He gestured at his head. "My head hurts. I can't think." _You've done this twice now. Three times maybe with that collapse here in the apartment the first day. (That was the first day here, right?) It's going to come up again. We'll deal with it then._ "Right now …" He sighed. "I'd just rather leave it alone and do something easier."

XXX

Sylar shook his head briefly and sighed, grasping the part where he wasn't going to be beaten or even excluded from talking or the puzzle. He still felt horrible, his nausea spiking along with his head. _And all he wants to know about is the puzzle. I said something about groups of six? I don't remember that. Hope it wasn't important. I am pretty sure _"I told you. Some people color-code them; some people organize them by shape. These," he indicated the table and in doing so, moved closer a bit unintentionally, "are by shape." _Duh_, he managed to keep that one to himself for self-preservation purposes. "You're so confusing," he couldn't help but mutter.

XXX

Peter grinned suddenly and warmly at that, chuckling. _You, too, man. You, too. I don't understand him; he doesn't understand me. We are such a pair. _He'd caught the condescension, too, but ignored it. "Shapes, huh? I see that now." He looked over them, abruptly seeing the pattern where before there had just been confusion. The smile faded to an expression of simple concentration. _That explains why he left the straight edges together._

XXX

Peter was engrossed in the puzzle and that made it unlikely he'd be leaping up to do violence. Sylar blinked at the puzzle a moment, thinking about it being offered up to him again._ It__'__s Peter's project__,__ yet he's inviting me back to it even after what I said? _He slowly eased closer to the table, inching his hands closer to the splayed puzzle pieces, taking his time in picking one up at random, his eyes focused on Peter as he did so. No yelling or otherwise negative reaction. Only then did he examine the piece. The whole painting/puzzle was a fairly muddy pallet so when he drew a muddy-colored piece…_See, this is why I don't do puzzles by color. I doubt Peter can see the differences. _

Clearing his throat, Sylar asked, "So…you said nausea was normal for this?" pointing to his temple so Peter understood. _Hopefully he doesn't think I was scared so my stomach went crazy. It__'__s because of his food, right. Food. It__'__s not like I know anything about medicine. Maybe he'll tell me another paramedic story._

XXX

"Hm?" Peter looked up, having honestly moved on and zoned out a little. "Nausea? Yeah. So's headache, memory problems, trouble concentrating … bunch of other stuff I'd probably remember better if I hadn't had my ticket punched so firmly." He was matter of fact about that, looking back at what he was doing. He found a piece to hook up and checked to see if he had the bottom of the frame done yet. _Nope, corner won't mesh. Need at least two more pieces then …_ "Hm, sleep problems, too," he added, still looking down. It was something of a luxury, not having to watch his conversational partner constantly - frankly, not caring as much as he did with other people how Sylar took his words. "That was why I got the puzzle, initially. I thought it'd be something for me to do while you dozed, but this is fine." Peter waved between the two of them as he glanced up again. "Great, actually," he said, voice softening a little. He looked at the picture on the puzzle box, but there was no help there. _Back to brute force._ He started trying one piece after another.

XXX

_Flatterer_, Sylar thought of Peter while being proud to have 'punched his ticket so firmly'. _I'd rather hit something else of his not his face. Strange, he really seems over my...problem, there. No, its not a problem – its not my fault._ Sylar was eyeing the puzzle box to try and see where his toneless piece went when Peter brought up sleeping problems, faltering and giving the man wary, surprised look. _How does he know that? Has he been drugging me?_ Peter failed to notice, which might have been a good thing. Sylar felt like his energy was dropping off a cliff after being keyed up moments ago, it dulled his paranoia and he hoped he wouldn't need either – energy or paranoia – for later. Unwinding sounded good about then. _I'm supposed to sleep_, he thought at first about Peter's comments, the feeling of 'I'm even more unwanted here' starting. "Oh." _Its fine? Fine meaning…? Great. I'm– this is great? _Sylar blinked and his face brightened. _Peter's really into that turn-the-other-cheek stuff. He likes doing puzzles with m- with someone._ He grinned to himself and set the puzzle piece where he thought it would go eventually with more pieces. _He really likes puzzles then. I thought he said something about not doing them much growing up, though._

XXX

He worked quietly for a while, letting his brain go on autopilot while his hands stayed busy. Finally, he came out of it, eyes beginning to drift up in between prospective pieces to look at Sylar's hands and what he was doing with them. Then glances up at his face. It felt weird to be working cooperatively with the man on anything - anything at all, even something as meaningless as a puzzle. Peter pulled in a deeper breath, rolling his shoulders a little as they relaxed. He exhaled slowly and quietly, repeating the process a few times. His head felt better as he reached the last stage of calming himself down after a spike in tension.

_Nauseous. Normal side effect of tension._ "If you're still feeling nauseous, you might try some breathing exercises. It's one of the things they teach in nursing school - abdominal breathing. It's simple." He looked over Sylar's face for some sign of recognition or lack thereof, something to tell him if talking Sylar through the process would be welcomed or redundant. "I could talk you through it?"

XXX

Gathering up another piece, surprisingly calm and unafraid now, Sylar compared it to the box picture. He seemed to be moving very slowly compared to Peter- his attention was called back to his companion as he spoke. Peter was having that effect; Sylar didn't know if it was annoying or impressive or enviable. _Breathing exercises, huh?_ He decided to take a chance. "Like CPR?" Sylar deadpanned, curious and attentive, putting on the same wide-and-innocent eyes that had worked before on Peter. _Practicing our heavy breathing, why do it alone when you can do it together?_

XXX

Sylar raised his face, eyes wide, vulnerable, and looking so far from a killer that Peter's mind stumbled, possibly straight into the gutter. "Uh … nnn," Peter said unhelpfully, losing track of what he'd been about to say, somewhere between his brain and vocal cords. "Huh?" He tried to recall what Sylar had just said. "CPR? Uh … nnno. No. Huh-uh. It's just … It's just abdominal breathing. It's pretty straight forward."

XXX

Sylar chuckled. _God, he's so easy. That's kinda hot, actually. I can't wait to play with him. (I think we already played with him and are in this predicament because of that)._ "Oh, okay," he replied when he'd gotten over most of his amusement to be able to answer. He had no idea what the distinction was or really, whatever it was Peter had just said.

XXX

Peter pushed back from the desk, giving his head a little shake to rid it of whatever momentary fogginess seemed to have infected it. _Whatever that was_. He wasn't self-aware enough at the moment to figure out that his libido had been awoken. Otherwise, his rational mind would have automatically vetoed what he did next. He began speaking with the semi-instinctive intention to impress. "The trick is, you're hyperoxygenating your blood and that naturally calms a person down. If your chair's comfortable, you can do it there if you lean back, but it works a lot better if you lie down." He gestured widely at the couch. "You need to get comfortable, where you can relax and focus on your breathing for a few minutes." He glanced around the place. "It's like resetting one of your clocks. You've got to get the pendulum swinging right, otherwise you'll always be running a few seconds too fast." He smiled a little, pleased at having managed that analogy. Big words, give directions, say something clever, look proud of yourself. Yep, he'd filled the script. He still felt kind of confused, though.


	42. Heavy Breathing

Day 11, afternoon

Sylar's eyes darkened as he took to the idea Peter was practically laying out the red carpet for him. It hurt his head, but the blood rushing everywhere else was a worthwhile feeling. Getting away with unintentionally spouting off Nathan Petrelli's memories and not being punished for it, being invited back to the puzzle after that and Peter's continued niceness was stirring all sorts of things up inside him. Obviously: instincts to play and tease and…experiment; get a dialogue going and learn things. "Hmm," Sylar hummed as if he understood a word of what Peter said (he didn't; he was lost on 'hyperoxygenated' but he did hear something about clocks and pendulums) but it sounded interesting and it involved a couch.

He flicked his eyes over Peter's smiling face, probably looking a little hungry; he smiled back slowly and began to raise himself up out of the chair. "Alright," was his blanket agreement. A few limps to the couch, he sat, turned and began to settle in, doing his best to look inviting. Whatever this game was, it was fun. "Here I am." As he hadn't been paying attention, he had no idea what the game actually involved, so he stated his readiness in a low voice, his hands at his sides. _This is way better than the puzzle_, he thought even as the rest of his consciousness fuzzed out, incapable of even planning an escape if things went bad – and they might. Peter might be suckering him in to pull a switch and flip back into 'beat your ass into a pulp' mode for the Nathan thing. _At least I'll be comfortable while he does it. Whatever it is he's doing. _

"You'll show me how to do it?" _Whatever it is_. He backed up his request with a similarly tempting look, toned down somewhat from before, reeling Peter in and stretching his body out, miming a position adjustment crudely – his chest puffed out, hips rolled back, spine arched slightly for a moment, spreading his legs a little, lolling his head to face Peter. All the motions were subtle and noticeable enough. Already he was learning some of Peter's buttons and the guy was easy and Sylar did not mind playing stupid(er) to get some mutual friction going. _Here I am, limp and helpless in need of assistance. Save me, hero-boy._

XXX

"Yeah. Um … er_."__ Words. I know them. Why am I having trouble getting them out of my mouth?_ The only time he was usually at such a loss was during the throes of sex. Part of his brain realized he was acting like a crush-smitten teen, but he wasn't connecting that with the current situation. Because that same part of his brain was absolutely certain that Sylar wasn't a valid target of affection. Unfortunately, the human sexual response was more complicated than just "affection". Sylar's motions when laying himself out were replaying in Peter's head. He wasn't sure why that seemed important, so he ignored it.

Peter stood and wheeled his chair over in front of the couch, smiling happily at Sylar, who was looking really … Peter couldn't find words even in his head to work that one out, but he felt warm and cheered and very perked up by things. Mostly he was watching Sylar's face. "Yeah, okay," Peter said needlessly, positioning the chair at an angle roughly parallel to Sylar. He took a seat, tilting the chair back and turning his head so he had a good line of sight with his right eye. Sylar was paying attention to him; that was great - necessary of course.

"So, um …" _What am I doing here? What am I … oh yeah, deep breathing. Or, abdominal breathing. Yeah. Okay. That's easy. Whew._ "Okay, so here's how you do it: put one hand on your chest - doesn't matter which one, and the other one on your stomach. Like this." He demonstrated. "Now you're going to take a deep breath, breathe in for," _Five? No, four,_ "four seconds, hold it for a second, then breathe out. And the important part is that you have to make the hand on your stomach move, not the hand on your chest. Okay? Oh, and exhale for four seconds, too. So, like this," he concluded, going through one cycle.

_I'm acting kind of weird_, he thought as he relaxed and the fog in his brain cleared even more._ What's going on here?_

XXX

_Sitting down, definitely relaxing, wow._ _Hmm, yes, Peter._ The man drew closer, nearly beaming at him and that was so, so nice, he didn't care why it was happening. It had Sylar smiling back lazily, watching the only other face in the world as it was happy and pleased. _Probably shouldn't be this relaxed for sex. If it happens. Oh well._ Peter strangely still sat in his chair, the usual distance between them. _Why not come over here? _

He followed along, for the most part, as Peter spoke. Sylar glanced down at himself, noting that his shirt was still mostly open from whenever ago. _Oh, oops. He didn't tell me to button up – he must not have minded._ He plucked at his shirt a bit, sliding his left hand onto his bare chest, his right hand on his shirted stomach. Then he checked the position against Peter's demo. And that was where he got confused, genuinely so. "Um…" _Hand on the stomach moves, but not the- how does that work? Peter makes it look easy. _Frowning, he shifted and took a large breath but that just moved everything. That was frustrating.

Oddly enough, he wanted more of Peter-hands-on (not something he ever really said about most people). The trick was how to get Peter to do it in Sylar's limited, fuzzy state. He admitted to himself that this was very unconventional for him, feeling this way, relaxed like this, wanting what he did now. In a roundabout way, the solution came to him. "Are my hands right?" he raised them from his person in question, to show where they'd been resting. Overanalyzing it in thinking that hand-placement (namely his own hands) would throw off the results. "How does…?" he trailed off. _This is not that hard! It__'__s okay, it__'__s okay. Peter will show me._ The thought of Peter closer, smiling, possibly with his hands on Sylar's chest after experiencing Peter's gentle nursing from before was more than enough to turn him on and make him feel warm all over.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar, who seemed very happy with things. _Maybe that's the deal. He usually doesn't look happy. He's usually scowling or plotting. He doesn't look like he's plotting anything right now_. Peter saw as Sylar's expression turned confused, raising his hands, questioning, and apparently dissatisfied with the results of trying the exercise. _It's not that difficult,_ Peter thought, his brows pulling together and lips pinching together briefly. _Why can't he figure it out? Wait, there's another way he can do it._

"Here. I have an idea." Peter tilted his chair back upright, waited a beat for his balance to steady, and then stood. He looked down on Sylar for a moment, unable to stop the tiny, charmed smile that crept over his lips. Peter swiped at his hair, making sure his bangs were out of his way. Then he fussed with his hair in general, eyes starting to stray downward from Sylar's face to his bare chest. He pulled his gaze away quickly._ I don't need to be looking at that. _"Okay, um … yeah." He looked straight ahead now and picked the little blue chemistry book off the shelf. "There's this other way I was shown. I'm going to put this on your stomach. Maybe this will help." He braced himself on the shelves behind the couch and leaned a little to put the small book on Sylar's belly.

XXX

So there Peter stood: over him and smiling (still!). Sylar was starting to wonder if he'd missed something. Or maybe this truly was going somewhere. He was used to not receiving those types of signals, instead making them up to get what he wanted. His eyes tracked to Peter's hand, combing through his hair in, yes, seductive motions. _Is he really playing with his hair? Do that on top of me next time._ Sylar saw his companion's eyes start to wander. _Yes! (I think)._ This was all a very…slow scene; he'd never really encountered 'slow' before. _Maybe he drugged me, I- this __is__ fast even for me. Do I mind, though?_ Peter leaned bodily over him and that was suggestive of an act that did not turn him on. He tensed, turning his face a few inches away towards the back of the couch, arousal halted in its tracks by a healthy reaction of self-preservation, but Peter wasn't finished. Face frozen, he inhaled in shock when Peter laid the book on his body. _He's not touching me, he's not touching me._ Now he was nervous and still flushed.

XXX

"Alright." Peter glanced back at his chair, then decided to forego it, sinking to his knees where he was. Looming over Sylar was bad form and one's body language while working with patients was a very basic and oft-repeated lesson. His manner softening, he said, "Now, look down your body at the book. Take a breath, nice and slow, and make the book go up and down as you breathe." Peter gestured helpfully with his right hand. His left was at his side.

XXX

_Happy now? He's close. He wants it now._ Sylar cut off his instinct to panic, but his brain completely failed him for making any show of defense, whether verbal or physical (which he'd have no hope of winning anyway). He had nothing, no plan, just blank, red, throbbing pain throughout his head. Sylar found himself wishing it was red, throbbing pain from his heart pumping from arousal, but that seemed unlikely. Peter spoke and his ears snapped to attention even though his eyes stayed focused on the ceiling, his face having oriented back to the straight position. He swallowed quick and rough, clearing his throat briefly thereafter and wetting his lips while he remembered how to breathe first of all. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath since Peter leaned over him. _Oh. Let that out._ He did, allowing himself a slow blink to center himself, scrunching his neck to be able to look down – a very uncomfortable position. He then inhaled to the count of four, held the breath for a second and released it on the fourth beat, doing his best to even relax again with Peter hawking right next to him - an odd position. The exhale was kind of shaky, but he'd managed it, hoping Peter hadn't heard it.

XXX

Peter tilted his head a little at all the indications of discomfort Sylar was suddenly giving off - flushed, fidgeting, no eye contact when Sylar had been previously all about that. _Must be having another wave of nausea, but people usually pale for that. Maybe it's from lying down? He's not breathing right either._ "Easy. Try to relax. Breathe in slow over the course of four seconds, hold it for one, then breathe out for four seconds." He glanced away from Sylar's face to look at the book, and decided to skip stressing which diaphragmatic muscles Sylar was using in favor of getting the pattern itself down. He looked back, waiting for the end of Sylar's most recent exhalation. "Breathe in - one, two, three, and four." He held up his left hand briefly, palm towards Sylar as 'stop' for a one second beat, then dropped it. "Breathe out _slow_ - one, two, three, and four. And again. Let yourself relax."

XXX

"Yeah, okay," he breathed out, no pun intended. _I don't know if you're helping or not, Petrelli, staring at me._ He followed Peter's pattern, tensing again when the man raised a hand but only to gesture. _This feels weird: 'Just relax and breathe for me'. _

XXX

After a few iterations, Peter indicated the book again. "Look at the book. When you breathe in, make it rise. When you breathe out, let it fall. You're trying to expand your lungs with your diaphragm, not your short ribs. Breathe deep." Peter counted off again for one cycle and then sat quietly, watching as Sylar did his thing. His eyes were mainly on the gradual motions of the book. The corner of Peter's mouth turned up as he noticed his own breathing had synced with Sylar's, since he was right here next to the guy, paying close attention to it.

XXX

"Diaphragm? Why didn't you say so?" Sylar let out in a sort of nervous chuckle. And he realized he hadn't been paying attention to the book on his tummy, more focused on the breathing and Peter. His nurse's attention left his face for the book (that came with its own set of 'what is he looking at? What is he seeing?' problems) but it was better than being stared at, especially at close range. Adjusting himself once more, Sylar breathed in and worked the correct muscles to move the whole of his lungs as opposed to trying to breathe with his stomach, however the hell that was supposed to work. _Aha!_ The book moved and his chest stayed relatively still, lungs filling up better. The victory boosted him and he grinned slightly, trying again to repeat his success. He wanted to ask Peter what or why, rather, this helped with nausea. Sure, breathing helped him avoid throwing up, but he'd never tried this pattern before obviously. _That feels totally different. And kind of good. _Gabriel had always struggled for air; it resulted in embarrassing mouth-breathing on occasion, but more often panting or heavy-breathing where there was no outside cause. This got him more air without using his mouth.

XXX

Peter settled back fully as Sylar seemed to get the hang of it. He let his right hand drop from the couch where he'd been using it for a little balance, to rest on his thigh. He watched the book go up and down slowly, a bit mesmerizing as his own breathing followed the same course. It made him feel a little fuzzed out and relaxed. In a low voice, he said, "Deep breathing is one of those things we're taught to direct trauma patients to do. People get shot, assaulted, car accident, whatever. They get stressed, blood pressure goes up, hyperventilate a little, blood oxygen drops - all bad things. People can manage pain better if they can relax, but of course that's a tough circle … one of those bad circles, cycles. One thing feeds another - get hurt; can't relax. But if you can break out of that and relax, it won't hurt so much. And it's good for nausea."

Peter snorted softly. "I think I'm starting to ramble. I'm going to go back to the puzzle." He patted the edge of the couch with his left hand before reached back to draw the chair closer. He used it to steady himself as he got to his feet, then wheeled it over behind the work desk again. He settled himself in, expecting Sylar to drop off or to zone out now that he was horizontal and nothing pressing was going on. _I wonder if I should take his pillow and blanket over there? Nah. Might freak him out. If he doesn't want to go to sleep, he'll force himself up at the reminder. I should just let him alone. If he goes to sleep, I can always … yeah, I could cover him up._ Peter weighed the 'my patient' vs. 'Sylar' considerations and decided that spreading a blanket over the guy wasn't problematic. He hoped.

XXX

_It helps with pain? Cool. But why would he want to give me that information? Isn't his job to cause me pain? He also seems to think it__'__s his job to clean up after causing damage._ Sylar grasped most of what Peter was saying and he counted that much as a win. Sylar turned as Peter stated his departure. _Why, though? The puzzle is more interesting. That's it?_ He watched mournfully after his companion, hypocritically wishing him back to his former position by Sylar's side. The couch was beginning to swallow him whole now he was here and now Pete was gone so to speak.

An idea slowly materialized. _Oh. He probably suggested the breathing thing so I'd be over here and fall asleep like he said I should. That way he can do his puzzle like he wants and I'm calm and quiet. But I was calm before. Not…quiet. Not quiet enough. Fine, quiet time it is. He wants the puzzle to himself….Well, it is his puzzle. I helped, though. What does that make me? In the way, I guess. But he invited me over to it…several times. Or he just wants quiet time with the puzzle and he can't have that with me in the way, tripping over Nathan. So this is the punishment – time out. I'm here to think about what I've done wrong. God, I'll be here forever._ The couch had the effect of making him feel naked or cold, so he crossed his ankles, elevating his busted toes, and crossed his arms. _Fine_. His body protested thinking with his eyes open so he shut his lids and did his best to annoy Peter by enjoying his punishment: he had a couch after all, it could have been worse.

XXX

Peter bent over the puzzle for long minutes. A lot longer than he expected passed before it sounded like Sylar had dropped off to sleep. That was Peter's signal to relax. He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, followed a few moments later with a round of stretching. Some of his muscles were starting to pass from that too-sore-to-be-used-without-pain stage to a kind-of-itchy-and-need-to-be-stretched stage. It was a sign of recovery. He was glad to see it; glad to indulge it. But he didn't feel like stretching in front of a wakeful Sylar.

He rubbed at his neck, then turned and looked around Sylar's bed for the ben-gay, assuming that it hadn't gone far. It wasn't hard to find. He reapplied, debated going through some more ice pack treatment for his eye or wrist and decided against it. He zoned out for a bit, roused by upset noises from Sylar's quarter. He was breathing uneasily and making a low, strained noise in the back of his throat. Peter sighed and rose, getting the blanket from the bed. He carried it over, spread it carefully, and settled it over the man. Sylar twitched and jerked, thrashing slightly as the cloth came to rest on him. He didn't wake, though, or if he did, he kept his eyes shut and pretended otherwise.

Peter went back to the desk, feeling pleased with himself for having been helpful. He ate chips quietly and started back to work on the puzzle. He tinkered with it for the remainder of Sylar's nap, finishing the frame (an accomplishment which made Peter beam stupidly around the room, wishing someone would see his feat and appreciate it) and then moving on to the rain-blurred shops along the sides. He resisted, again, the impulse to do the horses and carriage. He eyed the neatly sorted, differently-shaped pieces, but it seemed like a useless distinction. He tried to work them by shape rather than color, but his brain refused to cooperate.

Sylar did not sleep easily and this was Peter's first full exposure to that. The man woke eventually, as the evening wore on. His breathing became disjointed like it had many times before, due to nightmares Peter assumed, then dropped to shallow, quiet and light. Well past the point where Peter decided Sylar had just drifted into a different stage of sleep, Sylar started moving more purposefully.

XXX

After what felt like an age of never-ending bad sleep, Sylar woke quietly like some kind of irony against the noise of his nightmares. Shifting his head a little, his eyes opened as his arms began to move, brushing against something foreign. That had his eyes opening faster to see what it was that pressed all over his body, doing his best to jerk away from it until he saw it. _A blanket. Peter must've…_

XXX

"Hey," Peter said, just loud enough to carry easily and remind Sylar of his presence. He waited while Sylar got oriented. "Wanna come over here and help some more?" It was also his way of hoping Sylar would see he got the border done. That was pretty much all he'd done, aside from a couple pieces at random.

XXX

_Is he trying to show me up with niceness? _"What time is it?" he grumbled under his breath, flailing with the blanket, the couch and his own balance to bring his watch into view. _6:14._ He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair to get it back. He was still fuzzy from sleep, his body having stiffened and somewhat relaxed simultaneously.

XXX

"Uh, I dunno." Peter looked around the room at the various clocks, missing the action as Sylar looked at his own watch. "Quarter after six, I guess."

XXX

He nodded his agreement. _This is such a strange pattern we have. He sounds chipper enough. What were we doing before I slept?...Oh, yeah. He was raising my blood pressure in interesting ways._ Sylar rolled himself to his feet and managed the chair at the desk. "Oh," he said in surprise, eyebrows arching slightly. Peter had finished the border. _He's not that concussed, then._ He looked up to the man, "Busy bee." _Now how do I get you busy with other things?_ "Easy puzzle?" he asked, curious how Peter would rate it, picking up a piece to join in. _Does it matter? Anything's going to challenge me right now._ He wondered if Peter had slept or snooped at all. With his limited sense of smell, he detected the ben-gay and saw the tube on the desk.

XXX

Peter smiled inside and shrugged about the puzzle. _Easy to concentrate when there's no distractions._ But that sounded like he minded the distraction Sylar's presence provided and he didn't. "It's okay," he said. "After the edge, it's kind of hard to tell. I've been trying to do these shops, but I can't seem to find anything that matches." _How does Sylar take direction? Can I just tell him what I want him to do here? How did he manage working for people? Like, before abilities? _"You know, if you could tackle the horses, I could do the carriage." Peter pointed out the areas on the box lid, then watched Sylar for his response. Peter's mind helpfully observed, _His hair's a mess again._ Sylar's disarray made him much easier for Peter to take. The guy wasn't nearly as scary or threatening with a full case of bedhead going on.

XXX

_Yeah. Dumb question. He's only done the border. _Sylar's eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid up to Peter. _Why do I have to do the horses? I can't just do whatever?_ "Alright," he intoned slowly, clearly hesitant. He was wary of whatever Peter was implying or pulling, so it wasn't like Peter was getting one over him. He could, and would, play along.

XXX

Peter started fiddling with the nearest different shape section, rearranging it to put the black pieces together at the bottom of the group. _I got black; he got white. Hm._ "You ever had a roommate?" he asked semi-randomly, wondering how accustomed or not Sylar was to sharing his living space with someone else. Peter had done it often enough, though he'd also had several years of living alone. Roommates and campus residency were mandatory for the first year in college, unless you lived at home and filed for a special dispensation. He'd seen no reason to fight it, as the less he saw his father, the happier he was.

XXX

"Huh?" was his first reaction to the non-sequitur. "No." _Not counting my parents_. A pause in which he felt the silence his almost-non-answer answer created; it prompted him to elaborate, "I've traveled with lots of people, shared hotels and stuff." Sylar shrugged, "That wasn't what you meant." _To think I asked him to move in basically, ha. Sure seems like he wants to, though. I don't know. Why live with me when you can break down my door whenever you want__?_"Why do you ask?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "Just wondered." He exhaled slowly. "I'm kind of here, in your space. You didn't come looking for me." _This time. I came looking for you._ "You didn't ask me to …" he waved his hand around vaguely, "help you after the fight. I was just wondering if being around people …" _like me, people you can't get away from_, "was something you'd had to deal with before. It's kind of different, when you have to live with someone, and get along with them, day in and day out." He gave a momentary tilt of his head and short smile. "You get real familiar with them." _And I'm thinking we're going to be stuck together here for a long time. Maybe we ought to set some ground rules or something - like you don't mention my family and I'll refrain from beating up buildings?_

XXX

_Good things come to those who wait, perhaps? I wish,_ he thought longingly because he knew it didn't work that way. Sylar snorted a breath, once again mumbling grudgingly under his breath, "Tell me about it," on the subject of living with someone day-in, day-out whom you had to find a middle ground with. Of course, he was thinking of the Grays, not Peter. In that respect, dealing with Peter lacked appeal because the man was inescapable however much it played to Sylar's advantage. _I've dealt with it enough, I know the drill. My 'parents' stopped beating me before I reached fatal injury mass__;__ you don't, Peter_. If given time, Sylar knew he himself would become more manageable.

Nathan knew Peter had had roommates, but he hadn't bothered to meet them or get to know them through Peter. "How about you? Roommates."

XXX

"Yeah, I had some. First year of college, I was in the dorm with four of us sharing one bathroom. Then next year I was in an apartment the same way - four of us. One was one of the guys from the first year. Then I had some time alone before Kevin moved in with me mid-semester. He stayed for most of the next year. Never had a permanent roommate after that - you know, a rent-paying, staying-for-more-than-a-few-days roommate." Yeah, that meant pretty much what it sounded like - in his younger years, Peter had people in his bed frequently enough for it to be a condition, even if he was more frequently in their bed. It was, after all, why he had eventually opted for a single apartment, so he could have partners over without negotiating with his roommates. Kevin, the competitive weight lifter, virtually lived in the gym, so he hadn't been much of an issue.

XXX

Sylar listened, forking idly through puzzle pieces (forgetful of what he was looking for but it gave him something to do), his eyebrows going up mid-story. He wasn't that surprised. Petrellis had high libidos, big egos, a lot of delusions of grandeur, hedonism, lofty ideals and plots and a serious narcissism problem that showed itself in their self-importance, entitlement, and self-absorption. Sylar would have guessed Peter got around, independently, but he knew from Nathan that Peter was something of (what Sylar would label) a slut. _Some alone time. And he filled that with either masturbation or one-night-stands. Neat. Or did you fill it with this 'Kevin' individual? Ugh. _

He either felt dirty and disgusted at the thought or thrilled at a juicy secret and what it might mean for him. Nathan had turned a blind eye whenever possible. _/Rifling around under Peter's sink to refill the toilet paper dispenser, he'd come across a realistic, rubber dildo. He knew what it was, of course, but why his baby brother would have one in his apartment at all was a half a mystery. He'd brought it out, putting a paper towel between it and his hand, asking, "What's this?" Peter had poked his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows up before they'd fallen somewhat at the sight of his brother with a (his?) sex toy. "It's Laura's, she's keeping it here," was the answer Peter gave with the expectancy that Nathan would drop the subject. He did. If it was Peter's girlfriend's then he wanted no part of it. Nathan didn't completely believe Peter, knowing what a free-love-for-all person he was, college-age, but the explanation (or lie) was solid and also none of his business./_

Sylar mainly felt competitive and possessive on instinct for reasons unknown. Competition and possessiveness weren't new, but he'd never been that way about a man who wasn't even vaguely a father-type figure or someone he despised and/or hated. He blamed the barren world Fate had saddled him with.

Peter was begging the next question anyway, so Sylar obliged, "How many staying-for-more-than-a-few-days, not-paying-rent roommates have you had, then?" He asked this with a tilt of his head and a suggestive eyebrow. _Obviously enough that he feels the need to distinguish. Does he even remember? Nathan sure didn't. _He was delighted Peter had stumbled onto this topic. Sylar could use the information. He came across a white piece and it gave him pause until he remembered and picked it up, referencing the box for where, approximately, it belonged. _I wonder what else he's willing to share. Like playing Truth or Truth?_

XXX

Peter snorted, trying to cut off that line of inquiry. "Enough." _Jeez, I'm not even sure how many I've had. Never kept count. I figure I could count them up if I thought about it_. He had an excellent memory for names, faces and situations, but he wasn't too inclined to share with Sylar and Peter's memory, just in general, had been a bit fuzzy since the fight. He looked over the man's expression, at the 'Oh really? Do tell?' eyebrow. Peter exhaled sharply through his nose. "That was all in college." He looked down, messing with the puzzle pieces. _Does that make it meaningless? Of course not, but it sort of sounds that way - college lark, sowing wild oats and all._

Peter's expression darkened a little_. I'm the one who brought the subject up. Why did I?_ He ruminated on that a bit, getting another chip by method of tipping the tube to the side and shaking it a bit. With the chips clustered up at the end and easily accessible, he offered it to Sylar. "Want some?"

XXX

Sylar smirked and ignored the man's short tone, "Aww, you shy? No need to be shy." _I'll show you mine, if you show me yours._ He chuckled. "No thanks. You know I'm not hungry." _You seem to be, but there's no need to keep offering me food. _After that, he mainly gazed at Peter, hoping to unnerve the man into speaking.

XXX

"Shy?" _You think you have some right to know how many people I've been with?_ "What do you want, a count? Six? Sixteen? Fifty-two maybe - one for each week of the year? No, more like five-hundred-eighty-three," Peter threw out challengingly. _Probably closer to that than fifty-two. Wait, are we talking partners or sleepovers?_ He shook his head, trying to stop his own idiot thought process from tracking down the information. At the moment, he didn't _want _to know, because if he _knew_, he might have a tell. "It's-" He cut himself off from 'it's not your business', as Peter had, after all, asked the perhaps-too-personal question about roommates to start with. The reason he was getting riled up was because of Sylar's expressed interest in him, and his agitation about that interest.

"It's enough that I have plenty of experience with a lot of different kinds of roommates."

XXX

_Well, you sure acted shy. I know you're not. Gentlemen don't kiss and tell, is that it?_ Sylar sneered inside his head. _There's no one here! They can't hear you!_ He thought somewhat angrily. He didn't know what he wanted. The larger the number grew, the less he knew and the more things boiled down to an overload of information. He tried to think back to how old Peter was when he hit puberty and shook that thought away. His face grew increasingly disgusted. Fifty-two would have been modest, five-hundred-eighty-three was just…_I'm already nauseous. That's overkill, greedy. That's…Is this guy even _clean_? Ugh. God, I'm sorry I asked. I'm sorry he brought it up._

"I get the point. That's disgusting." _That's probably half a college? A couple hospitals? Pre-med. Half the state? Jesus Christ. That's half a fucking town! _Sylar leaned back, exhaling as if trying to get away from the idea, certainly putting distance between himself and the man in question. Of course, for every question that was answered, a dozen more popped up: were they all clean? Were they on Peter's level of looks? Did he sleep with people for looks? _No, obviously not…_How the hell did he do that? _Petrelli money, charm, what?_ Should I be impressed? Does he have a sex addiction? _That seems excessive. I don't even wanna know what Arthur was like._ How could one man go through that much pussy? How is his dick not broken? _I'm assuming it's unbroken._ How many of those….people were women? _Gross._ Sylar's interest had either doubled or dropped off a cliff, either way his headache was raging. He massaged at his forehead and temples, feeling the hot skin of his face and scalp.

XXX

"Disgusting?" Peter straightened, because this was getting into territory that drew a strong response from him - to defend, to protect, to stand up for the people he'd been with and to some extent himself. _Disgusting that I've probably made love to more people than you've MURDERED? _He took a deep breath and decided he could control himself for this. "It's not dis-_gust_-ing that I've had a good time with a lot of people. I made them _happy_," he bit out, pointing at the desk in front of Sylar sharply. "I made _me_ happy." He pointed to himself. His head hurt from speaking too strongly and he winced, unrelated to his words, but he toned down the volume on his next statements. "There's nothing _wrong_ with that. _You_, of all people, do not get to shame _me_, or them, for that."

He slouched back in his chair for the moment, rubbing at his jaw with an irritated look on his face, scowling somewhat at Sylar. _Moral judgment from the likes of him? Bah! Asshole. Probably one of those idiots who thinks it's okay to show someone blown apart on TV, but not having sex._

XXX

Sylar didn't even know where to begin processing all of that. _First sign of a problem is denial? He's definitely got a problem – what was he, a serial cheater, like Nathan? Sex addict. How on earth is that not dis-gust-ing? He assumes he made them 'happy' – can he tell a real orgasm from a fake one medically or with his ability? It never reaches the bottom of the barrel with Petrellis, always some new hidden facet. No wonder he turned a blind eye to Nathan's cheating. I'd have told Heidi. _And, yes, Nathan had done his share of covering Peter's ass when it came to their parents and the law. _Yuck. Great. I wind up with some STD sex addicted…what's that word…man-whore. Its not like I didn't know I'd be another notch on his belt – number five-hundred and eighty-four? Give or take. Jesus._

Sylar narrowed his eyes right back at Peter, wondering how this was anywhere near his fault. "You're right. I forgot Peter Petrelli was untouchable to the shame game. It goes both ways. So if I went out and fucked six-hundred women, it would just be making me 'happy'?" This he really wanted to know, how Peter saw murderers getting laid in context of how human (or monstrous) Sylar was. Not that getting laid had ever helped or cured anything for him – it didn't make him happy, but it felt good most of the time.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed as he stared across the table at Sylar. He turned his head slightly to the side, trying to figure out what Sylar was getting at. "If you fucked six-hundred women … I … hope you'd be happy, yeah? And them, too, I'd hope." _They might not be. Not every one of them. Six-hundred is a lot of people. A few of them might be unhappy, might be angry, whatever_. "Why are you even asking? I don't care how many times you've been laid, how many times you've jerked off, or how many times you've _blinked_ in your life."

"We're the only two people here. All I was asking about the roommate thing for was to try and figure out … how we'd … I don't know, interact. I'd rather not be getting in fights with you all the time." _Like this one! Argument, rather._ Peter leaned back in his chair, being exasperated.

XXX

His companion's reaction was funny, irksome and relieving. Sylar gave a patient blink. _And I thought I was the slow one here. Obviously, you don't care how much I've been laid – it does not seem to be pressing on your concerns, my sex drive. _"Do you have ideas?" _Short of, you know, cutting my tongue out?_ The concussion spoke out with, "Or is this going to turn into Saint Peter's Hospital where you keep me like this and I get stuck under house arrest and you come over during visiting hours?" It made sense at the time. It was, technically, a possibility. Peter would re-injure him, keep him locked up like fucking Rapunzel or something and come talk (argue) and play whenever he grew bored. _Although that's really stupid if he doesn't expect a jailbreak from me._

XXX

_Ideas?_ He opened his mouth to ask about that, but Sylar was speaking again. He shut it and listened. _Saint Peter's Hospital? What does he mean? Yeah, I'm going to keep coming over until he gets better, but he's hardly under house arrest. It's just safer if … is he implying I'd keep beating him up every time he recovered? Well, we probably will get in more fights once he's on his feet … that's my point, about the roommates - let's not get in more fights._

Sylar was talking again, so Peter ditched his internal contemplations to hear him.

XXX

Sylar paused over that then sighed. "I haven't had to interact with people on a year-round basis like we're dealing with except with my parents. There's a reason they don't let me out to walk and talk much. I don't play well with the other children, you see. I end up…well, like this." _Fucked. That's how I end up – fucked._ "I don't 'do' people and everyone's happier that way," Sylar ended his psycho-babble of a ramble with an inhale just to shut himself up. _Pathetic. Five stars. Oscar-worthy. Please shut up._

XXX

"They're not here - your parents - so you're going to have to 'do' … eh, learn to deal with people. Me, specifically. I have ideas about that, yeah. You've gotta quit bringing up my family. You've gotta quit trying to make me angry. If you don't understand what it is that you're doing, I can tell you, but it won't matter unless you _listen_." Peter grumbled, making an unhappy noise in his throat. He sighed and reached up to rake his hair out of his face. His hand bunched his hair restlessly a few times before letting go. _I just don't want to have fights._ Out of the blue, a thought struck him - he was talking about what he needed and wanted, but hadn't asked the same of Sylar. "What are your ideas?"


	43. Turndown Service

Day 11, Evening

_Is he always this annoyed? I'm not even doing anything, but let's play the blame game._ "There's a difference between listening and applying, Peter," he said firmly, but quietly. Sylar wanted to blast him with it, call him 'Petrelli' just because, but it wouldn't do any good right now. The implication Peter made was that he wasn't listening and that was far from the truth. _There's also difference between listening and understanding, yeah. Maybe if your logic made sense, maybe if you'd explain, maybe if your goals were somewhat reasonable…He doesn't want to talk much so I bring up the family and make him angry. He makes _me_ angry! He's the- we both have anger problems, I suppose. Or maybe I could listen and understand better if he'd stop hitting me._

XXX

_Listening and applying? Meaning you hear me, you understand me, you just decide to pick fights anyway, damnit._ Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly._ I suppose it's good to have that out in the open, at least._

XXX

Sylar's eyes then tracked between Peter's, relentlessly intent in pursuit of the man's motive. _He's really asking me about my ideas? Generous or stupid? Knowing Peter its naïve…_"I think…" Sylar found the comb, aiming to have Peter use it to sooth his literally ruffled feathers. Staring the man down, he moved to hand it off, one elbow on the table but he kept a grip on it as Peter made to take it. It forced Peter to look at him in question, at closer range, almost held in place by the comb, so Sylar leaned in. Voice low, full of spikes and curves, "Give me what I want and that'll help you avoid pissing me off," and with that, he let Peter have the comb.

XXX

Peter took the comb, hackles up. Sylar's statement read as blackmail ('fuck me/let me fuck you and _maybe_ I'll deign to quit harassing you') and the aggressive hanging onto the comb, along with the glare, reinforced it. Peter wanted to wrap his fist around the flimsy plastic and smack Sylar right in the nose. He looked at the comb briefly, dismissing it as irrelevant by itself, and a poor choice of objects to brace his hand with in the case of punching. He went to put it in his pocket only for Sylar to say, "Peter, fix your hair."

Enough adrenaline was flooding Peter's system that he had trouble processing the unexpected words. He pulled the comb back out and looked from it to Sylar, most of the lines on Peter's face angry and suspicious. Eyes narrowed, he gave a rebellious, teenager-type hair flip with a jerk of his head (which hurt to do, but he did it anyway), then used the comb as directed. He was highly charged at the moment, very tense and deliberate with his motions, watching Sylar with the constant vigilance of aggression.

XXX

_Really? Really?_ Sylar watched right back, snorting derisively; his face a work of art at being unimpressed and disbelieving. _It's a comb, Peter! Not a life-or-death moral command!_

XXX

'_Give me what I want'? What the fuck would that be?_ Peter had his ideas, clearly. Sylar seemed to want to cut him down as much as possible and at the same time (a perverse reversal to Peter's way of thinking) want to have sex with him. Usually, Peter was all about asking to firm up someone's motivations, but at the moment too many layers of Petrelli training were keeping his mouth shut. He looked from the comb to Sylar's hair, a barely restrained smile forming slowly on his lips. The idea ran through his head to toss the comb down in front of Sylar and tell him to fix his own damn hair, it was still a mess, but a better idea occurred to him. Meaner, pettier probably. It should have been beneath him. He let his smile become a little more evident as he eyed Sylar's own coiffure before tucking the comb back into his pocket. _I think you missed a little on the right cheek when you were shaving, too._

XXX

Rather bloodshot, dilated dark eyes narrowed in response to that simple, pre-mocking glance between comb and something over the top of Sylar's head. _Oh no you don't…_Sylar already sensed where this was headed. Peter's smile turned devilish (which was either admirable, awe-inspiring, pride-inducing and kind of sexy or really bad form in mimicry-is-the-sincerest-form-of-flattery). Sylar's tilted his head. He wanted to get up, grab Peter by that freshly-combed head of hair, shake him around, land a few disciplining blows and maybe spank the comb from Peter's back pocket, but retrieve the comb one way or other. He wanted to wrestle and wrest it back, regardless of the cost. _That little prick. You Petrelli prick. Stop using his last name, huh? Well, stop acting like one!_ However, the cost might be his health, mental capacity or his life if Peter won. His head was slowly killing him and he was only sitting – round three was out of the question because Peter would win. His second urge was to decimate the puzzle. Maybe a biting retort but he just couldn't think of one.

_He took my comb. That's my comb. Its _mine_._ Even his mental voiced turned childish, whiney and hurt. That was a level of mean Peter had yet to stoop to – true schoolyard style. It was like little Gabriel had never left. This was hitting on deeper childhood issues he'd rather keep buried. True to form, he addressed it much the same as he would have then, "That's mine. Give it back," he held out his hand. His voice wavered between anger, demand and hurt. _(Indian giver) I just gave it to him to fix his hair, not pocket it!_

XXX

_What? The comb? That's __**my**__ comb._ It was. Peter knew it was. He always carried a comb in his back pocket. He gave Sylar an incredulous look and the only reason why he even reached to his back pocket was due to the hurt and very genuine tone in Sylar's voice. And the man's body language had totally changed, lagging only a few seconds behind Peter's pocketing of the item. The glare was gone even if he was getting no less eye contact. Peter pulled the object out, entirely intending to demonstrate that no matter how much Sylar thought that him using it once made it his, like some twisted 'Toddler Rules of Ownership', it was still Peter's comb.

It felt funny in his hand. He looked down at it and … Peter saw that it wasn't his comb. Not even remotely. _How the hell did I get this?_ His was black, like this one, but that was where the similarities ended. His was rectangular and simple, one of those cheap, virtually disposable ones you could get in a pack of ten at the drugstore, because Peter kept losing the damn things and didn't see a reason to splurge on something more expensive. This one was thicker along the back, bringing to mind in a weird association Noah Bennet's horn-rimmed glasses. Plus it had a handle. Gripping it around that portion gave him just enough muscle memory association for him to remember picking it up off the counter in Sylar's bathroom. He'd used it because it was handy and he wasn't thinking. It was there; it was a comb. Rude as hell, as was attempting to appropriate it.

But he'd already done that and Sylar was acting strange in response. An idea hatched in Peter's head, proof that he deserved his last name. He smiled and breathed a 'ha' at the comb, still held close to his body in his left, and looked up at Sylar's outstretched hand. With a twitch of his brows and a little motion of the comb, Peter questioned, "This? You want _this_?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar replied warily with a stare, his hand still open for it.

XXX

Without offering to give the comb back (yet), Peter said, "Just a little bit earlier, you said that if I gave you what you wanted, _maybe_ you'd be a little more civil." That wasn't really what Sylar had said, but Peter couldn't recall the exact words. "_Maybe_. I can't hold you to '_maybe_'." He extended the comb a few inches, but still outside of reach unless Sylar lunged, and then Peter might have enough time to get it away. Still, he was moving it to that tipping point of range. He glanced between their hands. "And so I won't." With his left hand, Peter extended the comb all the way, quickly enough that perhaps Sylar wouldn't spring for it and might instead let him put it in or at least near Sylar's hand.

XXX

Sylar reached out, slightly quicker than normal to get a grip on the comb as Peter put it in range and kept watching the man in case it was a trick of any sort. He pulled it to himself carefully, somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected to get it back. _But it__'__s mine._ That much was…nice. After he had it close to himself where Peter couldn't get it and when Peter made no move to get to him, he looked down at it.

XXX

"But a guy can still hope, right?"

XXX

_What does that mean? He won't…expect, but he'll hope? So I do…what?_ He looked back up at Peter, a little off-guard from getting his comb back. _Why would anyone 'hope' that I'll do anything even remotely decent? But he just wants decency. So does everyone. Is that a trick, though?_ "If I get what I want, I won't have much reason to harass you, now will I?"_ In theory, at least. Is that what you're asking? Hell if I know. No one__'__s ever tried giving me everything or a lot of things I want for a prolonged period of time. It would be a totally new experiment._ "So…yeah, I suppose." As an afterthought of demands he could make while the window was open, "And don't break my door down. Or I'll make you fix it. You can knock like a normal person and I'll let you in. And don't steal my shit." _You can eat whatever you want, clearly. I'll just get more. So long as I don't turn into 'Grandma's House' or something. Or maybe that's a good thing._

XXX

Peter tilted his head a bit and raised a brow at Sylar's question. _I'm not here to give you what you want. Is that the problem? That he thinks my job here is to satisfy him? 'Satisfy'? _He blanched inside at the unintentionally sexual term, coming out as a small frown. Sylar went on and Peter listened.

"Yeah, I'll leave your door alone," Peter conceded. He stood up casually, glancing past Sylar at the door, then the kitchen. "I seem to remember you telling me that I didn't have anything you wanted. Feeling's mutual," he said, trying to give a liberal hint that he was entirely uninterested in sex, despite whatever attractiveness Sylar possessed. He walked around the desk. "I'm going to go wash the dishes. You think you could help me tape my finger up again afterward?" He headed on to the kitchen, voice and body language as normal as Peter could get it, but there was an undertone of tightly controlled tension. In reality, he was irritated and wanted to be away from Sylar. _So the deal is that he's going to harass and fight with me. That's pretty much what he's saying. I don't give him whatever it is he wants, which seems to include__** me**__ for some stupid reason, then he's going to pick fights. All the time. Joy._

He got in the kitchen, blew out air and shook his head. _Yeah, washing dishes sounds like more fun than hanging out with him._ He moved over to the sink to get started.

XXX

_I said what? When did I say that? Is he trying to be smart? If I said that at all, it must have been…well… in the past, before Hell maybe? He wouldn't have slept with me then either, or helped me or treated me much better so…why would I want anything from him?_ _Besides, 'want' is such a….broad…thing. _His face was dubious and heading into put-out and cranky. Peter went to the kitchen, _Yes, do go do the dishes._ After a moment of painful teeth-grinding to get his temper (and most of his tongue) under control, he followed Peter. Arms crossed, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching Peter wash dishes from behind. "So…to be clear. You're confusing 'want' and 'need'? You need my help saving your girlfriend and taping your hand."

XXX

_Doesn't matter what I want or need. You're gonna save her. I saw it. That had to be what the dream meant. It had to. And anyway, you're going to do what you want to do, whether that's saving her or taping my hand. 'Spose he's right though. I do 'want' him to be polite and stuff. So I have some wants there. _Peter didn't say any of that, though. He plugged the bottom of the sink and filled it with water, moving the dishes into it one at a time.

XXX

He paused to think some more, drum up more points against Peter's denial and rejection. It was his way of…dealing with such a firm and obvious shut-down. "The way I see it, you've crossed out most of the options other than fighting. It's either," the points ticked off on his fingers, "fight, fuck, or talk. I'm all for making love not war here, Peter," Sylar's voice was a borderline chuckle. _Make love – ha!_ "The puzzle's great and all, but it won't last." _Um…what the fuck are you saying? Or…implying, whatever? That's a great pick-up line: 'I'm immortal, fuck me forever?' Or maybe 'I'm immortal, I don't come with a limited-fuck-time warranty?' (You're kind of sick, you know)._

XXX

Peter glanced back at him after his first sentence - one of those wary, 'checking' looks. Something about the sentence triggered Peter to defense. He watched Sylar tick off his points with a blank face, his expression loosening up when Sylar chuckled. Quietly cycling off the momentary alert status, Peter turned back to the sink, squirting some dish soap into the filling sink. He decided to be perfectly blunt. "I'm not going to have sex with you, Sylar." Somehow, Peter managed to get such a preposterous sentence out in an even tone. "And I don't want to fight you." _Not completely true_. "I'd rather talk. But you're leaving out a lot of other options. We could just stay out of each other's way." Peter frowned. He wasn't all that good at foresight and planning, but even he could see that was not a viable long-range plan. But on the other hand, _nothing_ was really a viable long-range plan here. The best he could hope for was to wait subjective months, years or maybe decades with the faith that someone - his mother, Matt, anyone - might pull him out of here.

XXX

Sylar just chuckled again. _That's what they all say._ "Why not?" He deliberately breezed over the rejection because that was all he could do. It hit harder than it should have, jarring him strangely. _He's just not desperate enough. Yet. He'll 'need' me then, too, like always._

XXX

"Why not … what?" There were a bunch of things that could be response to - 'why not stay out of each other's way' sort of fit, but it didn't hurt to ask. Peter eyed Sylar speculatively over his shoulder.

XXX

"Why not sex?" _I want an answer. And don't say Nathan…If he comes back to screw up my sex life…Peter clearly doesn't have anything against promiscuity._ Sylar tried to perk himself up and remember he was being handed a challenge. It was very difficult when all he wanted was a normal interaction, maybe something he could twist into reassurance and comfort.

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over briefly, the guy standing there leaned against the frame of the entry. For a moment, Peter tried, and generally succeeded, in putting aside the past and really looking at Sylar, this man who wanted to know why Peter was passing rather than making a pass. _He's not bad looking. … But he's mean_. And that was the rub.

Peter's face softened, looking off to the side as his eyes slid out of focus for a moment. He gave a small shake of his head. "You're not my type." _Should I tell why? How do I describe that? It's not that you've done bad things in your life, even though that's enough to sink you, it's that … I don't think I'd be safe with you. Or treated well. Or respected. My gut says no. I'm going to listen to it more than to you_. He shook his head again to agree with his mental dialogue, and put the last of the dishes into the soapy water, leaving out a fork for no obvious reason. He looked around for the scrub brush, not saying anything at the moment, acting lost in thought.

XXX

_Well…obviously. I'm not anyone's 'type'. Why do you need a type to fuck someone? I think he's lying._ Sylar thought on why that answer was ringing false. Peter continued to scrub and he came across it. _There are other reasons – this is just an excuse. 'Type' implies that he has other options and he doesn't._ His jaw ticked once. "I think you're lying," he stated calmly. "You're not my type either." Something of an understatement. _But you probably could be. Its prison rules now, literally last-man-alive business. He'd better not be trying to look down that Petrelli snout and judge me, so help him…_

XXX

Peter looked over his shoulder briefly. "Think what you want." If Sylar was the kind of guy who would listen to a reasonable explanation, then he wouldn't be the kind of guy Peter automatically dismissed as a partner-option. Peter didn't want to argue, so he didn't. He was feeling increasingly trapped in the kitchen by someone who was known to be violent and had promised unpleasant repercussions if he didn't get laid. Peter had rejected him firmly. The more Sylar harangued him over it, the more likely it seemed to Peter that this might get bad, fast.

He wished they'd eaten something that had required knives. He had nothing but a fork. The knife block wasn't far away. He glanced over it and at the cabinets around it. No thought came easily to mind of how he could snag a blade inconspicuously. _The skillet! Yes._ He moved over to retrieve it from the stove. It was heavy enough to use as a weapon, and with the handle, more effective than the fork.

XXX

"How long do you think you could last alone, by yourself, Peter?" Sylar demanded, a sneer creeping over his face. "I'm not talking about sex because clearly you haven't gone a long time without that." It was his turn to shake his head, disgusted and frustrated. "Do you think, in all your-your…empath glory, that you could live without anyone around for four years? Consider learning how to adapt, Peter," Sylar delivered with a frown. _Look at the facts you're facing, kid._ "But we'll play your game. Take your time. You'll come around." _I'm a hunter, I have patience. I will be waiting, impatiently, for your return._

XXX

Slightly hunched over the sink, Peter looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He'd been expecting Sylar's rant to lead up to a 'it's going to happen whether you want it to or not' and then an assault. But this sounded like Sylar was done. _Am I just being paranoid? How can I tell if it's paranoid or realistic, given that he's a multiple murderer who has it out for my family in particular, has told me he's going to pick fights with me until I let him fuck me, and now, is telling me he doesn't believe that I don't want him? Plus he's so concussed that even on top of 'normal' for him, his judgment could be wacked. _

What Sylar had actually said, and the meaning of the words, didn't make the impact they might have made had Peter been in a more contemplative frame of mind. His fingers squeezed and worked over the handle of the skillet as he waited to see if Sylar would leave now. Peter made no comment.

XXX

Peter was through washing the dishes but Sylar had no desire to stick around and watch him complete the task in drying. Peter…wasn't washing the breakfast skillet, just….standing there, hunkered down, holding it a little too tightly. _Oh. Oh_. His head drew back in surprise, straightening his posture unintentionally. The situation, rather, Peter's reactionary positioning and lack of response, dawned on him then. If it was possible, his eyes dulled in disappointment. Sylar sighed out, "So that's how it is?" Shaking his head, he was let down and depressed about it. _If you're going to brain me with that, go ahead, but I'm innocent of whatever it is. _Turning, he wandered back to the couch, seeking somewhere comfortable to be as he was clearly unwelcome in his own kitchen. He sat in the corner of the couch.

_There always has to be something wrong with me to be the excuse. Actually, they don't even need excuses – they have an army of…facts. That…really sucks._ That stupid skillet was a harsh, visible reminder that Peter regarded him as a monster, probably would for a long time if not forever. The headache got in the way of his sad downward spiral, preventing him from emoting internally much further. He just knew he was miserable and in pain and it wasn't going to get any better for a few years. _Good things come to the evil people who wait, I guess. I don't feel well._ Sylar longed to sprawl on the couch, maybe cry if he was able, sleep if he was able, perhaps vomit, but he didn't want Peter to walk out and see him like that, so he stayed upright, twiddling his thumbs.

XXX

Peter waited after Sylar left the entryway. _Did he go back for a weapon of his own, or did he just go back?_ Silence reigned. _Not a weapon, then. Wait, did he just give me space and leave me alone?_ Peter's brows rose in surprise. _He gave me space. He did! _Finally, Peter straightened up, pulling in a deep breath and relaxing. He leaned against the counter, facing the middle of the kitchen, and rubbed his face carefully. _Okay. Well … good. _After a few minutes, he turned back to continue messing with the dishes, rinsing them off and doing a bit of last stage scrubbing while the skillet soaked. He felt the by-now expected lethargy and confusion that followed getting worked up anymore. _I suppose that's a concussion symptom I can't consciously remember. Maybe I know it subconsciously or something. Or Sylar knows it, or thinks he knows it, and is inflicting it on me._ Peter snorted softly. _Sylar, you and your screwy brain._

He finished with the dishes and waited a bit longer. Peter scratched at the back of his neck and poked around in the pantry. _What I really want is a banana and a pudding cup._ He looked at his sack of snacks procured earlier. There was enough to share. It wasn't much of a dinner, but he doubted Sylar had much appetite.

Peter walked over to the entrance of the kitchen, standing back a little from it and giving it a cursory glance to either side, as if Sylar might be lying in wait to jump him as he walked out. But no, Sylar was just sitting on the couch, looking sad. _I'm sure I'm much for sad-making - the unwilling target of your rejected advances was ready to brain you if you tried for it. Enough to make any serial killer sad._ Peter huffed. He still had a duty here, no matter how unpalatable he found the patient. In a bland tone of voice, he offered, "Hey, Sylar. I'm not very hungry, but it's time for dinner. You need to eat something, then take some painkillers. I'll get out of your hair after that. You want to join me for a pudding cup, or do you want me to make some soup?" _Or something else. Probably best not to give a bunch of choices._

XXX

"No," Sylar answered simply. _He's getting annoyed. And I strangely prefer you in my hair. He uses my name….how weird is that? I'm just…tired but I don't know that I want to sleep. I don't know what to do. Does Peter know what I sh-?_

XXX

Peter put his left hand up on the wall next to him, picking at it a bit, trying to decide whether to take Sylar's decline as an easy-out, grab his bag of food and bail out of the place, or whether to carry on with his task of care-taking on the guy. He sighed, because it was pretty simple - which of those two options he felt obligated to choose. "Come on, man. You need to eat _something_ because you've got to take your pills. You'll be hurting more if you don't. How about some ice cream, or a piece of toast if your stomach's still feeling off?" He sounded tired. He didn't want to fight over this, too - over whether Sylar would eat or take his painkillers. It was trivial compared to 'stop threatening/harassing me' and 'back off; no means no.'

XXX

Sylar fully expected Peter to be force-feeding him regardless, making the food and putting it before him with a predictable 'don't disappoint me' expression and staring at him until he ate. The fact that Peter was practically quoting Virginia wasn't helping anyone. "I'm really not hungry." _Just let me be miserable along with feeling miserable, okay? It's one meal. And I'll probably be throwing it up tonight anyway. Don't see why you care._ How he could feel nauseous and slightly hungry was beyond him. "Just go back to the puzzle," Sylar gave an indicating wave that direction. Despite…whatever had just happened, he wanted Peter to stay, that threat about leaving had not gone unnoticed and would probably become a reality all the same.

XXX

Peter stood there for long moments, watching Sylar. He didn't bother looking over at the puzzle. _Am I safe here? Does he have something planned? Isn't he too fucked up to plan? Does he want me here? Do I need to let him win one, symbolic I guess, after telling him I'm not into him? How will tomorrow be if I leave now? Or the day after or any other time? We need to work something out, somehow, so that he's getting enough of whatever it is he wants that he isn't making my life here a living hell, and so that I'm okay with whatever's going on._ His fingers drummed restlessly on the wall as he thought, fairly quietly because it was just the pads of his fingertips, left hand, patting against the painted wood.

"Okay," he said, decision made.

Peter went back in the kitchen for his bag, pulling out a banana and pudding cup. He took them, and a spoon, over to the work table, taking a seat. He studied the layout for a moment, then opened the cup carefully, licking the foily, plasticky lid absently. He set it aside and began to peel the banana, stopping about halfway and using the spoon to carve little chunks out, dropping them into the pudding. He stopped to try a puzzle piece. It didn't fit, so he went back to preparing his food. He kept his eyes on his food and work, not so much as glancing Sylar's way.

XXX

Exhaling, he oozed down into the couch more. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, his eyes trained on Peter's person, watching with half-interest but mostly being calmed that he was looking at a real human being, here with him. Peter's eating was undisturbed and the preparations and actual consumption were abnormal to say the least, but he knew that was just Peter being Peter – if there were no chunks in the food, Peter would make chunks as he was doing now. _To think, Nathan knows that but doesn't care. Do I care? Huh….I wonder what that means._

It didn't appear that Peter was ignoring him, at least, not in so many words. After Peter settled and got into his snack (or dinner), Sylar thought to ask, seeing the limited motions, "How's the hand?" It occurred to him then that Peter might only be holding his punches due to his primary hand's injuries. _When he heals, will he…backlog punishments?_

XXX

Peter's eyes flicked up to Sylar's briefly, then he held up his left hand, which he'd stripped of the sodden tape during his various dish-washing efforts. "I'd like you to retape this … if you would." His voice was cautious, more from an uncertainty as to how Sylar would take that than any fear of Sylar himself. "I mentioned it earlier," Peter said, almost mumbling in his delivery. _I'm not asking for help. I could do it myself. It's just easier if he does it._ He noticed he was breathing harder, which struck him as stupid. _Shit. Calm the fuck down, Peter._ He frowned at the puzzle like it was the cause of his tension.

XXX

"Hmm," he affirmed, once again slouching down for further comfort. _That wasn't the hand I meant, Peter_, Sylar thought with something of a mental grin. _I might as well tape it. I know I should refuse – he turned me down. I don't…want him to think I'm okay with that because I'm not, but…I've got nothing else to do. So frustrating. He knows I can refuse him and make him do it himself. I'm just choosing to be nice. And I don't feel well enough to fight. _Still gazing at his companion, Sylar asked, "How's the eye?" _Gonna talk about your right eye this time, too?_

XXX

Peter noticed the distinct lack of offering to help and no indication of agreement. He exhaled heavily, trying another puzzle piece just to do something. It didn't fit. "It's doing okay," he said mildly, trying to mask his irritation. "At this rate, tomorrow I should be able to see out of both of them." He kept his eyes on his food and puzzle, other than a couple very brief glances up to be polite.

XXX

"You should put be icing that more, you know," was Sylar's wisdom to the med-school graduate. _It…kind of bothers me to see you busted up like that. I know I did it. I'm glad I won. But I have to look at you like that. No more face shots maybe? No, gut shots can kill. Besides, he can't give me the full Petrelli glare or smile properly with only one eye. Not as pretty that way._ His thoughts turned wistful, making less and less sense. It kept him upright and alert, though. _That skillet is bothering me, too. He pretends like he trusts me sometimes, but he doesn't really…or at least, not that much. He trusts me to tape his hand and clean his face, not sle- have sex with him. Is that…incon- incon-?…ugh. Point is, you're not his type and he thinks you're filthy. You'd think now would be the time he'd be jumping me, when I can't fight back, but nooo, that would make some sense._

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a slightly longer glance. _He's done that before. Like with the puzzle._ Peter looked down at it. _He gives advice. Is there a way I could ask him to tape my finger that would tap into that? Like, what would I say? Something like, 'I'm not sure how my hand should be taped, can you show me?' Hm. I wonder if that would work? I think I'd rather do it myself, though._ "Yeah," he agreed, adding more banana to his cup, since he'd eaten enough to create space for it. "I should be."

XXX

It was upsetting him, so Sylar went back to watching Peter eat and listened to his clocks. Only two in the room were off – Peter's watch and the clock Peter had jangled. The machinations made him smile softly, his own eyes lidding as those objects made sense. "Peter, would you get in a car with me if I could regenerate and you couldn't, would you let me drive if we really, really had to?"

XXX

Peter's head pulled up sharply, then tilted slightly. _You … you could regenerate and I couldn't? Like I didn't have the ability, right? And you'd drive?_ "I … suppose that depends on what we were getting in the car for."_ What if you wrecked it? I'd be dead. Is that what you're asking?_ "I followed you when … when you … you were at my apartment …" _as Nathan, but I knew … you knew … we both knew what was going on. Of course, I didn't sleep that night. You did. Not a good example. Um …_ "I went to Matt's. You had regeneration. I didn't. I was going to get you. You could have … done anything to me. I knew that." _Stupid of me, but I had to. _Peter sighed. "It just depends."

'Why do you ask' didn't come out of Peter's mouth. The reason(s) were obvious. "You've been a lot of different things to me, Sylar. It's just hard for me to figure out what you'll be at any given moment. Care to give me any advice?" _Oo! The advice thing. I didn't even intend that._

XXX

Sylar hummed in acknowledgement, not following the part about Matt's apartment, but it wasn't relevant. _So he trusts me sometimes, in some things. That's good. Stupid of him, little sucker, but good for me. Or maybe it__'__s smart of him…_

_I've been lots of things to you that you don't want. Still am._ He blinked slowly, not totally understanding what was being requested. "You want…advice on _me_?" _I already told you! Give me what I want!_ He heaved a mental sigh. _How am I supposed to answer that?_ "You bring up…his memories. Or I remember them," he shrugged. _It's not a choice. You'll think what you want, of course._

XXX

"No, that's …" Peter held up a hand, blinking, his brow furrowing a little. "That's not what I mean." _At least, I don't think it is. It could be an answer - he's Nathan because I remind him of … of Nathan, I guess._ He put his hand down. "We've been enemies. We've been brothers. I don't know what we are right now. Your question about the car - I think you're asking if I'd trust you in a situation where you could kill me and you'd be guaranteed to survive." Peter drew in a deep, long breath. He looked away for a moment, relaxing and little and calming. "If that's what it took to save people, then it's a risk I'd take." _Because I think … I hope … that inside of you somewhere is still a human being who wouldn't …_ Peter fidgeted nervously now, because he didn't believe his own thoughts. He figured Sylar would kill him. But it was still a risk he'd feel required to take, if other lives were on the line. He frowned.

_I just wanted reassurance_. He looked at the puzzle, drooping a little because his situation here still looked hopeless and stupid.

XXX

_We've been brothers? You only acknowledge that when you want me to behave. When I misbehave, you want to get away from me._ "Hmm. Yeah." _The trust only extends as far as saving other people's lives – bad. No one here to save. So…no trust? Or…No! 'A guy can hope, right?' he wants to trust. _Sylar's head came up and he spoke softly as if to himself, "Ooh. That makes sense." _Now what?_ He shifted in position while he thought and it was harder than it should have been to get the mental juice running.

"Bear with me on this," he said as forewarning, scratching the back of his neck, "you want my side of things….or you want me to tell you what we are? I can't do that. I don't know and it's sure as hell not my decision." _You're the one with the dead brother – you decide everything. I'm just the psycho. We both know I have no experience in being a normal human being. I don't know any better; that's what you're here for – moral…guidance._ "You…" he waved at the depressed Peter, "resident moral authority, pick something and make it stick. Trust me or don't, it's not something I can control or get much say in." That sounded familiar and it was. _We've already decided that._ _He still hasn't made up his mind. _"Just…think yourself through and make up your mind – you're all over the place, man."


	44. Hand Holding

Day 11, Evening

'_Resident moral authority'?_ _Huh._ He heard Sylar out though, without interrupting. After Sylar stopped speaking, Peter waited to see if that was all the man had to say. He wanted to blurt out, 'Well, then I trust you!', but he didn't. It wasn't true; it wouldn't be true just because he said it. _Sylar won't be trustworthy just because I want him to be_. He turned to face Sylar completely, eyes intent, Peter's mind trying to make sense of this chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. He reached up and touched his bottom lip with the middle finger of his left hand, rubbing it back and forth slightly.

"You … have a lot of influence over whether I trust you or not. The things you say … the things you do." Peter's head cocked a little. _Of course, you'd rather say it's all me, because then you don't have to change_. "I came here … believing that you would save people. Believing that no matter what else you'd done … you could …" _change_, "you could do that. You could do something good. I didn't know how, or why. And I still don't. Maybe I won't." _Maybe I make you change somehow? Just by trusting you?_ Peter looked down, drawing in a deep breath. His hand moved to touch at his forehead. "I don't know a lot of stuff." _Like whether or not you'll kill me somewhere in this process._

Peter ranted inside angrily. _I'm already trusting you a lot! What good would more trust do? You tell me you're not the savior kind. You tell me you … well, actually, you just say a lot of vague stuff where what you mean is clear but you don't actually say it. And what it means is you're not going to help. _Peter let out an unhappy, exasperated sigh, then looked at his left hand, picking sullenly at the superglue on the injury. He looked around for the tote. _Might as well fix it myself. I'm not going to ask a third time._

He saw what he wanted, rose and walked over to the plastic tote, squatting slowly next to it and refusing to look at Sylar while he did. He had a sulky expression on his face as he dug through it for the surgical tape.

XXX

Peter drew closer as the tote was conveniently on Sylar's side of the couch. Sylar leaned out, reached out and took hold of Peter's nearer, left wrist. "Peter, relax," he demanded firmly, his grip was just as sturdy as he looked Peter dead in the face. "If you don't know something, the logical thing to do is ask questions, not give me this huffy brat routine for the rest of our lives. I _am_ familiar with it. Now give me the tape." Sylar held out his right hand for it. _Don't play coy__;__ treat me like an adult._

XXX

It was a good thing Sylar had a solid grip, because Peter jerked hard at being grabbed. He'd been too lost in his own thoughts to see it coming, but now all he could think was that he shouldn't try to hit Sylar with his right hand. A second later he processed the words along with an expectation that Sylar wouldn't hit him if he was telling him to relax. That didn't rule out various other ill-behaved possibilities. _Where's a skillet when you need one?_

_The tape? OH!_ Peter's eyes darted down to _which_ hand Sylar had grabbed and things started to make sense. He looked up at Sylar angrily and gave a single, hard jerk of his left hand, teeth slightly bared. He was not released, which was fine - he hadn't expected to be and was mainly figuring out how determined Sylar was with this. Peter shifted his weight slightly, making Sylar hang onto him as a constant pressure, and turned to retrieve the tape. He handed it over, feeling strangely victorious in that he was making Sylar work for it.

XXX

"Now, sit," Sylar pointed beside himself on the couch. When Peter did after gathering up alcohol, gauze and wipes, Sylar took them from him, too. He took back Peter's hand and it was dry and cool. "You trust me enough to save your girlfriend, you trust me enough to eat with me…turn your back on me, clean you and give you a physical. You trust me to…handle taping your hand and putting a brace on the other because if I can handle a brain with care, I can handle a fucking hand or two." This was said in a matter-of-fact tone that inflected 'don't interrupt or try to feed me your bullshit right now'.

XXX

The hubris that Peter would just go where directed, under the circumstances, was pretty astounding. Of course, Peter _did_ go where directed, so maybe it wasn't so out of line after all. Peter had a strong tendency to follow direct orders, something he wasn't sure if he should blame on his father's powers or his own personality, but it took a lot to make him balk altogether. It didn't mean he wouldn't make things difficult, though, and when Sylar took his hand again without asking, Peter tried to jerk it away once more. "Hey!" he objected, but it went ignored as Sylar began lecturing him.

XXX

Sylar's hands were busy unscrewing the alcohol cap and getting it onto the gauze. "I haven't attacked you or started fights. This might sting," he intoned with a quick glance upwards into hazel irises as his hands went about gently, gently rubbing and patting at the glued-up tear. How he knew he was supposed to do this or that the alcohol was for this purpose was pure assumption. Informing Peter of the sting was also to keep the man's trap shut for a moment longer while he spoke some truth. "And I've helped you, _and_ your family, in the past before, now. You do recall where that landed me the first time. Of the two of us, I think I have more reason to be trusted than you and yours." He was through with the alcohol, setting aside the gauze, looking around a moment to see where he could wipe his hands clean. His jeans were the reluctant target before he took up the tape. "You can be a real pain in the ass when you want to be, Petrelli."

XXX

By now, Peter left his hand where it could be worked on. His lips pursed with a desire to argue that he squelched at least at first. Sylar was being more careful with his injury than was necessary and Peter appreciated that. It made him relax, trying to blink away the confusion that wanted to settle in as he eased off the moment of higher tension. When Sylar seemed done haranguing him, Peter sighed, his left hand hanging cooperatively in the air where Sylar had left it as the man went about getting the tape. He sat calmly now, virtually shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee with Sylar, watching what he was doing and occasionally glancing to his face to follow his words.

In a low, patient tone of voice, Peter said, "I don't know your past. Just little pieces, here and there. I know you killed me, twice. I killed you. You thought you were my brother and you came back for me. Broke my fall; left me alive, later. I thought I'd killed you at the Stanton." Peter looked away, fingers and legs moving uncomfortably. "I don't want to talk about the rest. It just _hurts_." He was silent for a moment, then resumed, his voice as low-key and calm as before. "You've killed a lot of people; done things that don't make sense to me because I don't know _why_ you did them. Trust comes from understanding. I probably won't agree, but that doesn't have anything to do with it. One of these days, you're going to have to explain yourself."

XXX

Sylar inhaled and grimaced, stiffened at the mere mention of Stanton. Peter's voice…said what he would have liked to say, about the hurting. It gave him an ignorable twinge to hear that pain from someone who felt like his brother. Storm clouds gathered around him, but he forcefully kept his hands gentle through sheer force of will after he managed the tape sections. _Did you hear that? He doesn't want to hear it. He wouldn't listen if I told him, no one would, no one will. Fine, you son of a bitch. Dig your own grave._

He snorted, feeling anger but it masked itself in his scoffing. "Don't you mean 'pay for what I've done'?" _That's what you're here to do, whether you'll admit it or not. No need to sugar coat it. Yet I see you're enjoying your ignorance and not asking. I notice that today is not that day._ "You want to play hero, I'm the villain and you have to get through me. I see no reason to stick my neck out for your girlfriend, who is dead, by the way. And you assume I want to explain myself at all." Sylar, as casually as possible, went about taping up Peter's hand the same as before, taking his sweet, concussed time in doing so. In truth, he was also enjoying keeping patient, wounded, hopeful Peter here even though Peter expressed interest to get away and stay away. And feeling up the guy's hand was nice, too, comforting. "I like you better when you're playing with your puzzle," he said as he finished the taping, laying his hand against Peter's nearest cheek, patting it several times to motion him off. _Hmm, that felt good, too._

XXX

Peter stiffened and leaned away from Sylar, sensing the anger clearly. _I shouldn't have said that. What did I say? I shouldn't have __said__ it, whatever it was. Doesn't want to explain himself? There's no way to pay for what he's done. It can't be paid. You can't pay for that_. Peter stared at him, a mix of confused and affronted, silent and tense, breathing shallowly. His head jerked aside at the pat and the send off. He rose without a word, looking down at his hand, then the puzzle, then down at Sylar, not moving a step.

"I was … actually feeling friendly there for a moment," Peter confessed, and he hurt inside to admit that. He had no business feeling friendly towards Sylar, as Sylar had just so rudely reminded him. He swallowed and moved over to the work table, scooping up his half-finished banana and cup. He carried them into the kitchen and dropped them in the trash, coming back out and heading for the door. _It's late. I don't want to take this any more. I'm tired. I'm grouchy. I'm not thinking well and neither is he. I need to get out of here._ That was what Peter told himself. It was a helpful diversion of thoughts from the fact that yeah, he had felt kind of friendly there for a moment, and it kept him from thinking very much about anything Sylar had said.

XXX

It was the way Peter phrased it. It stung. Then the helplessness started. There wasn't any apology he could give to Peter, or anyone, that would be worth the breath it took to speak it. He'd put his foot in it somehow (he didn't think it was really his fault…perhaps it wasn't) and now he couldn't take it back. He had no idea what he'd done wrong, didn't know how to ask for the specifics and couldn't apologize. "Wait!" he called out, pulling himself to stand as Peter made for the door, "Wait…"

XXX

_Another swing. I'm so tired of these mood swings_. Peter waited, an arm's length from the door. His angry glare was sabotaged by a wince as his jaw twinged. With an effort, he relaxed his face and then his hands. He couldn't do anything about his shoulders for the moment. He was too wound up. He held his place, though, waiting for whatever parting comment Sylar wanted to make.

XXX

Sylar's frown bloomed with his problems. Something had to be said and he was at a loss, inhaling and blowing air out from his nose. Flapping his hands out from his sides in a sort of shrug or 'what can you do?' gesture, he tried, "I don't… " A sigh and a slump later, Sylar spoke gently, genuinely while avoiding eye contact. "I'm glad you felt…that way." _I need to talk less. I really piss him off. What else do I say? What can I say? I already told you I'm no good at this._ His hands burrowed into his pockets and he could feel his need to get out a pair of socks. "We'll talk about something with less…. depth." It was almost a question the way his voice raised to inflect it. _Just…be comfortable with me._

XXX

_Yeah, right. Let's talk about it tomorrow, after I've had a night of sleep and maybe you're more stable. Maybe some of this is due to the concussion,_ Peter thought, a little of the anger seeping away as he found a way to blame Sylar's repeated offenses on his medical condition. He didn't speak.

XXX

"My head hurts." Sylar pointed to a spot in his hair, roughly in line above his right eyebrow but not so far over as the temple. "I don't know if I can sleep. What...what do I do if I can't sleep?" His statement of pain was just that, a statement. Sometimes that section just into his hairline would ache and throb without mercy, more so than the rest of his head and he'd been wondering if something had been damaged – broken or bent or bruised there. Peter hadn't…gotten to check his forehead and certainly hadn't checked his head thoroughly in the physical. It was worrisome.

XXX

"You haven't taken your painkillers," Peter said, remembering that fact and not sure whether to blame it on his failing as a nurse or Sylar's nausea. "You'll sleep easier if you do." _You didn't take them because you wouldn't eat dinner, because you were upset I wasn't going to rent myself out to you or whatever. And now you're desperate that I stay here. Is that because you think you're going to make another play for me?_ "You think you can eat something?"

XXX

"Oh." That made sense, he'd forgotten about them. Now he was stuck there, standing awkwardly with a guy who wanted nothing more than to be gone from his apartment. "Yeah, I guess." _Am I even hungry? _

XXX

"Try to relax. Go in the kitchen. Sit down." Peter's shoulders slumped and he waved in the direction of the kitchen, but instead of going there himself, he turned and leaned the middle of his back against the front door. "I need a moment," he mumbled. He felt staggered. All of these little shock/resets that he kept getting were befuddling him. He wanted to lay down and sleep, or at least have a nice, long, calm period where he didn't feel like Sylar was randomly poking him with a stick. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, eyes shut, then pushed off and followed Sylar in.

"Tell me something you want to eat." _And please don't pick something elaborate or that I have to cook. I'll just get you something to eat, have you take your meds, and go._

XXX

_Now he's telling me to relax._ Peter didn't sound or look too good – mostly he looked tired. Sylar hated the feeling of trapping someone with him. That person never wanted to be trapped there with him, but he always tried to make their stay comfortable, hell, he had to, being appealing to ally with them. Sickeningly enough, it was like taking in an animal and fluffing the pillows for its cage – he intended to keep it as long as possible, but the animal would never be happy and it would do its best to sink its teeth into him or poison him over time if he tried to pet it. The whole affair never failed to make him feel pathetic which made him angry. He only wanted someone to want to stay. Sylar did as directed, moving into the kitchen, sitting. Several seconds later Peter…didn't follow. _Worse than I thought. I didn't...What did I do?_ He realized he'd been ordered into the kitchen, like time-out or 'stand in the corner' and he hadn't even seen it coming and he'd fallen for it. The waiting was bothersome because he had no idea who or what was going to come through the door. He sat squirming until Peter made his appearance, still in the same mood.

_You're not some short-order cook._ He had not expected to be fed, let alone asked his preference. It was a test, too; on what he would decide independently if given the chance and he couldn't botch it and ask for too much. He tried to think back to the last food he'd seen. "Um…ch-chips?" _I'd do it myself, but I don't know if I can. I want him to stay and…he probably needs to feel needed to stay. Just suck it up._

XXX

"Chips?" _Like crackers? No, those Pringles. That's probably what he means_. Peter looked around the kitchen, turning in place as he scanned the counter. _Where did I leave those? I had them out at the puzzle_. "Okay." He walked out to the living room and then returned with the tube. He hesitated when he got to Sylar, not sure if he should open it, pour some out, pull some out of the tube (his hand didn't fit more than a few inches into it anyway), or what. He didn't want to just set it down in front of the man like a self-serve, but Peter ended up doing just that. "Are these okay?"

XXX

"Yeah," was Sylar's simple answer, extending his hand at a pace to take the tube from the table, bringing it back to his lap.

XXX

He thought about the waver in Sylar's voice when he'd asked for them. _Why is he so nervous now? He was a huge asshole just a few minutes ago, on the couch - lecturing me about trust like it's something I can turn on and off, that he's so trustworthy but he's not about to actually help anyone. What's he think I'm going to do to him? If I'd wanted to hit him over it, I would have. He was fine then - not upset. He patted me on the cheek and told me to go work on the puzzle … and instead I went to leave._ Peter blinked a few times as that connected for him. _Yeah. Didn't he get upset last night when I left, too? Does he think I'm not going to come back? Fuck. Three years alone_. Peter sighed, shaking off the probably-rude and unusual amount of time he'd just spent standing there lost in thought, and moved off to get the pills.

He came back and pulled out the other chair, counting out painkillers for himself and Sylar both, then adding decongestants to Sylar's pile. He pushed them over to the other man and said in a medium-soft voice, "I forgot to take my own, earlier. I'll get you some water."

Returning with drinks, Peter took a seat again, leaning back and relaxing a little, staring vacantly at the table. He downed his pills, then took a long pull on his glass to wash them down. _I want a beer_. He considered the medical inadvisability of alcohol, not to mention the risk factor that his companion represented. _Speaking of which …_ Peter raised his eyes to the other man and said, "Sylar, I'm coming back tomorrow. What time do you want me to come by?" He was seeking to reassure - he **was** coming back - and hoping to give Sylar come sense of control by letting him pick the time.

XXX

Peter stood near him for a moment, long enough for Sylar to wonder what was going on. The air didn't seem quite so awkward or tense now, certainly not violent. He didn't start in on the chips until the nurse moved away, getting…ah, the pills. "Thanks," he said in legitimate gratitude when the man returned with water, warming back up to his companion. It was shocking how easy that was to do. _When he's not making me angry or insulting me, he's…well, I think he's almost always a nice guy, but, you know…being nice to me…_

Opening the tube, he worked at tilting it just so, careful not to slide dozens of chips into his lap, crumbs and fragments and all. He wound up using two hands, one to hold the container, the other to get the chips where he wanted and snag them out to consume slowly. His stomach was still in turmoil, but it was easier to eat as his environment lacked stress at the moment - he was able to force the chips down, the salt making that easier, too. Peter spoke again, with more purpose, saying he would return in the morning. Sylar didn't see any reason to disbelieve Peter so he was relieved. Not only that, he got to chose the time? He swallowed the chip that had been melting in his mouth. "Uh…" he stopped to try and consider what time Peter got up. And when he himself would rise as his sleep schedule was a mess. "Nine or ten? Does that work? I-You said you're concussed, I don't know…how you sleep."_ He could come over for breakfast again. That's so strange,_ he thought quite joyfully. "You know there's…other apartments here. You don't have to go all the way back." It was a long shot, but it made sense, whether Peter was fucking him or not.

XXX

Peter smiled wanly, choosing to ignore the suggestion of moving closer. "I don't know how I sleep either." _Considering this is your head, I'm not sure what sleeping really constitutes. Probably the same thing it does in real life, though, which is sort of a reset button. Much needed chance to get away from this guy. Ha._ "I'll come over, nine or ten, best I can figure." _Crap. I think I tossed out the clock. Wait, isn't there one built into the oven? Like a timer. I wonder if it goes up to hours and hours? Hell, I'll just go to sleep and see what time it is when I wake up. I'm pretty sure there's a clock on the oven along with the timer thing. _Peter frowned down at his watch, trying to weigh the joy of being free of time constraints versus the politeness of showing up when he was promising to show up. He tapped softly on the face of it. _I don't want it fixed._

Peter quit looking at his watch and instead fiddled with his water for a bit, almost like he wasn't inclined to go. He rose eventually, though, having mentally discarded the idea of ice cream, because it would seem rude to eat if Sylar didn't join him. He put his glass in the sink and came back by Sylar, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as he had somewhat earlier. "Thanks for taping my hand up," he said quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

XXX

Day 13, Morning of December 23rd

Sylar had made a goal of being nicer to Peter and it worked – there were no blow-ups. Peter had administered the same mental test and discovered, yes, Sylar was still concussed and in need of assistance. They'd eaten sandwiches and soup and worked on the puzzle more. Sylar actually succeeded in laying in a few pieces, getting some of the horses done as well – both were ridiculous accomplishments in his book because it was stupid that they were accomplishments at all given his medical status. It had been, dare he say it, almost peaceful even if Peter was still kind of annoying.

The day passed, Peter going back to his own bunk once again and at first Sylar slept well enough. The more he slept, the worse it got, incredibly uncomfortable with the headache, his bruising, and of course, the nightmares. It was like his mind wouldn't leave him alone even for his own health, which was not a new concept. He still ached and his head was killing him.

Regardless, Peter came the next day, waking him and going about breakfast. After his initial grogginess and stiffness, happy as he was to see Peter, Sylar visited the bathroom to shave and comb his hair (Sylar shook his head in rueful, annoyed amusement at having his own comb in his possession) before appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was there to see if Peter needed help or had a use for him or…something. Either Peter was a god at mastering Sylar's unvoiced intentions (perhaps that was part of his ability – he'd always been good about reading Nathan except when Nathan lied like a jackass) or Peter was a god at making semi-educated guesses that were often correct. Sylar would appear or look at him and Peter would find a use for him, a project, a part, assistance, something to say or something to give. _Is this what having a friend is like? Someone who knows you? That's…_He could barely put a word to how amazing that was. He really liked it. He was hooked.

XXX

"Hey. Eggs are almost done. Could you pour up drinks? I'd like juice this morning."

XXX

Sylar snorted. _Yes, Your Majesty_, he thought lightly, but he was already moving to procure the drinks. Pouring and setting them on the table, he sat.

XXX

Peter busied himself doing some final scraping and turning of the scrambled eggs before turning off the stove and bringing them to the table. As he divided the meal onto plates, he observed, "Hey, have you noticed we've both detoxed off of caffeine?" He chuckled, full of good humor this morning. And why not? Yesterday had gone well, aside from a few death glares that in retrospect were pretty funny all by themselves - that Sylar would give him such an evil eye for touching the wrong puzzle pieces was worth a laugh, though at the time he'd just kept his hands even more to himself. "That was probably a little of why we were so irritable a couple days ago, along with everything else." Peter set the skillet aside, waving vaguely at his head and then Sylar's, referencing the head injuries. His headache had dulled to a low ache, definitely manageable, though he assumed it would get worse under stress and exertion.

"It also means that when we go back to it, we'll get a jolt. That stuff's always sharpest once you've cleaned out."

XXX

Sylar honestly had to think back, knowing that Peter was (for once) mentally sharper than he was. _I assume he means coffee. When did I- we last have coffee? Must have at some point. I'll take his word for it._ Peter sat a moment afterwards and Sylar took up his fork, laying out an amused, "You would know, Peter." _And I think I'm always that irritable, so don't get your hopes up. _

XXX

Peter sat down to eat, putting away a few mouthfuls before saying, "I used to do a few drugs back in college: pot, poppers, opiates when I could get them." He scratched his jaw. "I tried cocaine and meth - you know that sort of stuff, stims - but I didn't like them. Made me nervous and sort of itchy. Once I took off to nursing school, though, I got my head on straight and cut it all out. It was messing up my body, maybe my head, too." He took a long drink of juice. "Sure was easier to study clean and sober, but I guess that was kind of my point of doing them before. I hadn't been too wild about going to law school." He shrugged. "But I _wanted_ to be a nurse, so there's that." He wondered if Nathan had realized how important that was to him, or if he'd just gotten tired of seeing Peter ruin his life. On the other hand, Peter considered, it would be tough for him to say whether he'd wanted to be a nurse, or just wanted to live his own life, and chosen nursing as the most realistic and likeable path of rebellion.

XXX

That was…certainly a lot to take in. Peter really had done it all, or the good majority of it. _Well, that explains your brain working funny like it does now…_Sylar thought sarcastically. Peter just worked funny regardless of schooling, drugs or brain damage. _Who'd have thought quitting drugs would help you study? Hmm…I wonder which is worse for drug-usage, med school or law school…_Sylar pondered the odds while eating. Again, these were Peter's great eggs.

XXX

"What about you?" Peter looked at Sylar's expression and felt a need to clarify, even though he intended the question just as broadly as it sounded. "Before you got your ability, what did you think you'd do with your life? What _were_ you doing with your life? Did you get out and party? Did you work hard? Were you a homebody or did you travel?" Peter's voice shifted from light and conversational to softer, more serious and intent. "What kind of person were you, Sylar?" Peter's eye contact on the last question was total for several seconds, before looking back to his food, but he was clearly still listening attentively.

XXX

He was positive a sudden Peter-inspired question mark had appeared on his face. Going from intellectual self-thought and focuses on egg breakfasts to a recap of his life (drug life?) was a shift. Peter's eyes were piercing until he looked away, for which Sylar was grateful. _Why do you want to know?_ He blinked several times, orienting himself to the questions. _Which answers is he looking for? Vague and broad, I guess._ "Um…" Sylar skipped over the part about what he thought he'd do with his life. _This is so strange. No one since….Chandra. Wow_. "I was working in my shop….taking care of my mother," he said, fiddling with his eggs as he spoke. It was easier to talk that way. It helped that Peter was busy with his own food and not staring him down. A derisive breath, "Tried high school parties. Didn't fit in. Of course I worked hard." His eyes narrowed slightly at that. _Some would say I didn't work hard enough, but that's why I'm here. Doing hard time and all that._ "Homebody," his answer was really that short. He'd had nowhere else to be besides a movie theatre or library.

The last question was the real hit. "Pathetic, insignificant and boring," he delivered bluntly, pointedly, looking directly at Peter for this one. _Of course, I was Gabriel, then. But that's who he's asking about._

XXX

Peter was watching intermittently as Sylar spoke, listening as he stumbled over a question the man didn't seem familiar with. Peter not only had Petrelli training on how to give an elevator speech summing up his existence in a positive way for a stranger, but he'd gotten lots of practice at it as a nurse and paramedic. Though he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone give him an honest, unscripted answer. _If anything tells me that Nathan's not in there …_

When Sylar got to the end, Peter's brows rose, meeting and keeping the eye contact Sylar was giving him. Sad images came to Peter's mind, of people he'd seen as a paramedic: an elderly man, abandoned in his bed, forgotten by everyone who knew him; a young man overcome with depression, who had inexpertly slashed his own wrists; a middle-aged woman who called the EMTs frequently to report symptoms of cardiac arrest, but in truth Peter was fairly sure she just wanted some excitement in her otherwise lonely life. They were what people might call pathetic, insignificant or boring, but Peter had found them interesting, whole people who were in bad places in their lives. _This, this place, all alone, no one else here with him, is the worst hell Matt could summon for him and Matt would know. And me leaving just to go home at night makes Sylar anxious, now that he's decided I'm real. I don't think he did at first - otherwise he'd have never let me wander off._

In a gentle, yet determined tone, Peter said, "No one is _pathetic_, _insignificant_, or _boring_." He moved his fork around, spearing another bite and looking down at it briefly. "_I_ am interested in your life. I'd like to know more about it." Fearing the intensity might be overkill for Sylar, Peter cranked it down a notch and asked, "What was your favorite subject in high school?"

XXX

"Oh, _okay_, Peter," Sylar delivered with deadly sarcasm complete with contemptuous expression. _Don't think I'm so stupid that I don't know _why_ you want to know. Probably bored as hell, too_. It just meant he had to watch what information he let slip. As usual. He wasn't letting Peter worm out any manipulative and incriminating footholds. Petrellis were sly that way; you wouldn't necessarily see it coming. A scowl was building in intensity, eggs forgotten for the moment, until Peter backed down. Sylar rolled his eyes, having won but now being faced with a useless question. "Science," he sighed, giving Peter one wary, warning last look before re-engaging his breakfast. "Stupid because before my abilities, that class always made sense." He gave a small shrug.

XXX

Peter gave an amused smile, having difficulty taking Sylar's irascible sarcasm seriously. He noticed Sylar's dodge on talking about his past - not too surprising if he was going to characterize it as pathetic, insignificant, and boring. Peter leaned back, chewing his latest bite slowly, and letting Sylar succeed at dodging the subject. He reached up and rubbed at his jaw, watching Sylar until eyes lifted to notice the observation, then finding something else to look at, generally his own plate. He wasn't thinking about much of anything, sort of blank-headed at the moment, with thoughts flitting through his mind about the residual soreness of his jaw, the color and texture of Sylar's hair, and the degree of hostility the man had about his background.

Peter took a sip and said, "You know, about abilities … they never were something I could figure out. Mohinder …" He shrugged. "He seemed to think it was obvious, the genes worked a certain way, and it was, uh, 'demonstrable'," Peter said, aping a word out of Chandra Suresh's book, "that abilities would result from certain … um, configurations." He knitted his brow, trying to remember the rest of what Activating Evolution had to say. Peter frowned and shook his head. It wasn't too important - not to what he was trying to ask Sylar. "Did they ever make sense to you?"

Sylar was smart; Peter respected that or else he wouldn't be asking. Mohinder had always talked over Peter's head - not that Sylar didn't have a tendency to the same thing, but he wasn't as bad about it. Peter preferred his personal theory that abilities were a gift from God or an expression of the ineffable supernatural, but he wasn't going to discount the possibility that someone else had figured it out. If anyone could, it would be the man he was sharing breakfast with.

XXX

_Strange question. But its not like he ever talked about it with Nathan. And Nathan never really got it._ "You mean where they came from? Same place as your eye color - DNA. You could have been born the odd man out and had green eyes in a brown-eyed family, but you were born with your ability. Nathan wasn't." Nathan remembered the horror and shock of finding out he'd been tested on by his own parents (or parent, most likely). It shouldn't have been such a surprise, but Nathan had taken his hurt feelings to the extreme and sided with Arthur, not the-bearer-of-bad-news Angela who was probably innocent.

XXX

_No, that's not what I meant at all_. Peter frowned and tried to think of how to rephrase his question to get at what really mattered, but before he came to any conclusion about what to say, Sylar was speaking again. Peter leaned forward, intent on the words. Maybe Sylar would say something more relevant.

XXX

"Your parents both have abilities and you inherited those markers, yeah, configurations, same as me. Yours is a variant of /Dad's/….Arthur's," a pause after the slip before he correct himself. "Mine is…pretty much the same as my dad's. Claire is….well," he chuckled, "Meredith and Nathan. Simon and Monty didn't show any abilities so Claire probably got her power from Meredith. It wouldn't surprise me since his ability isn't…. inherited, he can't pass it on." Sylar shrugged, "Matt's was the same as his father's, et cetera. Fate's random draw. How they came into being? I don't think anyone knows. Chandra didn't, Mohinder didn't and I….would know if they knew. They talk too much to keep secrets especially when they think you're too stupid to know what they're talking about, which is almost all the time….Sure seems supernatural when something like an eclipse can take away your power, you know, like some kind of…god or…demi-god maybe."

XXX

Peter frowned at the use of 'Dad' for 'Arthur', feeling his blood pressure rise, but when Sylar moved on from it, Peter relaxed. Besides, Sylar's next statement surprised him. _Your dad had your ability?_ For some reason, Peter had trouble imagining that, having heretofore thought of Sylar's murder sprees as a singular event. To think that someone else had done the same for _decades_? It was appalling and sad. _Unless his dad could control himself, like Sylar in that future? Or, well, he didn't say he met him. Maybe his dad died a long time ago?_

The rest of Sylar's spiel, Peter glossed over until the end. _Supernatural, a god?_ _**That**_ was what Peter wanted to know, but he'd wanted it in more detail. He leaned back slowly, considering what he'd been told, an introspective frown on his face as he stared at his nearly empty plate.

XXX

Sylar thought on that and went back to eating for a few bites. Another thought struck him. "The weird part about that was my ability went undetected. Was that the same for you? It was…early before everything started, so he probably didn't know what he was looking for yet and Mohinder wasn't there. He said I didn't have an ability, do you believe that? My DNA comes up on some national list and no power?" He heaved an aggravated, grumbling sigh, remembering his stress and distress at that time in his life, going back to stabbing his eggs. "The Company didn't find anything either, the idiots."

XXX

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar's and he leaned forward again, this time taking up his fork. He held it while Sylar finished speaking. _'Early before everything'? Who? Must be Chandra. He just mentioned him, that they'd talked. And Mohinder said that Sylar had killed his father_. A momentary expression of sadness crossed Peter's features. He studied Sylar's reaction, with the sigh and angry use of the fork. More sedately, Peter scooped up the last of his breakfast and put it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, but with an expression and hand gesture of 'give me a moment'.

There was a lot Peter wanted to ask about Chandra, and Sylar's emotional reaction made the temptation to ask even higher. But wisdom won out and Peter put it aside to ask at some other point. It wasn't what he'd asked Sylar for; it wasn't what Sylar was asking him. To that latter, he gave answer. "My first ability was my mother's, or maybe Charles Deveaux's - telepathy. I wasn't using either of them intentionally. Flight happened about the same time."

He drummed the fingers of his left hand very slowly and softly on the table, the focus on his eyes far away as he made a serious attempt to draw up the information. "The problem is that I don't know when my mother knew. Or Charles." Peter looked down at his plate and fidgeted with it, setting the fork on it, moving his glass a little. He was starting to touch on a subject that was still unprocessed, still upsetting. He tried to skirt it. "In retrospect, I think Charles knew. And," Peter drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Obviously my mother knew. I don't remember being tested. But I told Ma about some of the dreams I'd been having." Peter swept up his dish suddenly and rose, walking it over to the sink.

"Yah, idiots," he spat out without explanation and more of a New York accent than usual. His mother had set him up to blow up the city; she'd done this _thing_ to Sylar, desecrating Nathan's … everything. Peter was angry - so angry at her. For so long, she'd been the parent he'd looked up to, loved, adored, and trusted. But she'd betrayed him the same as his father.

XXX

Sylar paused after that, his appetite was still very low, but he did want a few more bites. He watched Peter, curiously. "Mothers…are like that, Peter," Sylar deduced Peter's emotionality was linked his mommy. "Good news is, they're not here. It's like a sleepover," he said with wry humor in his voice. _Just…without the sleeping over part, obviously. I don't see 'when' being the 'problem' – I showed my mom my power and she didn't…well_. A slow bite, then, "I didn't think about Charles, telepathy…"


	45. Godsends and Girlfriends

Day 13, Breakfast

Peter rinsed his plate off more vigorously than necessary, then walked back over to flop in his chair in a tense, overly dramatic sprawl. The chair protested slightly. "Yeah," Peter huffed in agreement with Sylar. He ran his left hand through his hair once, twice, a third time, then swept his bangs out of his face and gave his pelage one last pass to smooth it. He sighed voluminously. Emotional demonstration complete, he answered Sylar's wry smile with his own. "She didn't want me to come here. Begged me not to."

XXX

Sylar just growled, expressing his displeasure about Angela in general. "No surprise there," he groused with feeling. _Didn't want me to take away her baby. Kill off her last son. She showed me the way to really fuck with people – convert them, don't kill them._

XXX

Peter gave a fitful roll of his eyes about his mother and leaned forward abruptly, not wanting to get into it. In his heart of hearts, he suspected, feared, that she was right about Sylar and that, yes, Sylar might help Emma, but what of after? Peter didn't want to contemplate it, so he didn't. They were safe anyway, in their little 'sleepover'. _Probably asleep in Matt's basement still. _He put his elbows on the table and asked, "But that's not what I was asking, earlier. What I wanted to know is if there's any scientific basis to the way abilities work. Or is it something more in the realm of the … divine?"

XXX

"Oh." He felt slow and a little dumb for having not addressed Peter's questions correctly. "There's…basis for both. Neither can be proven, so pick your poison, really. There's no basis that we have some special gene or gland or hormone and there's no way we've evolved or mutated into what we are this fast. No way our natural bodies can keep up with what we can do. You can't prove there's a God or Allah or Buddha. Even if you could, why would he give someone like me, or someone like Samuel, a power? Why not give only good people a power so they can do good things? It's like asking how the world came to be." Sylar leaned back, his gaze far away again before looking to his companion. "I know the answer you're looking for, even a concrete answer, but it's…" he waved a hand for the word and failing to find it. "You must really be lost if you're coming to me for…information," was his casual remark, digging at why Peter would ask that of _him_._If I had the answer, I don't know that I'd tell you, Peter. You think you've got all the answers._

XXX

Peter listened carefully, snorting softly when Sylar brought up the lack of logic in someone evil having a power. He didn't shift back when Sylar leaned away, still thinking, watching the hand gesture as carefully as everything else. A smile curled Peter's lips when Sylar tried to fend off his interest. "You don't know," Peter said confidently, not buying Sylar's 'I know the answer' BS. He relaxed in his chair.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed, his mouth opening to correct Peter that, obviously, he didn't know – he'd fucking said as much! (Had he held such a valuable piece of information, such was his point, things would be run a lot differently). But Peter was already off on…something else.

XXX

"The existence of evil doesn't disprove God. Not for me, at least," Peter said quietly. "God's not about … giving us what we want. Or even what we can take." He shook his head, getting wound up a bit. "That old canard about Him not giving a person more than they can bear? Tell that to someone struggling for their last breaths." Peter snorted, looking off to the side because his disgust was not with Sylar. Peter tensed and sat up straighter. "People get broken. Sometimes they lose. God doesn't save people on this Earth. _People_ save people."

XXX

Again, Sylar began to speak, not getting to voice any of it. He'd been about to quote that exact lovely phrase when Peter beat him to it. Church and Puritanical living with his mother had left marks, not nice ones where he would chirp out Bible verses on demand and live by them. If anything, he'd probably mock them, burdened by retaining those holy quotes. If Peter was so 'godly', then it was naturally Sylar's job, as the respective devil or demon, to punch holes in that logic. _How did we get on theology?...Is he saying I can't cut it because I've died so often? I'll 'lose'?...Don't tell me about broken people and 'last breaths'…_The idea that high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli was lecturing him about God giving him too much to bear that had resulted in…many attempts at suicide was hard to take with any grace.

XXX

He frowned, leaning forward now and trying to engage Sylar. "Every heroic act is discredited by the people who say it was 'God's work' or 'God's will'." Peter jabbed his finger at the table in emphasis. "If that were true, then we wouldn't need heroes. We wouldn't need paramedics or EMTs or even doctors!"

XXX

To his own great surprise, Sylar actually….thought about that one for a moment prior to responding – Peter could accurately label that one a miracle for all its rarity. His lips closed while he turned that over. _So if I do a good deed, I get the credit, is that it? I mean, I made the choice, that's what Christianity is all about – God's still there, supposedly, whether I chose __H__im or not….And I can do a good deed independently, without Him. Clearly._ "That…makes sense," he said slowly, still thinking. He hit on what was bothering him: "Angels don't save people, either…for the record," he intoned, dully. _They just…._Sylar heaved a distressed sigh, rubbing his face for a moment. He was remembering Elle. _They're not some almighty being, but names give power_, he considered his own 'birth' name, Gabriel.

XXX

Peter watched alertly after Sylar quit trying to butt in while he was talking and now appeared to be thinking about what Peter had said. It was so much better than the usual snarking off at him or arguing mindlessly. He calmed and sent his thoughts self-consciously over what he'd just said. _Did I say something stupid? No, he'd be on me right away if I had. I must have said something smart. And even then … he's not jumping on me anyway like he did before. Weird. Are we actually getting along better? I should tone it down regardless. It's not his fault and I don't want him to take it that way._ He relaxed himself purposefully, which wasn't that hard since he wasn't being opposed.

When Sylar began acting upset, Peter leaned forward silently, head turned slightly in concern. He didn't do or say anything, though, feeling that he didn't have that privilege.

XXX

After another pause, going back to the Christianity belief theme at hand, "Does that mean God's not working at all through us, or we get….all the credit?" Sylar stumbled around what he was trying to say, hoping it made sense. It did in his head.

XXX

Peter put his elbows on the table. "Anything we do, we do. I believe in free will. I don't think God pushes people one way or another. That's like …" Peter paused, searching for an analogy. "It's like the guy who designed your car being held accountable for the speeding ticket you got." He hesitated again, trying to fish up an example that had to do with 'credit' rather than 'blame', but nothing came to mind. He shook it off and went on, "I don't pretend to know the mind of God, or why there's evil in the world. I just know there is, and any _good_ God would want us to do something about it." He shrugged. "And even if there isn't a god, we should _still_ do something about it." _Maybe even more important then._

XXX

That took much longer for him to process than he would like, but Peter was stupid enough to engage in conversation (a smart one, for once, complete with good points) while Sylar was concussed. _Actually…that makes sense, too. Dumbing me down so he can talk?_ Mostly Sylar was enjoying having something to wrap his mind around, be it Peter or Peter's motives or the conversation – it wasn't often he was challenged on a topic that lacked…emotion and morals (for the most part) and social understandings. It was ideal, minus the concussion.

XXX

Peter waited several beats, but Sylar was silent, looking contemplative. In a quiet tone, Peter related, "I remember a call Hesam and I had. It was around Christmas. A couple teens had found a homeless woman sleeping in the park, non-responsive, and called it in. She had critical hypothermia. After we took her in, Hesam said that things like that were what made him lose his faith - how many people must have walked right past her, never bothering to see if she was okay." Peter frowned and looked away. "I told him … those kids who called it in had done the right thing." Peter's eyes flicked back to Sylar, then down at the table. "Not everyone does, I know, but faith in people and faith in God are two different things. As long as people are able to make choices … well, then they're making choices. God … He's immutable. He's a constant. You can take Him out of the equation or leave Him in and people are still making their own decisions."

XXX

Sylar would again agree – _if_ there was a God, He clearly followed that principal. Sylar didn't know if that was a good thing or not, didn't know where exactly that left him. _Pastor Peter over there._ As interesting as the conversation was, it was too close to being lectured at embarrassing, awkward, tedious length about anything religious (something he'd had to endure growing up and even after that). The level of sharing Peter was giving was great, the topic was less so – Sylar was looking to depart from it. "You would know, Boy Scout. Give them a gold st-…" He broke off to consider something. He looked quickly to the calendar he'd begun keeping a few months into his stay in Hell, checking off each day-square with a single black, permanently inked, diagonal line. He'd fallen behind what with being injured and distracted, but by his calculations…. "Fuck," he murmured, not enjoying that feeling of lateness. Looking back to the table, his eggs since cooled and he was finished with them anyway, Sylar hemmed around addressing the date appropriately. He turned to Peter and spoke, nearly questioning but sincere nonetheless, "Um…Usually I'm a lot…better with this, but, uh…Happy Birthday."

XXX

"It's my birthday?" Peter said in bewilderment. He followed Sylar's eyes to the calendar. It didn't look like the 23rd yet, but then again, maybe Sylar hadn't been marking off the days recently. He'd know the current date better than Peter did, certainly. _My birthday. Huh._ He had fond memories of the date. The whole holiday season had always made him happy. They saw family; he was off school; there were presents and special food and outings to see Christmas lights. _None of that here._ The beginnings of a smile on his face faded out to blankness.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar informed slowly, intent on watching Peter's face, his reaction. It started out well enough, but…it crashed and burned. _I thought as much._ He knew enough of the Petrelli rituals, specifically the ones for Nathan and Peter - he was the youngest, emotional and needy, and his birthday was in December, so near Christmas. Sylar got the point. Doubtless, it was his fault. His efforts (such as they would be with a concussion) wouldn't hold a birthday candle against Peter's other birthdays. His presence wasn't inspiring joy in Peter, either. "This must suck for you, being here...like this." _With me._ "Uh...have anything special in mind you want to do?"

XXX

_What is there to celebrate?_ Peter turned dull eyes on Sylar. His first birthday without Nathan loomed. The knowledge that this place was false didn't help, because even after he got out of here and back to the real world, it would still be a few short weeks until the same thing happened. Followed by Christmas. Followed by New Years. Year after year until the end of his life - always someone absent who should have been there. He looked over at the calendar again, face a little paler than it should be, devoid of expression. He thought of the last holiday he'd had with Nathan … his mother bringing over Thanksgiving dinner …

And snatched his thoughts away from that as fast as he could, blinking his suddenly burning eyes and looking down. "No. There's nothing I want to do," he murmured quietly. "Thank you." He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, making a half-hearted attempt to pass off his pang of grief as tired eyes. "What about you? When's your birthday?" He sighed, making his voice normal. "You have any family customs for it?"

When he'd been a kid, the Petrellis had done the usual cake, candles, ice cream, and singing; inviting over friends; each meal through the day was favorite foods of whoever's birthday it was. Once he was an adult, he could still rely on being taken out to dinner (and probably lunch, too, if he didn't spend the other meal with college friends). Abilities had changed all that. Remembering how it used to be just made the last few years stand out even more. He'd spent one birthday in a prison cell, entirely unmarked. But he'd at least gotten phone calls for the others. There were no voices here but Sylar's and his own. He felt … lonely.

XXX

Oh, but Peter's face told him it was so much worse than he'd thought. It made him tense and feel a foot tall at the same time, not good feelings. _Shit…is he…crying?_ That sniff was pretty indicative, from what Sylar knew of that type of thing_. I made him cry? Or…is it just the situation? Did I do something wrong? I thought I was being nice…_Sylar blinked and nodded, completely out of his depth. _Why is he thanking me? I don't know what to do for crying, or any of this, really. What do I do now? Get him a gift card for one free beating; that'll make him feel better. Can't pass that up. _He suspected he wasn't supposed to let this drop, but he could come back to it. He'd have time to drum up some kind of gift or food idea for Peter anyway.

Peter threw him a curveball. Sylar suspected he'd have to get used to that – Nathan mostly ignored the curveballs or covered them up and denied them away. This wasn't a fun topic he wanted turned on himself, but it Peter wanted to avoid things and perk himself up with Sylar's misery and discomfort…Sylar rolled his eyes, picking at his eggs, "June second as near as anyone knows. That's what we always used anyway. Cake, books, clothes. Going to church and going over every embarrassing photo album and kid story my mother could remember." It was usually a horrid gathering once he'd developed cognition and independent thought – an event he would almost happily do without. He wanted bring up how, technically, birthdays should be used to celebrate the mother, not the child, a literal 'mother's day'. But this was Peter's birthday and saying it wasn't all about Peter was…well, rude. God knew Sylar didn't want Peter's birthday to be credited to Angela. "Kind of stupid, really. Whatever that saying is, 'anyone can get born.' Of course," he looked at Peter with slight amusement, "some of us are born special."

XXX

Peter gave a wry smile, imagining Sylar being embarrassed by his mother's stories. _His mother. She's out of the picture now, isn't she? _He remembered Jeremy Greer's parents, dead by his ability; and how Amanda had confessed to burning down her family home. Peter's eyes widened a little as they crept over Sylar's face. _Did his mother have an ability? Oh no. What if she was his first … no wonder he won't talk about it! If it is, was, her. His first victim. Fuck._ Peter drew in a deep breath and looked away. _Okay … my life looks so much better in comparison._ There was no expression of sympathy Peter could think to give for something that was just a suspicion anyway. He wished he'd been in a more observant frame of mind when Sylar had stopped him from killing Peter's mother back on Level 5.

"June second, yeah?" Peter said, making an attempt to be cheerful and focus on the now. "Maybe I'll have learned to bake by then. If not, there's always grocery stores." 'What about Christmas?' he wanted to ask, wondering how Sylar had observed the date when younger, but the topic of Sylar and holidays didn't sit well with him, leading inevitably as it did to the one in November. "June's a good month. Fresh out of school, got the whole summer ahead of you. Hey, both of us have birthdays you never spend in school."

XXX

"Maybe by then I'll be able to bake for your birthday," Sylar snarked playfully about his concussion and Peter's ability to keep his fists to himself for that long. He had to say something before he blurted out that he didn't observe his own birthday – it was so pointless. In re-evaluation, it might have a purpose, if it gave Peter something to do, even if it was slipping laxatives or poison into the cake, otherwise burning it or underbaking it. That would feel awfully weird, but maybe it was worth allowing. Funny that he was born in a hot month while Peter was born in a cold one – Sylar would have thought they'd be opposite.

XXX

Peter stood and wandered over to the stove, moving the skillet over and filling it in the sink to let it soak. The thought of it being his birthday depressed the hell out of him. He grasped around for something else to talk about, recounting Sylar's words. _Born special_. "You wouldn't happen to know why some people get their ability as kids and others as adults, would you? I've always kind of supposed it was the eclipses, but there were people I know got them other times." _Like me, apparently_. "Do you think that's what triggers it for most people?"

XXX

Sylar snorted derisively, aiming it at the Suresh men. "No, I don't. Mohinder was just getting into the whole eclipse thing when the…second…one happened. /Dad/ probably knew." Sylar frowned and pursed his lips in deep thought. "Matt's kid got his powers in that eclipse, not from birth…" he shook that away. Off the top of his head, he didn't know of anyone whose powers manifested at birth or in utero. "I imagine just genetic susceptibility to manifestation triggers – each ability, each person is different...They probably get switched 'on' in the eclipses, yeah. How, I don't know. I know mine started….priming before it…kind of snapped, same as yours, I guess. You had dreams and your foot floated before you could fly… Rather, before you knew you could fly."

_/'Anything else is just crazy talk.'/_Sylar was struck with how random and just plain _weird_ that had been for Nathan, finding out that Peter could not only fly and do the same thing he could, but do all these other freaky things. The idiot had only faced it, owned up to it, acknowledged it for his brother's sake and for New York City's sake at the last moment at Kirby. How convenient. Sylar clamped his mouth shut on a biting Nathan comment: 'Your brother was a real asshole about that, wasn't he?' while thinking: _If I was your brother I would have believed you._

"Kind of uncomfortable to be a walking solar panel: one thick cloud and all your powers go 'poof!'" Then again it was uncomfortable that he hadn't rid the world of the Haitian. That man still roaming about, on friendly terms with any Petrelli – as evidenced by Mercy Hospital – was bad news. _He's__ dead now, I guess. _Sylar took the time as he spoke to watch Peter. "I'm- I'm…Did I say something wrong again?" he had to ask, seeing his companion's short movements and the sudden space between them. It was slowly becoming apparent that Peter didn't want to be here, or more accurately, be here with Sylar – more so than usual.

XXX

Peter turned, drying his left hand on a kitchen towel. "No." He sighed. "Well, I'd rather you quit calling Arthur your father. That's … upsetting. If I thought you were being sarcastic about how Ma said you were my brother, that's one thing. But I don't think that's what's going on." _I think you're confused. Your brain's been scrambled, and I don't mean the concussion. _He tossed the towel on the counter and walked back, glancing at Sylar's plate but seeing no reason to hurry the guy. He took a seat. "But as things go for me to be upset about, that's not a big deal."

XXX

_Did I do that?_ Sylar thought back. _Crap. I did. I'd rather I quit calling him my dad, too, Peter._ He failed to follow the part about Angela, but picked up that Peter was…cutting him slack? _Hold on, it is but isn't a big deal? So…what's the big deal, then?_

XXX

Peter looked at the table, finding an imaginary irregularity to pick at. He watched his fingers, momentarily debating whether or not to say anything about what was really bothering him. _He actually _**asked**_. Asked if he said something wrong. Like he's being more aware of that. I think that's … maybe what we need. Be kind of dumb for me to make him run blind_. Peter's eyes flicked up to Sylar's. "Just the mention of my birthday … Nathan'll never be there again," he finished softly. He looked back down, lips pursed.

XXX

"Oh…That." It struck him as remarkably emotional, Peter being this depressed about his birthday in connection with Nathan. Like, the ooey, mushy, love-dovey and otherwise icky amount of emotion. It made Sylar queasy for a number of reasons, guilt being nowhere near the top of the list. Absolutely unfair was Peter getting to pout and sulk and mourn his brother, that Peter could even feel things that deeply or have those happy memories. Sylar had neither the right to complain, mourn his own loss, like his mother, he couldn't connect or feel to that depth (hell, one little mood swing and he got slapped upside the head with 'psychopath'), and he certainly had few happy memories to call on. He was a little nauseated now and definitely finished with the eggs.

XXX

_Yes, '__**that'**__,_ Peter thought, letting the long, awkward silence stretch out. _Every murder you committed tore someone else up inside. Maybe five or ten other people - kids, spouse, parents … not just siblings._ Peter exhaled heavily. There was no point in going over it. There was nothing Sylar could say or do to make it better, so best not to dwell on it. "Let's talk about something else," he said, mentally casting about for a different topic.

XXX

Peter said…nothing. Not a peep of blame, not even a dirty look for Sylar to go off of. _Spoiled little rich boy brat. And so dependent on that jerk. And on Mommy Dearest. Grow a pair, Petrelli. You wanna be your own man, do your own thing all the time, stop looking for approval so much. _Since he was done and he wanted to do something that didn't involve standing or violence or being sick, Sylar pushed his plate away a few inches, working up a scowl.

XXX

Peter snagged the plate, glancing over Sylar's unhappy, perhaps angry expression. _Don't like the idea of consequences, do you? People thinking less of you because you killed someone they loved?_ He stood and took the plate to the sink, letting Sylar's pique pass unremarked. He found something else to discuss as he rinsed the dish. "You mentioned your ability 'priming'. I think I know what you mean. I felt like I had my ability a long time before I started being able to do stuff." Peter gave a harsh, short laugh over his shoulder. "Funny thing - I thought it had to do with me being a nurse, helping people, and doing the right thing. Because they both happened at the same time. Right around graduation, and then the feeling just got stronger as the months went by and I worked more …." He shook his head and turned to lean against the counter. "The joke was on me." _Getting an ability had nothing to do with being a good person. I wish it did. I really, really wish it did._ Peter wore an expression of bitter amusement, which faded a bit into hopelessness.

XXX

Sylar would admit, he'd partly hoped some other special had felt the same – just so he wasn't alone. He didn't have to be special and singular in how his power manifested; he had to be special after it manifested. It was reassuring; one small thing about him was 'okay'. He ignored the spike of envy and anger and hate at the mention of Peter's fancy life – school, graduation, the job after that, feeling like he had a place… _Quit rubbing that in! Christ_. But the following information caught his interest.

"Well, you were the one hounding me that our jobs are formative. You didn't…strip any gears in the process. You were a little- a lot more…" Sylar waved a hand generally to indicate that Peter had been more sane, normal and balanced about the whole manifestation gig. "Besides, what other job are you actually going to do?...Start a daycare? No offense, Peter, but I don't think you have the head for babies. Dying old people is more your thing, apparently. As is saving the cheerleader," Sylar aimed a pointed, somewhat humorous look at Peter. That gave him pause, something genuinely funny forming, "Is your girlfriend a cheerleader, too?" he leered a bit about that.

XXX

Peter cocked his head slightly at first, his expression blanking a bit because he was expecting a barb. Sylar had been angry, then sullen, and now had something he wanted to say - Peter expected it to be insulting. Then he gathered he was wrong and Sylar was instead truly just talking. If the comment about starting a daycare was the verbal attack Peter had been waiting for, then that was wonderfully toothless. Peter smiled, face and shoulders relaxing at that remark. He didn't mind babies and he was told he was good with kids. He didn't feel any burning desire to have either, but running a daycare certainly wouldn't be the world's worst job in his eyes.

The smile faded a bit on the rest, disappearing entirely with Sylar's parting question. Peter didn't look upset, though, just uncertain and a little suspicious, eyes narrowing some. _Caitlyn? Emma? Someone else? And what's he trying to say about me and Claire?_ Voice low but even, Peter said, "I don't have a girlfriend. Haven't for … a while." _Couple years, I guess it's been. Don't know that he'd be able to make sense of that if he thinks he's been here for two or three already._ He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, and crossed his legs at the ankle with a bit of a slouch, indicating his willingness to stay there and keep talking even if he didn't say anything else. Mostly, he wanted to know what Sylar was angling at.

XXX

"Bullshit. Yes, you do." _How dumb do you think I am? No, don't answer that. I'm concussed and you already think I'm warped._ "This girl you want me to save – your girlfriend." The idea that maybe Peter was single (unlikely) sunk in slowly. Could it be? There was not a snowball's chance in Hell (no puns intended) that Sylar would have a shot for anything bigger than a one-night-stand – that had always been certain - but he didn't need much more than that. Still…it was Sylar's job to cultivate some sort of affection between them (in a decade or so) to make his own life easier.

XXX

Peter raised his brows in disbelief at Sylar calling BS on him. Then he gave a short, easy laugh, deciding to take Sylar's certainty that Peter had a girl as a compliment. He glanced down, distracted by his right wrist itching where the brace chafed it. He scratched at it idly as Sylar went on.

XXX

"Or…maybe you want me to save her from whatever mad plot so you can be the hero and _then_ get the girl. Hard to have a girlfriend when she's 'dead', right?" _(You would know)._ Peter had had his head in the clouds before Mercy, when he'd been….the guy's brother. It was half-distracted and glazed, like Peter had to remind himself to focus on life, not whatever flavor of the week – Nathan knew that look well, suffering sore fingers from snapping them so much in his baby brother's face. _He wants her; I don't need telepathy for that. I'm so, so screwed if he's into her. _

XXX

Peter bristled at the end of Sylar's question, immediately dropping both hands to his sides. A moment later, he tried to force himself to relax, putting them on the counter to either side, but he wasn't very successful. The joviality of before was gone. Simone's death had unnerved him; Caitlyn's had hit him harder. He felt responsible for both, and one of the many things he felt uncertain with Sylar was whether Emma (or anyone else) would be safe after the events of the dream played out. He didn't want any more deaths on his hands.

"She's not _dead_ and she's not my girlfriend," he said tensely.

XXX

"Ah," Sylar remarked mildly, somehow sure he wasn't about to get punched. He briefly considered the possibility of a single Peter. _I'm not playing matchmaker. But he wants her. That's a problem. He'll be thinking of her when I need him to be…Oh._ "Right. Because she's alive. Wouldn't want to cheat on her or anything," he said meaningfully. _He thinks he's got something much better waiting in the wings._

XXX

"It's not _like that!_" Peter snapped, voice rising in volume. He reached up and rubbed at the twinging point of his jaw, pushing off the counter. He moved around restlessly in lieu of pacing, as the room wasn't big enough for full strides of the sort he wanted to take. "The last couple people I was with are dead and it's my f-" He hesitated, looking at Sylar and considering the wisdom of what he was confessing to the guy. _I've already said nearly all of it_. "It was my fault," he finished softly. "I'm not _with_ anyone; I'm not going to be."

XXX

Sylar was struck dumb, eyes a little wide, fixated wholly on Peter_. Him, too? How…?_ Sylar knew that feeling all too well, unlike Peter, it was all he'd ever known. Jokes of lethally-violent sex were absent from his mind as was Peter's overly-loud protests about the cheating. Sad eyes looked to the floor a moment, trying to think of anything to say to help or otherwise manipulate. He desperately needed an angle to get Peter on board with his plans, but his brain wasn't cooperating. "No one blames you, Peter," was his attempt to console; it was lame and the best he could provide. "That's…It happens all the time, trust me. And you're _with_ _me_, like it or not," he added with heat, insulted. "They'd give you a medal, not blame, if I turned up missing, so there's your green light." _I think 'they' would like nothing more, actually. Of the two of us, who's more worried about…Hang on, is he _worried _he'll_ kill _me? _

XXX

Peter snorted sharply about it happening all the time. _What? Getting your partner killed? Stranding someone in space-time? Or do you mean like domestic violence? _He exhaled forcefully a second time after the rest of what Sylar had to say. "Fine. I'm 'with you'. We're here together. You know what I _meant_, though." _A 'green light'_. Peter eyed Sylar, gaze appraising his frame a couple times before the empath turned away. All this talk about being with someone was making him anxious. Peter ran a hand through his hair nervously.

XXX

"Oh, do I?" That was insulting through and through, being written off like that, to his face no less. _And that fucking tone… 'I'm with you, but not, you know, with you. I'm only doing it because I have no other choice.' Please, just rub it in. _Peter topped it off by giving him a look and the furnace of rage ignited in his chest. _Don't you even…Don't you even. Son of a bitch. That- you son of a bitch._

XXX

"Sylar," he said, turning back and this time his eyes went nowhere else but the other man's face. "There are so many issues, between you and I …" _I can't exactly suggest he go find someone else. There is no one else. Not here, and not back in reality. I suppose he'd find someone like-minded eventually, but it'd be a service to humanity to prevent that, out of fear of what two of them would do. And telling him not to want to be with someone is just dumb. It doesn't work that way, any more than I ... _Peter looked away from Sylar abruptly, hand restlessly mauling at his hair again while he looked around the kitchen for something useful to do. Nothing came to mind, unless he wanted to wash dishes. He wanted something else to think about than his own inability to quench his desire for companionship. Even here it plagued him; especially here, with the constant pressure of loneliness and nothing else to distract him.

He walked back over and sat down, shutting his eyes briefly. "It doesn't matter that people wouldn't blame me, or that they'd give me a medal, or whatever. Hell, they don't even _know_." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying not to think of how much of a fuck-up he was. That he was sitting across the table from a guy who put him to shame on that front was the only reason why Peter was even willing to talk about this. "_I_ know, and that's what matters."

XXX

The increasing headache and anger was fast dulling his processing. _It's about the issues? Is that what you think? _Once again, he was downplayed – Peter suddenly didn't care about getting even or the accolades for bringing Sylar down or bringing him in. The last time he'd seen Petrelli, he'd been getting nailed to a table like a prized butterfly, having the shit beaten out of him for the sake of one lousy brother/senator who could fly. _Suddenly that doesn't matter? It must matter enough. Issues my ass. _"Maybe to you," Sylar spat venomously, making to rise too quickly, getting tunnel, black, hazy vision from it as well as a stumble of balance. He reached out for the back of the chair, catching it in time, but it shoved the whole seat back causing it to make a loud scraping noise against the floor. He grunted an exhale of all around frustration and anger, blinking and rubbing his eyes until they cleared a few seconds later. By that time, he was moving into the living room, limping furiously for the couch. _Fucking rich boy. Spoiled and pampered. Thinks he gets to pick and choose. What makes him so much better?_

XXX

It took Peter a moment to realize how unsteady Sylar was, and a moment more to get himself up out of his chair and a step over to help, both hands out. He was swatted away with a violent, decisive, and energetic motion that came way too close to hitting his broken right hand for his comfort. One of the first rules of being an EMT was to keep yourself safe. Also, Sylar had a hold of the chair with his other hand. He hadn't fallen yet; maybe he wouldn't. Peter faded back and let him be, watching as Sylar fumed out of the room a few moments later.

The first thing that came to mind was to get the pills and rush them out, forcing them on Sylar. Peter understood the urge - social maneuvering, wanting to re-establish the dominance he'd felt in rejecting the guy, and insecurity resulting from Sylar stomping out. He sighed, turning his head, and eyed the floor as he considered what had been said_. '…with me, like it or not' … 'I'm not _with_ anyone' … 'you know what I _meant_' … 'oh, do I?' … 'that's what matters' … 'maybe to you.' Three years alone. It keeps coming back to that. Or wait, does it? It's not the three years alone, it's that being alone is the worst. The three years is just the result. This attitude thing, problem, situation would have been there without the three years. It _was_ there. That's why Matt made this place._

Peter frowned in thought. _Sylar killed people because he was lonely? That's kind of fucked up. All kinds of fucked up. Friends - none. Played board games just with his mom_. Peter took a deep breath, rubbed at his forehead, and let it out. His memories wandered over the bottomless, light-headed, dissociated feeling he'd had before he'd stepped off that rooftop, feeling at one with everything and non-existent at the same time. In that moment, his life didn't matter if he was wrong about being special. _I felt strongly enough about it to kill myself. Maybe he felt strongly enough about the same thing to kill someone else? Willing to throw away his life just like I was, just to have that … moment … when I could be someone. My chance to be someone. Come on, Sylar,_ Peter thought with a definite empathetic pang. _Don't let that be it._

But he suspected it was. The puzzle piece fit too neatly not to be the right one. Peter took his pills, still mulling it over, and shook out Sylar's dose. He took it and the man's glass into the living room, setting them down on the end table closest to Sylar, with no reminder or nagging other than making them available and convenient.

XXX

Sylar glared full force at Peter's hands when he dumped off the pills and glass. _I hope those are poisoned…for his sake. That little fuck. It's all about him._ His anger (a downgrade from 'rage') was still boiling, ignoring Peter for the most part in the silence, once the man was stationary, still glaring at anything, everything else.

XXX

In a soft tone, he said, "Sylar, I know I'm not … what you'd like me to be." He stood a few feet away, his back to the work table, and looked down. He reached over with his left hand to scratch at his right, messing with whatever it was about his brace that wasn't sitting properly. Peter was trying to apologize without actually apologizing. "I came for you because … I thought there was a chance. You …" He shrugged. "You know, maybe you could turn things around." Peter huffed, looking around helplessly and wishing like hell he could read people as easily as he used to. Was Sylar still angry? Was this the right thing to say? It felt close to right, but the words used to come so much more easily when he wasn't as guarded or disillusioned as he was now.

XXX

By then, Sylar was sullen, grumpy and put out, his headache burning along. His eyes slowly slid up to Peter's face, holding there. _You're not erect and horny, you mean? Who said I want that; did I say that? What the fuck does it matter what I want? Just, out of the blue, 'what do you want?' But he didn't say that did he; smartass. _Sylar waswaiting for the man to stick his foot in his mouth or the trap, which, sure enough, he did. It was such bald-faced manipulation, even Sylar saw through it – while concussed! "Because you were so much help the last two times, Petrelli!...Don't even pretend this is about me!" he barked roughly, eyes blazing as much as they could, sitting forward and tensing up. _The God-damn _nerve_! I am going to rip him apart, just get him close…Son of a bitch would off me before he'd look at me. How stupid does he think I am? Taking notes from Mommy. Bastard._


	46. Come to Jesus

Day 13, Morning

_Well, that answers the question of whether or not he's angry_, Peter thought sourly. He also noted that he'd managed to put Sylar roughly between himself and the only exit, not that Peter was feeling too disposed to take it. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar attacked him. Hitting him in the head had the potential to be fatal or at least incur serious brain damage on a scale beyond the problems the man was currently suffering. Peter was not keen on letting himself get beat up. He'd just gotten over the worst of the stiffness and soreness from the last round of battering. It occurred to him that both of the previous fights had been started by Peter. He hoped like hell that trend continued, because it meant if he could just keep himself from rising to the bait, they were safe.

But all that aside, Peter wasn't going to cower in the corner because Sylar was angry. No, he engaged verbally, just as strongly. "It's not about you! It's about stopping a couple thousand people from getting killed in Central Park, sacrificed by a madman! If I'd seen any other option, I would have taken it, but the dream showed _**you**_. So I came to find _**you**_." He pointed at the floor for emphasis. "After _everything_ you've done," Peter snarled, his jaw aching, "I still thought there was a chance. 'Savior kind' or not," Peter spat out, "you're still a human being!"

XXX

Sylar tried for a glare, but it wasn't catching. He knew Peter's words were useless, he did. It was no comfort, though. He settled for a penetrating stare, the definite gaze of a predator, not wanting to miss so much as a hair's motion. He was struggling with the anger winding down, medical condition, resulting headache and the usual fuzzy Petrelli logic. After a moment, he slid into a blank expression, unimpressed and immobile, certainly unemotional. _/'Oh, but you are special, Gabriel. You're special just the way you are.' 'Show them why you are my favorite. Make Mommy proud.'/ _"That's been tried before, Peter," he stated solemnly, slightly bitter, his voice a bit lower now than his normal conversational tone. _He thinks there's a chance because Mommy gave him a dream. Mommy gave me a dream and I get my neck snapped and thrown in a cell again by this…this would-be brother. He thinks there's a chance because he wants something. Well._ _Fool me twice._

XXX

Peter kept up the eye contact initially, but when Sylar's face slid to blank, he widened his gaze, scanning for other body language. He watched as Sylar eased down a bit from the 'I'm about to lunge across the room to throttle you' Peter thought he'd seen before. Peter let out a deep breath, frowning at Sylar's words. "Yeah? You said you wanted to be a hero at Kirby Plaza. You said 'brothers come back for each other' when you saved me from that lab at Pinehearst and you broke my fall later on. You said you knew the killings were wrong. _You. Are. Selective_." He paused, because really he had little idea as to what provoked Sylar to kill some people and ignore others. Certainly the ones who pissed him off, or got in his way, or had a particularly appealing power, seemed least likely to survive, but what about the rest?

XXX

After the word 'selective' passed Peter's lips, Sylar leaned back, nearly sprawling on the couch. He was amused by this, once again someone trying to dissect him and make him fit in a box or a label. _He might have a clue, which would be why he hasn't asked yet…No! He said I'd have to explain one day. He doesn't know. Educated guessing. _His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, on the fence about the cautious look he'd been given earlier.

XXX

Peter crossed his arms, putting his head back a little in a challenging posture. "If you had your ability right now, would you kill me?" _Or try to?_

XXX

"I'd sure feel the temptation," Sylar answered, canting his aching head, thinking of _other_ temptations his power would afford. Then again, he'd never taken his time inflicting tiny, razor cuts with a physical tool for any purpose, let alone arousal. "And isn't that dumb of you to assume I need powers to kill someone?" Sylar shrugged a relaxed shoulder. He'd done so before, plenty of times. However, none of what he'd said proclaimed intent to kill Peter. He was also swiftly moving Peter away from his deluge of truthful and emotionally manipulative compromising historical reruns: _Look how well those turned out for me, Peter. You were no help._

XXX

Peter snorted a little at Sylar's first comment. _I'm sure you would. That's hardly conclusive. Or reassuring._ Glancing back to find the work desk, he settled against it to match Sylar's more relaxed posture. "Have you ever killed someone without powers?" He shook his head immediately, waving one hand in negation of the ambiguous question. "No, wait. Have you ever killed someone when _you _didn't have powers?" _**And**__ have you ever killed anyone who didn't have abilities? _

He recalled the bullets sent back into Matt at Kirby, Mohinder pinned to the ceiling, and the police in the SWAT van that was transporting Ted Sprague. None of those people had been killed, but it indicated a careless disregard for the lives of anyone between Sylar and what he wanted. Even if by some coincidence Sylar _hadn't_ killed anyone who didn't have an ability, Peter judged the difference morally void. The man had done as bad, repeatedly; he just didn't care. It was damning. Peter leaned back, arms crossed again in a pose somewhere between judgmental, curious, and receptive. There were important things about Sylar he wanted to know, needed to know, to understand what and who he was dealing with.

XXX

Initially Sylar's expression remained static. It was as if he were a celebrity of the special community and the question was a common one, or at least an unimaginative one seeing as he'd never been asked that. Then he gave a lazy, toothy grin, very much taken with watching Peter learn the ropes – (finally) asking the right questions. "Yes to both. Unlike you, when I lose my powers, people come after me." _People hate me when I'm powerless, too._ "And powerless people come after me with knives and guns." His mind went to the people he'd killed in Mexico, the med techs on Level Five, the people in what-was-her-name, Landers' office building. He ignored the most important one, his mother. Not about to take this lying down, being interrogated and singled out, Sylar shot back, "Have you?"

XXX

Peter snorted like it was hardly worth answering. Then he looked away and frowned. It deepened. He shifted his weight and loosened his arms. He wasn't going to fault Sylar enormously for self-defense. Things were complicated and yeah, he could imagine the sort of crap that Sylar had to deal with if he didn't have his abilities to defend himself. That he'd brought it on himself by being a mass murderer first stripped any sympathy Peter might have felt, but the circumstances just as surely muddied the waters. And then there was the matter of turning the question around on him.

"Have I killed someone who didn't have powers … or when I didn't have powers," Peter murmured to himself, enough of the words understandable enough to Sylar that the other man could probably work out what he was saying. "Me?" he said louder, at a normal tone, glancing back at Sylar and shifting his weight again uncomfortably. "Personally? Doing something that ended someone's life?"

He found a different corner of the room to look at and tried to ignore the parts of his brain that were insisting that Sylar had no right to ask such a question; that anything Peter had done was lesser in scope (which was ridiculously wrong and morally indefensible anyway). He gave a short, bitter smile at that corner, and a huff. _Sucks to be on the hot seat, doesn't it? It's the same question I asked him. Fair is fair. Plus I'm not going to get answers from him if I don't give some myself_. He scratched at the hairline over his forehead and looked back to Sylar. "I've made bad calls as a medic and people have died who wouldn't have if I'd made the right decision." That was the easiest to admit. The next, Sylar knew about and so wasn't revealing anything.

In a quieter voice, he said, "I shot my father. You … participated, but I pulled the trigger." He glanced down. Then there was the one that haunted him the most, even if his culpability for something that hadn't happened was questionable. "In a … future timeline … I killed ninety-some-odd percent of the world with some disease that I got duped into releasing. But … that wasn't really _**me**_. Not this me, me-me." He muttered, "That sounds stupid," and moved his thoughts along before they could settle too firmly on the issue of Caitlin.

He swallowed as Nathan's face flashed in front of his eyes, blood streaming down from the horizontal cut Peter had put across his brother's forehead. _Doesn't count. We both had powers_. It was a convenient cop-out, but Peter took what he could get on that one. "I shot at some guys in Haiti. Pretty sure I, or a ricochet, hit one of them in the leg. I don't know if they survived or not. I've banged people around with telekinesis, given them head injuries, didn't make sure they were okay." In a small voice he said, "Caused an airplane to crash." _How many people were killed in that crash? I don't even know._

His eyes flashed up to Sylar's for a moment before he said in a low voice, "One other that I'm not going to talk about."

XXX

Sylar made several hums to keep the information flowing. Everything Peter spoke about seemed so…lightweight. 'Shooting at some guys'? 'Bad medical calls'? Sylar had flipped trucks with ease and of course it would be an easy thing to crash a plane once on board. The virus… given what he knew from Nathan, it was possible for Sylar to do the same, had he known about the virus at all. "So you'll kill pretty much anyone the same as me, Peter." _Girlfriends, family, almost family, people pretending to be family…ninety-some-odd percent of strangers…_Sylar was confident that the 'one other' that would not be named was equally unimportant as the rest of Peter's tally (rather, what Peter liked to think was his tally – it was kind of lame facsimile). _We all have dirty secrets, secret shame. _

XXX

Peter exhaled sharply. There was so much he wanted to argue about right there, but Sylar's assertion was so patently ridiculous he didn't know where to start. He had to admit his surprise that Sylar was willing to let something be classified as 'not Sylar's business' and respect it. That relaxed Peter a lot inside.

XXX

Whatinterested Sylar instead: "Funny…you're taking the 'blame' for /Dad/. Also – I mean, uh, your dad." He corrected himself belatedly, sheepishly, then tried to breeze past the lapse, "But you cried when you thought he died of a heart attack, not when you shot him. Why's that?" Both Nathan and Sylar assumed that under the heat of battle and the lies and betrayal involved had severed a few ties. Peter certainly could not be faulted for feeling vindication at the killing, considering Arthur's treatment of his youngest.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar an odd look. He had a flash of sourness at the 'Dad' comment, but was too distracted by what followed it to fixate on it. Did Sylar really not see the difference in those two situations? Also, this was probably the most disturbingly personal question Sylar had put to him. Once again, the question of whether or not Sylar had a right to ask this of him came up. Peter looked away slowly, brows drawing together as he decided if he wanted to answer. _Is he really that emotionally stunted that he wouldn't know the difference? Is he just asking rhetorically, to get me to say something out loud so he can prove a point about killing people in general? What would I tell a child who asked that?_

"When I thought he'd died of a heart attack, I'd lost a father. I'd lost a part of our family." _Our?_ He looked away from Sylar for a moment, then back, deciding to pretend he meant the Petrellis as a whole. "I mourned that. When I shot him, he wasn't my father. He'd tried to kill Nathan; I think he tried to kill Mom; he took my abilities and I'm pretty sure he was trying to kill _me_." Peter chewed on the inside of his lower lip, thinking about that scene. "And then there was what he was trying to do to the whole world, but he wouldn't talk to me enough, like an equal, to …" Another head shake. "He was Arthur Petrelli. He _used_ to be my father." He shook his head. "But he lost the right for me to treat him like that when he stopped acting like my father."

XXX

That pulled Sylar's chin up and to the side, tilting his head as a new concept came to light: killing parents when they stopped acting like parents was okay in Peter's book. _Huh…I could have killed mine…ages ago then. More's the pity, I think…_

XXX

Taking a mild tone, Peter posed, "What about your father?" He wasn't all that happy about the expression on Sylar's face, like something had just clicked for the man. That feeling that maybe Sylar was trying to set him up for something remained, but what seemed more 'right' was that Sylar really hadn't understood the distinction until Peter explained it. Peter's head tilted slightly. _'It's what brothers do for each other'. He has some ideas about family roles. I think that's it. But why that expression? What's he thinking?_

XXX

Sylar's head returned to its axis point, eyes focusing on Peter. "What about him?" was the curt rejoinder.

XXX

"Tell me about him," Peter said in the same tone, noting that Sylar was getting short and tense, his motions becoming stiff and weird. _Defensive. Doesn't share well. I'm not asking big secrets here. _

XXX

Bitterly and with some sarcasm, he snipped, "Which one?" _I've only got three._

XXX

_He'd better not be talking about Arthur. Either when he thought he was my brother or as Nathan. _"The one you knew," Peter said, enunciating the simple words carefully, tipping his head down a little.

XXX

Sylar bit back a sigh. _What to say about him?_ The better question was: _what does Peter want to hear about? _"When last I checked he was still alive," his withering glare was directed elsewhere after a glance at Peter, making it fairly obvious he wasn't happy about that. _Both of them were, actually, _he concluded on further thought, wondering what that meant._ No way was I Martin's son – he doesn't have abilities. _His mind refused to go into the deeper, emotional scars so he continued with, "Had his own shop in Baltimore a handful of years back." _Jackass tried to hold me up with a shot-gun…called me a thief. Still converting verges inefficiently. Idiot._

XXX

"How old were you when he left?" Peter asked cautiously, hoping he wasn't wording it wrong. It was entirely possible that Sylar and his mother had left the father, rather than the other way around, but he could only ask it one way. 'How old were you when your family split' sounded awkward. He'd rather guess and get corrected if wrong. Speaking of guesses, Peter pondered 'his own shop'. "Was he a watchmaker?"

XXX

Sylar's widened eyes snapped back to Peter's face in surprise. "How-?" he began before he shut himself up. _How did he know that? I don't think I said anything. Maybe I did and forgot? I thought….he said he hadn't read my file. Lucky guess? Or is it…that obvious?_ The last idea made him squirm inside. If that much was obvious, what else was? He quickly tried to right his expression – from stunned to what he actually felt: annoyance. "I don't know," he initially lied, crankily. "Twelve?" _I had long enough with him to 'learn how to be a man' if that's what Peter's asking._ At the last question, he glared at Peter. "What gave that away?" A hysterical giggle popped into his brain. _The other one's a taxidermist murderer._

XXX

Peter shrugged and pushed straight, walking around the desk. As he went, he shot Sylar's painkillers a pointed look like they were to blame for something. And they were. Sylar was getting grouchy and Peter faulted his lack of medication. Peter went on without mentioning it, though, and took the seat behind the desk, looking at the partly-worked puzzle. "Sometimes I wonder what I know about my parents. There's the image I had of them - Dad an attorney, businessman; Mom a home-maker, socialite. Then there's the reality." _A couple of super-powered villains trying to run the world_. He looked over at Sylar with a resigned look and shrugged again. It concealed the rage he felt - not keenly, not right now - just in general, to know that the people who had professed to love him had lied to him his whole life. "The people I thought I knew … I didn't know." He shook his head. "Still don't know if I know them. They keep doing these … _things_." And by 'they', he meant 'Mom' even if he couldn't bring himself to think it.

XXX

Sylar glanced at whatever Peter looked at so pointedly, remembering as he caught sight of the pills. A growled huff and a pained shift to head, hip and back later, he downed them, giving an equally pointed look back at Peter as if to say 'so there' or maybe 'happy now?' As he settled back in, Peter was speaking about his parents – not really something Sylar was interested in. Sylar felt sure that the Petrelli paternals had intended for the boys to lead what was known as a 'normal' life. Given his own childhood and growing up, he was positive Peter and Nathan had gotten one; a good one, too. Childhood and adult relationships weren't the same thing. Maybe Angela and Arthur had had plans to bring their children into their plots and world-scheming once they reached a certain maturity. Or a certain manifestation rather... Oh, who was he kidding? They were rotten to the core.

XXX

Peter sighed and frowned, looking down at the pieces and shifting a few of them around. "Your dad owned his own business. What did your mom do?" Peter glanced up, his face showing polite interest. It wasn't as intent as it had been earlier, but he didn't want Sylar to feel any more interrogated than he probably did.

XXX

_I don't see what it matters to you!_Sylar sighed, looking away. He'd been lulled into listening and the question wasn't a happy one, at least for him. It was something of a jolt to reality. "She raised me," he said with all the ice of a North Pole blizzard. _That much is obvious. I don't want to hear about how she shouldn't have, how you send your…sympathy to her, how horrible her life must have been…how she didn't deserve what she got…how she did a bad job and how I'm a….bad egg and all that crap. I've heard it all before. /'What's the federal government care about some dead ol' broad from Queens?'/ Fuck, I don't want you talking about Mom._ He loosened slightly, grumbling, "She was a secretary."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said, frowning at the layout. He got back to his feet. He'd heard Sylar; he'd also heard the man's tone of voice - angry, bitter, unhappy. Gone was the loose lounging back and Sylar's 'I'll answer whatever you throw at me' attitude of a few minutes ago. Now Sylar sounded like he was expecting an attack. He was defensive as hell about his family and his past. Getting any information out of him at all was difficult. Peter hadn't missed that on the killings, Sylar had told him 'yes' and implied they were self-defense; while Peter had given a detailed breakdown. Even in Peter's sole concealment about Caitlyn, he'd admitted to the existence of it.

He walked across to the kitchen, returning dragging a chair. "Come on over here and help me with this puzzle, would you? Maybe we can get it finished today." That seemed optimistic, but possible. Peter was feeling much better than a few days before, and Sylar was showing definite signs of improvement. They were still, even combined, pretty far behind what a single, clear-headed person could accomplish, but it kept him busy and gave them both something minor to do with their hands. It allowed periods of silence and accommodated chatting just as well.

XXX

Sylar's face was a confused frown. _He doesn't need my help; I'm concussed. Maybe he's…lonely? Is that it? _His mind spun out over thinking of anything else productive, a few blinks later he stood and walked the few steps over to the appropriated chair without saying anything. _I'm just…helping him not be lonely._

XXX

Peter was intentionally dropping the subject before Sylar got wound up about it. Instead, he asked, "Is there anything in particular you'd like to talk about, or do you want me to tell you another paramedic story? I can tell you about the time Jesus Christ talked to one of my patients while I was treating her."

XXX

The first section of Peter's question sent annoyance dashing through him. _What would I have to talk about? He doesn't like it when I talk but he asks all these fucking questions!_ Sylar had been about to lean in and poke at the puzzle, but that stopped him short for now, hands to himself, back mostly against the back of the chair. Peter made it sound like an accusation, parental, 'What have you done wrong today? Confess!'. His hearing perked up at 'paramedic story' and his eyes jerked to Peter on hearing 'Jesus Christ' because he totally expected that to be a joke. It probably was one, much like the…animal…road kill…skunk! (that was it) story. Curious and with dubious expression, he made his slow demand – because it wasn't a request - "Tell me that one."

XXX

Peter chuckled, tickled at the insistence he heard in Sylar's voice. "Oh, it doesn't have a good punch line like some of the others. You _would_ call me on it, too." He grinned and launched into it immediately - glad of the audience and even more that Sylar was letting himself be eased off from the tension. "So. We get called to this lady's house by one of her daughters. She's in bed … the elderly lady. She's ninety-seven and the daughter thinks something is wrong with her because she's acting erratically. I go in the bedroom and the woman snaps at me, _'Are you the FBI?'_" Peter said, roughly approximating an older black woman's voice. "_'I told her to call the FBI!'_ I told her no and introduced myself, then asked why she wanted the FBI. She told me, _'They have ghost busters, and you need to do something about those people over there behind the television.'_ I looked over - it was just a TV set on a stand - and told her I didn't see anyone. She said, _'That's because they hiding! Jesus here has an important message for me, but I want you to get rid of them others. I don't like the looks of them.'_"

XXX

Sylar exhaled a snort of amusement to hear Peter Petrelli miming an old black woman. He had to get his kicks in somehow. Peter Petrelli, socialite do-gooder rich boy that he was impersonating, well…a patient, was just the thing. _Aah, God…ha. It's like being back with Mom all over again…_

XXX

Peter smirked in memory. "By then Hesam was in the room, too, and he opened up the pulse oximeter. It started beeping, and he waved it around the room … I told her he was scanning for paranormal activity. He says it's all clear. I took her vitals and managed to get her to answer about her condition - how she felt, if she'd fallen, that sort of thing. I checked her head, hands, hips - no signs of trauma. She explained that she'd woke up earlier when a couple men in suits and a woman with long blonde hair had come out of a picture of Jesus she had on the wall, and then Jesus Himself had come out to tell her that her kids weren't going to church often enough.

XXX

_Eh-heh,_ was Sylar's internal nod of horrified, been-there-as-a-miserable-victim understanding. Being nagged all week until it reached its Revelations-esque battlefield conclusion Sunday morning. Every Sunday morning. Until, of course, he saw the error of his ways and returned to the (brainwashed, blind-leading-the-blind) fold because God was watching him and only if he went to church and worked hard (and otherwise hobbled, lamed and inhibited himself) would he have a shot at redemption and forgiveness. Gabriel, at the time, had been under the impression that God would cut him some slack or none at all for his sinful existence – and for his failure to appear in His house on the holy day. Oh, well. Mystery solved.

XXX

"I talked to her daughter, but there wasn't much we could do for her. Healthwise, she seemed fine. She wasn't in danger and they might as well take her to her regular doctor in the morning. She was refusing to leave her room while _'Jesus' _was there. The whole family was coming over, which was just what she wanted. She was going to pass on the Word of God to them." Peter gave a wry smile and reached up to scratch at his temple. "We left. She started yelling at us to call the FBI to get after those other guys, but as far as Jesus - He could stay."

XXX

Sylar made a wince of empathy. _Can't cure people's minds. Trust me, I know._ Thoughts of Nathan and Virginia, Angela and Arthur, Elle and Bennet, Parkman and being mind-wiped and insane himself. He cut himself off from thoughts along the lines of 'opening brain cases was letting air into otherwise stagnant, moldy, corrupt and warped minds.'

XXX

Peter looked down, a little embarrassed. "I'll admit … before we left … I went over and touched the picture, and then her. I tried to see if I could sense anything. I usually can, if there's something there." Peter shook his head. "Nothing." He shrugged and his voice got a little softer. "I've never told anyone I worked with, anyone I knew who didn't have abilities or already knew about them, about powers. They'd treat me like that old woman - 'crazy talk'." Peter snorted. "After everything I've seen, who am I to say Jesus wasn't there in the room with her?"

XXX

Sylar did his best to hide his interest, watching Peter speak. If anyone would feel anything it would be Peter. He didn't completely follow what Peter meant by 'I usually can' in context of sensing things – _must be an empathy thing_ – so he disregarded it. That Peter felt…nothing was…a slight letdown. Wasn't Peter the best of the best and if not through him, what lens could be used to ascertain hope? _Well, none for me, obviously. That's a bust._

A literal jerk went through his body at the derogatory tone, 'crazy talk'. Nathan had been frustrated, busy, and angry. Sylar mentally sneered something about 'election year' but everyone knew that was bullshit, Petrelli bullshit – Nathan bullshit. Peter jumping, ending up in the hospital, being erratic at such an important time, not taking anything seriously or considering anyone other than himself. Peter had even left Charles to practically die alone then gotten Simone killed or some such. Of course he'd told the brat to grow up and forget the fairy tales! Nathan had always had to (conveniently his own self-image and goals coincided with Arthur's); it was the least Peter could do. A dose, no, a speck of realism wouldn't kill the kid. _/__'You need to snap out of it, Peter. See a doctor. Get some drugs…It's not cute anymore. The dreamy kid sitting in the back of the classroom, starin' out the window? It's time for you to grow up'__/ _And that, they all knew, was just the tip of the iceberg. _I, uh…hope he doesn't blame me for that one. I'd have believed him. _Rather, he wouldn't have handled it the way Nathan did, that was for damn sure.

Back to the current conversation…Sylar had no advice in dealing with normal people, like coworkers, in a normal life. He had only the barest concept of it. Truthfully, it didn't seem like a real big deal to him, either, the whole 'secret identity' thing. Both men wanted the 'specialness', Sylar paid the price, yet Peter wanted the ideal situation and couldn't accept reality. Big surprise, there.

"You're going to sit in a room with _me_ and talk to me about Jesus?"

XXX

Peter looked up steadily at Sylar, eyes going over the man's face. _That's not what I was saying at all. Why would he think that? 'I'm not a religious man, but there's one thing I believe in: blood.'_ Peter's expression blanked. After a long moment of internal static and too many emotions to unsnarl, the thought surfaced that Sylar hadn't followed the story. _I must have lost him somewhere in there._ Peter relaxed a little and glanced down, picking up a puzzle piece and holding it near the worked section, even though his brain wasn't doing any processing of whether or not it would fit.

"No. No. I was just …" He leaned his head forward and to the side, looking up at Sylar. "Just telling a story." He looked down at the puzzle piece and tried it a few places without luck. Quietly, he resumed with, "But I told Ma a … while ago, that with everything I've seen, it seems like anything is possible. Time travel, flight, telekinesis." He made a cursory wave at Sylar at the mention of TK. "It's like the abilities are unlimited, but what never changes are the people."

XXX

Sylar was fine with letting the story go, he felt better that Peter explained it the way he did. _This is the part where I say 'Jesus Christ! You just said you're here for me to change, but now you say people can't change –make up your mind!' _He sighed and ignored Peter's hugely flawed contradictions because the man was just full of them. Or full of it.

XXX

Peter's brow knit as he thought about that. It was an angle he hadn't considered before and his face reflected his pondering. In a distant voice, he said, "I remember arguing with that future version of me that it was about the people, not the abilities. He was saying we needed to stop people from getting abilities. I told him it wasn't about the abilities." Peter was staring fixedly at the table, trying and failing to remember the exact exchange of words. He remembered the scarred mirror image showing him a newspaper and talking about wrongs people had done, magnified by their new powers. _Having more power doesn't always make things worse. The invention of guns and bombs haven't led to us killing more people in war – not on a percentage basis, at least._

Peter realized he'd tuned out Sylar almost entirely, having retreated inside his own thoughts for a moment there. He lifted his head, looking to the other man and mentally replaying the last things Peter had said. He wasn't sure how to continue the discussion, such as it was, from that point, so he punted. "What do you think?"

XXX

Sylar was staring back, confused. His mind had arrested at 'stop people from getting abilities', which made sense, but no one had, as yet, figured that out (thank God). His own specialness depended on having abilities, sadly. He couldn't place the context of the question, though. "I, uh…" he hedged to hint at his lack of understanding. "You mean people like me?" _We know the answer to this._ "Kill them before they manifest, that's the only way. You know that." _Or let them kill themselves…because some monsters have the foresight to off themselves to prevent more…problems – just let it happen, right? There are some abortion cases everyone would agree on, like Hitler, Stalin, Samson, Arthur, maybe Angela, me…Oh, if only the parents would have thought to wear a condom or not do it at all! We'd have been spared. Survival of the fittest. I know, I know, 'feel shame for existing'. _Sylar shrugged and went back to focusing as much as he was able on the puzzle, hunching over it a little.

XXX

"No, that's …" Peter paused, considering what he'd said, what Sylar had said, and what that implied about Sylar's feelings about the man's situation. _'People like me … kill them … that's the only way.' That's … kind of dark, Sylar._ "That's not what I meant. And anyway, there's a way to get rid of people's abilities after they manifest. I lost mine, after all." He frowned about that event. "With all the abilities my father had, I obviously wasn't the first." He put down his useless puzzle piece and cocked his head, leaning forward with his brows pulled together intently. "Killing someone might be the only way to make sure, absolutely, that they never hurt anyone ever again, but that's not the answer to how we can best live together."

Peter's left hand found the puzzle piece again without him looking. His fingers blindly explored the edges of it as he watched Sylar. _I sure hope you don't honestly think that killing anyone who could be a threat is a good policy, because if you do, and I ever piss you off too much, then I'm dead. _Of course, part of why Peter was jumpy and cautious around Sylar was just that expectation – a bit muted by Sylar's current condition, but no less present. Sylar had killed plenty of other people and it wasn't that hard to fabricate offing Peter as 'self-defense', given Peter's own track history and that of his family. _It's not like I don't have motive, which would make it easy for him to justify acting first._

"I didn't come here to kill you," Peter said softly. _'I wanted to crucify you in Times Square.' _Peter tried to banish his own hateful desires for revenge, but that was easier intended than done. Seeing Sylar day after day, confused and literally off-balance due to Peter's last idiotic attempt to inflict pain on him (wanting to gouge Sylar's eyes out came embarrassingly to mind) was doing a lot to mitigate Peter's simmering vengefulness.

XXX

And suddenly something clicked. Sylar leaned away, straightening casually, casting a half-subtle glance over the left side of the desk, spying the screwdriver he'd have to reach for whilst pretending to look out the window. "I'm sure. Provided I give you your brother back, right?" Chin tilted up, he observed Peter with black, blank, eyes, his voice direct and expectant. _How did I not see that earlier? Son of a bitch…He even admitted up-front he has telepathy! And that crap just now about losing his powers – I bet he got them all back. And I…have none. Concussion's just the preview for laughs. Of course this would be about Nathan! _A pang of the usual, nameless, painful, negative emotions shot through him: _(It's never about me…)_ _What were you thinking – that he was actually here for_you_?_Sylar had the feeling he was about to be tossed around like lunchmeat in a lion's den – and come out about as shredded and defiled by the end of it.

XXX

_You can do that?_ Part of Peter's mind jumped at the possibility even as the rest noticed that something very wrong was radiating from Sylar, like a switch had been flipped. _Oh no, what the hell is that reaction all about?_ He raised his hands a half inch from the table and looked up at the man cautiously. "No, that's … I came here to get you to save Emma. If you _would_. If you won't, then I'm just stuck here until I can figure a way out."

Relaxing a little because violence hadn't immediately followed Sylar's shift, Peter sat up straighter. "I was under the impression that anything left was just recorded memories and mental commands." A voice nagged in Peter's head that he shouldn't admit that and certainly shouldn't tell Sylar he believed it. It was the voice of insane hope that wanted Nathan back at any cost. He steadfastly ignored it. "Nathan's dead, isn't he?" Peter asked with a steady voice and a tone that was asking for confirmation, like this was a fact known between them - Nathan's dead, right? Right?

XXX

Sylar's teeth tried to chip enamel at that one; it electrocuted his emotions to life so thoroughly. _And he really expects an answer? Does he think I won't notice how…_(Here his mental voice impersonated Peter) _'No, Sylar, no one cares about your mind and the pain being Nathan must have caused.' Just a fucking…casualty. I know if I die, no one cares, but I die so Nathan can 'live' and when that doesn't work out I'm right back on the street…no harm, no foul, while that bastard is mourned and missed?! He's got people defending his fucking name after death! _"I'm fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!" he snapped, snarling and angry, though for the next part he slammed his fist down on the desk. "Yes, he's dead! That's all that's left!" _You're stuck with me now! Sorry!_

XXX

Peter leaned back in the chair, not reacting much to Sylar's explosion (but he was watching him). "That's what I thought," he said calmly. "And I'm here anyway, for you." Peter's mind sorted through what he could do to help the situation without conceding anything. De-escalating the tension wasn't Peter's knee-jerk response. Sometimes strong emotion needed to be expressed and at the moment, Peter wasn't feeling in danger, so letting Sylar feel however he was feeling wasn't off the table.

XXX

_Oh, for me. Gimme a break…_Sylar scoffed that one away. _The only reason anyone would be 'here for me' is because they want something. He's not going to let it go, I just know it…_

XXX

Peter spoke plainly and calmly, continuing to watch the other man. "People aren't obligated to be your friend, Sylar. And they're not going to be as long as their only way of knowing you is when you kill people they care about. You've got to bring other things to the table. You've _got_ other things - you've got a quick wit, you're smart, you're capable, perceptive." _You need to find something else to contribute, like saving Emma. Or hell, going back to being a watchmaker. _The bit about Emma seemed too blatantly self-serving, so Peter left it off. "I think you made a hell of a watchmaker. Have you thought about being an engineer, or an architect?"

XXX

_I didn't ask for friends!...Other things?_ "Those aren't-" he began to head off Peter's ill-fated argument. He remembered his best efforts being dismissed; he couldn't think of a good quality in himself; the ones Peter listed, the ones he did have, hadn't gotten him anything. Pathetic. Boring. Insignificant. And harmless, which Peter knew or guessed and encouraged him to go back to – normality, that sub-average life without power, respect or future. Stunned silence reigned after that, the part about 'I think you made a hell of a watchmaker' coming from a good guy, from Peter. _He thinks…He doesn't even know me! He doesn't have any…any…regard for me. (He's way too late to tell me that…) _To hear it from Peter made him feel warmer, more like a likable, nice person…or a person at all – so rarely did he hear that and so much did he want to. _That means nothing now! It's useless!_

"You don't know anything about me! You sound like my-" Sylar really hadn't meant to say that last part, but it was true: mother. _Keep the shop open for when Dad got back, but do something useful with yourself; wasn't that always it? Mom wanted a fucking banker or a lawyer…She would've been happy with a Petrelli for a son. _A pause to get another line of thought (and dialogue) going, "I can't go back to that. You may remember I have problems…you know, with _abilities_?" _And it's…complicated. _His insides shrunk. _Really complicated. _"And you know you have to have….degrees for that stuff," he dismissed the rest, haughty and snippy at the same time.


	47. Not Alone

_Day 13, Morning_

"Have you noticed, Sylar, that I _want_ to know things about you? Yeah, I'm kind of shooting in the dark here because you don't share much. I know you have a lot of focus, and I would guess a lot of ambition." Peter shifted to lean forward, putting both forearms on the table as he disclosed, "Abilities ate me alive. Tore me up, turned my life inside out. I didn't want to lose them, but I didn't get a say in that. I got them back, one at a time, and that was enough of a breather for me to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, day to day. I wanted to prove my b- … the government wrong. I wasn't a _threat_. People with abilities weren't necessarily a threat. I know a lot of people who have abilities, or at least _an_ ability, who aren't hurting anyone." He pulled back a little. "If we were such a huge, world-ending terrorist threat, then how come there've been people with abilities running around for _decades_, maybe longer, and it was never a big deal?"

XXX

Hatred at the side effects of his concussion arose again. Peter was clearly much sharper at the moment and taking advantage of that. _You're bored. You want something to play with. Why not fuck with my life, right? (Why does everyone think they can do that?)_ Despite his worry (alleviated slightly hearing he kept his mouth shut and didn't share much), his ego was salved a bit at being called focused and ambitious. Sylar felt he knew he should know what Peter was doing with all the sharing, but he couldn't think of what it was called. _Something with therapists and empathy or…Stockholmes Syndrome…?_ He followed the words fine, individually, missing a lot of Peter's point, tuning in for the end, which made perfect sense – it was something he'd wondered about Samson and Arthur.

XXX

There were disorders and diseases more rare and subtle than the sort of powers Peter knew, and those were plastered across specialty medical textbooks for anyone curious to peruse. If abilities were the problem the government asserted, then they couldn't have stayed secret. But that was general and he was dealing with Sylar here. He turned his comments back to the individual, Peter's words coming crisp and decisive.

"What are the problems you have? Are there any ways to manage it?" _You're not happy with the life you lead - you've said as much_. "You know so much more about this than I do. You said you went to Matt for help … what did you think he could do for you?" Peter thought about what he'd seen in Matt's mind, in that few seconds of scanning. Matt was gloating with malicious joy at having trapped Sylar in an eternal torment the man would never escape from. Peter hadn't focused on the details (and oh how he wished he had!) but he knew the emotion. Matt's feelings would have been very different if Sylar had shown up to kill him.

XXX

Sylar had another one of those long, single blink moments where he tried to figure if that really just happened, if Peter had truly asked him those questions. "This is all…uh…uh…hypothetical," he struck on the word. "No people to kill, no jobs to rush to." Avoidance? Hell yes. It was way to weird to have this conversation with almighty Peter, made even worse that Peter was probably looking for ammunition and the conversation was a fraud. _I can't tell you that, Peter._ His mind felt deeply depressed, a slow-burning anger, but mostly sadness and misery, self-loathing, embarrassment, frustration and confusion, though he couldn't separate the feelings. _Asking for help is admitting you have a problem. I can't afford to have problems. I don't have time to fix things, I need them gone now! I…don't think I have much time left…_Realizing where he was, alone, with Peter, his thoughts reoriented, _I have no time. I still…have problems, no help, no future, no abilities…Just 'die alone.' _Sylar wondered, as he often did, how he'd screwed it all up so badly, even his efforts at change, at getting assistance. He couldn't grasp how the good guys told him to get help, yet when he asked, they denied him, laughed him offstage and abused him further. _Practical jokes? Never was good at picking those up. 'Die alone' and go out in a blaze of glory, enjoy my life while I have one._

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said with a general wave of his left hand. "It's hypothetical. You're not trying to cut my head open and, uh, I hope you don't." He could see the emotions on Sylar's face. Peter knew this was a heavy subject, right up there with Sylar's childhood on the 'list of things Sylar doesn't want to talk about'. Sylar's motivations and reasons for what he'd done - Peter really, really wanted to know those. But this wasn't about what he wanted. It was about what Sylar was willing to share and so yes, Peter accepted that they weren't _really_ talking about Sylar here, if that was what made Sylar more comfortable.

Peter looked at the puzzle, putting aside the piece he held and getting a better candidate as he thought._ It's your ability that causes … maybe not the killing, but at least warped perceptions. You said you met your dad and he had your ability. How did he manage it? Should I ask that? He's real touchy about his parents. Maybe I shouldn't ask. Matt couldn't … get rid of your ability, could he? Well … Nath- er, _you_ didn't have your abilities for like a month or so. Except shape-shifting, I guess. And probably flight. Until they just started breaking free. Was there something that happened to cause that? That carnival thing. Did they do something to him?_

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar briefly, then dropped down and to the side, looking at his own forearm, the one the tattoo had stained. _Did he … oh my God, what if he went to Matt to be turned _back_ into Nathan?!_ Peter shifted uncomfortably, the question of what, exactly, Sylar had intended for Matt to do itching at the tip of his tongue, but it was one of those questions Sylar wouldn't, couldn't answer if it was what Peter suspected. After all, how could Sylar admit to that in front of Nathan's brother?_ Maybe it wasn't Nathan. Maybe someone else. Give up his life; start new; change. Change … oh shit. Is that suicide?_ Peter reached up and scratched at his scalp uneasily, his mind shying away from contemplating how he'd interact with a Nathan who was the product of Sylar knowingly and intentionally giving up his identity.

Peter knew he had to say something, but he had a strong feeling that pressing Sylar directly wasn't going to help. Yet Peter also didn't want to show disinterest in the subject and abandon it. "So, uh, other than your dad, and for a little while me, did you ever run into anyone else who had an ability like yours? How did they live with it?"

XXX

Sylar sighed. "No, no one else." He shrugged, toying with a puzzle piece now, idly looking over the puzzle with little intent. "My father was into taxidermy when I found him so my future's hopeful." He planted his fist against his temple, elbow on the desk for support. _Only living thing here is Peter and I'm not skinning him. I like his skin where it is…Oh, how the mighty have fallen. My future's suicidal or homicidal or…being the homicide. I wonder if that's what Hiro meant. Not living long enough to die a natural death, especially here…_

"Do you think anyone will mourn you, Peter? When you die?"

XXX

For a couple seconds, Peter didn't take that as anything other than the questions the words indicated. Nothing about Sylar's manner implied anything more. A second later, though, it occurred to him that Sylar's words were pretty damn threatening. _Wait, what's he saying?_ Peter stiffened a little, giving the man a quick sweep to double-check his initial impression of safety. "What?"

XXX

At Peter's sudden look, Sylar backpedaled swiftly, lifting his head away from his fist a little, blurting, "Whenever that is; I don't have plans." _I'm betting people will mourn you. People like your girlfriend. _Because he wasn't at all convinced there was 'nothing going on' between them. 'Die alone' had tickled the tip of his tongue several times now and this was his roundabout way of…getting Peter's opinion on that. _But I've tried that before, killing myself. Why would this time be any different? Less…people around for the 'alone' part?_

XXX

"Kay," Peter said in a low tone, loosening back up and trying not to stare at Sylar warily. He directed his eyes to the puzzle with difficulty and let a few moments pass. _I … think my mother will get me out of here eventually. Claire would ask questions if she didn't. Emma would miss me, Hesam, maybe a few others_. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, they would." He found himself looking up at Sylar, Peter's eyes sorrowful as he realized how likely it was that had he not interfered, Matt would have ended Sylar. While Peter himself had wanted that many times between Thanksgiving and going to Matt's, he was seeing it from Sylar's point of view at the moment. It seemed like such a pointless death, especially with the idea that it might have been a technical suicide, something Sylar had asked for and sought out because he knew how fucked up his life had become.

XXX

"Huh," Sylar remarked absently, unfocused on Peter, deep in his own thoughts. Of course he'd been right about that – people would miss Peter. Mostly he wondered what that felt like.

XXX

Very quietly and with as much respect as he could muster, Peter asked, "Did you go to Matt to have him change who you were? So that," Peter tilted his head a little and made a small, empty gesture with his left hand, "you weren't Sylar anymore?"

XXX

Slowly, Sylar came back from his mental fog. "What?" he said in a quiet, shocked voice that quavered on borderline hurt, before Peter finished. The tornado of irony, pride, anger and pain began to spiral up in him again but he couldn't feel much more than that. It was like tunnel vision. He pointed an angry finger at Peter, glaring as best he could, his throat vibrating from attempting to growl and express hurt simultaneously, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?! Easier to handle. And you wouldn't be stuck here with me!" Sylar snatched up a small handful of puzzle pieces (they were difficult to get a hold of on a flat surface) and threw them at Peter's face and chest, bouncing off harmlessly. "Best of all, I'm out of the picture and you can live happily ever after, right? Brilliant idea: solves everyone's problems. I wish I'd have thought of it!" Because, yes, that idea worked better than the one he'd really gone to Matt for. He did his best to make that last part sound sarcastic, but he was pretty sure that failed.

XXX

Peter pulled back when Sylar pointed at him, eyes flicking briefly to the finger. He registered an internal jolt at the gesture, reminding him of being on the receiving end of that. Sylar's tone of voice kept Peter well distracted from focusing on the past, though, and his eyes returned to Sylar's. He'd hit deep, not that he'd intended to, but given the subject he'd expected a reaction. There was an accusation in there and a feeling of betrayal. _Sylar, betrayed. Aware that everything he's done has been wrong. Keeps acting entitled to friendship, help, and freedom from manipulation. … He expected to be saved. That's why Matt was gloating. Sylar went there for help, just like he came to me when he was Nathan. But why Matt? Matt wouldn't … Hell, Sylar doesn't even know Matt. Maybe he was just desperate and made a mistake! It's not like he'd admit to it._

Peter flinched from the puzzle pieces, raising his hands a little. Peter was trying to signal in his own way that he was purely defensive here. His expression was neither angry nor afraid, but open and listening aside from dodging things thrown at him. _Saved … from being Sylar? From … going back to that life?_

XXX

Sylar lurched to his feet, grabbing at the seat back and wobbled his way (mostly blind) to the kitchen with the idea of getting a drink of water…and space. That was so jarringly painful – the mere suggestion of swapping bodies or minds with someone…like it happened everyday. Like it was a normal thing. That felt so callous and calculated; Sylar immediately felt his worth. Peter didn't like him, wanted him dead or gone. He knew it was no more than he deserved, being told he deserved that even in conversation, but if given the preference, he'd rather not hear about it at all, ever. That he heard it from his near-sort-of brother, the man whose respect he wanted, whose approval he sought made it that much worse. It was hard to say it hurt when he'd known it was coming, though.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar left, opening his mouth briefly only to shut it again. He waited a beat, then began to pick the puzzle pieces out of the folds of his shirt and his lap, dumping them back on the table. He wanted to get up and go to the doorway of the kitchen, but that would trap Sylar same as Peter had felt confined the other day. Sylar had left the table because he wanted away. Best to let him have that 'away'.

He let a number of breaths pass, watching the entry to the kitchen and thinking about the psychic wounds that Sylar's word choice had illuminated. Someone was in pain; Peter had the capacity to help, but it would require him to offer something of himself. "Sylar?" he called out tentatively, voice much firmer as he went on, "I am not leaving without you. I came here to get you out. I'm not going to leave you here. Not alone."

Peter blinked and looked aside. He was committing himself to something important here, walling off a path of exploration and one that Peter had already favored. Looking for a way out was all he had left - that and waiting. It might not seem like he was promising much because he'd already tried and failed, but he was promising not to even look anymore.

XXX

"Not alone," Sylar muttered to himself, feeling the fringe of crazy invading his vision and perception. He leaned both palms against the counter; supporting himself, head hanging where it would. That concept was a difficult one. _Why wouldn't I be alone? Doesn't he know there's no other way to be? Why would he be serious?_ Petrelli's word choice sunk in against his will, speaking against Hiro's prophecy. It made him feel hope he hadn't accepted yet. He didn't want to get his hopes up because this looked way too good to be true. _He'll stay? I don't…know where else he'd be going, but…_Sylar was relieved and disappointed that Peter kept his distance, though it made it easier to…listen and (try to) accept Peter's promise of sorts. He knew he needed the comfort regardless if it was true or not.

XXX

"I'm not trying to change you into Nathan." He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I accept that he's … gone." Peter's voice tightened on that last word. He cleared his throat and went on with a much easier admission. "He's not you. You're not him. I don't get to choose who you are." Peter reached up and rubbed at the corner of his jaw. Much more quietly he said, "That's up to you."

XXX

_Why don't I believe you? Why?!_ Being pinned like a damn butterfly, crucified like the Christ in a dusty hospital construction basement came to mind. Life was one big test; after all, seeing how many different flavors of violation he could withstand and walk away from. Really, demanding more sanity from him wasn't possible. _I'm not ever going to be safe so long as you have the will and ability to change me…whether I like it or not. I suppose it's in my best interest to just…let him do it. He usually wins crap like this. Good versus evil and all that. I mean, he pointed out the better plan – letting Parkman turn me into someone else entirely. Petrellis have decided who I am and who I'm not for years now…Why would this be any different? Everyone thinks they're my better so that makes it okay to change me._ "We'll see about that, Peter," Sylar called back though it hurt his head. He could feel his voice wanting to shake, but he pushed through it to inject control, rationality.

He turned, got out a glass and filled it at the sink, choosing to be mesmerized by the water flow. It was easier than considering his life and his problems. He took a few sedate sips, thinking anyway about Peter's meaning. _Everything I've ever chosen has been wrong. Why would he offer that? Must be a test._ That decided, Sylar turned and made his way back into the room, still hurt and edgy, but less angry. _Do I really believe he's accepted Nathan's gone? _Walking back, he looked Peter over a little sadly, a little warily as he sat opposite the man again.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar return with an attentive, receptive expression, which stayed when the other man sat down. He'd rarely seen someone who radiated 'I need a hug' quite so strongly, but getting up and providing one was the wrong note for things. Sylar would probably freak. Initially, there was a lot of force to Sylar's gaze as he wordlessly regarded Peter, probably fearing and waiting for Peter to poke at him. A weak spot had been shown, after all. When Peter didn't rise to the bait, Sylar's expression faded to a more relaxed curiosity. Peter returned it, the hint of a smile turning his lips.

_This is the guy I'm going to be stuck here with. Walled up in Matt's basement. Like that idea that your whole life flashes before your eyes at the end, but this is the opposite. Our whole future. Mine. His. Years. Maybe longer than I've been alive. Or at least it will seem that way. Here with Sylar._ Peter looked down at where Sylar's hands cupped the glass of water he'd brought with him from the kitchen, thinking about how much apparent time had already passed. _I've known him longer here than I ever did outside. Outside, I was with him what? an hour or two? Here it's been morning to night for days now._

Peter reached up and touched over his left eye. Most of the swelling was gone although the discoloration and soreness would persist for days more. His other injuries were also getting better steadily. In another few days, barring them getting into another fight, the only serious thing would be his broken hand. Peter tucked his hair back behind his ear, letting his eyes fall to the handful of puzzle pieces on the table near him. He looked down at his own lap, then around the chair. He scooted it back and slipped off without comment, going to his knees to retrieve the two stray pieces on the floor. He saw no others, pulling himself back to his feet and dropping the two with the rest.

Standing, he said, "I think I'll get a drink, too," and walked around the desk. Instead of going on by, he paused next to Sylar, turning to put his left hand on Sylar's shoulder, getting that physical contact Peter had been thinking he needed since Sylar came back in the room. He let it rest there for a couple seconds before saying, "We're going to be okay, man. Both of us." He gave a squeeze and a pat.

XXX

Sylar half expected Peter to come around and 'make him pay' for bringing about the situation they were both in, for playing a part in whatever grand scheme Fate created; for forcing Peter's cooperation to some extent. His head shifted away no more than a few inches on seeing the incoming hand. It was the squeeze that got him. _He's never done that before. _It left him in an empty room of surprised blinking. That felt horribly…comforting and he struggled desperately not to want that normality and the warm-fuzzy feelings he so rarely felt. It wasn't a technical need, after all, contact - just a 'want'. _'We're' going to be okay? 'We'? I think he means 'he will be okay'. Everyone knows I'm not okay._

XXX

Peter walked on to the kitchen, getting a drink and momentarily reflecting on how glad he was the tap water tasted fine here. It had been kind of nasty in his apartment. He felt cheered. Sylar was being friendly (pointing, yelling, and thrown puzzle pieces aside), he was opening up, and he was engaging, and all that warmed Peter immensely. Plus, Peter could be useful just by being here. It wasn't very active, but neither was being a hospice nurse and this wasn't a patient who was going to die on him. No, Sylar was very full of life.

Feeling perked up about things, Peter returned to his seat at the worktable and began sorting out the pieces. "Hey, do you think you'd be up to getting out for lunch later? We could go slow; go somewhere close by?" Peter was getting stir crazy cooped up in Sylar's apartment and he wanted a change of scene. His renewed feeling of energy underscored that. "Or … wait, I have an idea. We could take some sandwiches and go tune that piano." Or more likely Sylar would listen and gripe while Peter tuned it, but that was fine.

XXX

Sylar looked to him, a little wide eyed, trying to do his own piecing-together of the leaps in logic or design Peter had obviously made. _He's…bored now?_ He felt some disappointment, having barely worked on the puzzle or relaxed much. He just couldn't hold onto a balance with this guy. _Or…does he think I'm going to get fat or sleep too much? Does…_Sylar tried to extend his thought process to fit what he knew of Peter (with limited results)_. Does he think _I'm _bored? _Peter clearly wanted to be doing something. Perhaps Peter just wanted to point and laugh while watching Sylar attempt walking. The important thing was that he would be with Peter (or so Sylar assumed). The reason for the outing was unimportant, the company wasn't. "Um…okay," he hedged, tilting his chin down and to the left in a sort of nod, still watching the nurse. _I have no idea how I'll manage that._

If he stopped and thought about it: piano (noise, loud) and headache (concussion, painful) with the addition of the off-key sound were not a pleasant mix. Already his blood pressure was on the rise, cranium throbbing. For the dozenth time he wondered, _Why isn't he leaving me to starve? _"I…don't think I'll be much help," he used a quiet mumble in hopes that Peter might almost-not hear him. Still, the friendliness seemed loud and clear even to the socially-dense killer – Peter made it seem like his presence was being sought. Sylar shifted in his seat, preparing to get up and move now. _I'm not really hungry, though. Oh, was that maybe the point? Huh… I dunno…I give up._ He didn't stand, but kept his body somewhat primed and upright to leave, his attention keyed as he tried to focus it through his fog of medical conditions.

XXX

Peter lifted his left hand about halfway up, palm facing down, and moved it down towards the table in a 'stand down' gesture. "Not right now. _Later_, around lunch time. That's a couple hours from now."

_Now he's so eager to please. Weird._ It was hard to adjust to: a callous, practiced killer so alone, vulnerable, and raw that he jumped at the chance to do what Peter wanted … but only sometimes. Sometimes Sylar was obstinate, angry, and insulting, like he was trying to drive Peter off any way he could. Other times Peter saw these flashes of desperation for attention and companionship, or even just acceptance as a person, like the simple acknowledgement of his name. It was two sides of the same coin, Peter knew now. When he'd first come here, he hadn't realized that and instead taken Sylar's turns of viciousness at face value.

It was a minefield to navigate blindly without knowing the guy better. A temptation to delve into Sylar's memories tickled at the back of Peter's mind, but he ignored it. He could learn the normal way – and he _was_ learning. He felt like Sylar was starting to open up, at least a little. If he went the memory route, then Peter might know Sylar's secrets, but Sylar would still be a stranger to him.

"You don't have to do much," Peter said, tackling the small pile of puzzle pieces in front of him. He sorted them to color-side up and put them back on Sylar's side where they'd come from. "Just have to be there and keep me company. Like with the guitar - tell me when I hit the right note. If that doesn't work," Peter pointed at his own head, at his ear or temple, "like your ear is off or something, then that's fine. We'll just eat and talk and then come back."

Peter eyed the puzzle. They had two large, unfinished blocks – the sky on Sylar's side and the road on Peter's. Both were basically grey with blue, white, and yellow patches. The road tended to be darker than the sky, but it was a flimsy enough differentiation that Peter wasn't sure if they'd been sorted right. "There's got to be a piece around here with part of this guy's foot on it," he muttered as he looked through his options.

XXX

Sylar slowly backed away from being at attention; still eyeing Peter to be sure it wasn't a test or a joke. Peter's reassurances sounded like another kind of test – for when they got there and all: 'just be there and keep me company'. _That's…what I'm doing now…Well, no, that's not true. I'm…sick, injured, whatever and he's…guilty (God knows why) and…bored. Yeah, he's bored. I'm the only person he can…do things to, do things with. Trapped, that's the word. _His happier feelings about being sought after withered in that light and his face fell. _I knew that. _Sylar ducked his head, studying his glass through the hair that slid into his vision.

He listened more and looked up. _My ear…?_ Confused and not understanding, Sylar reached up to touch his own ear, the analogous one that Peter had indicated on himself. _No, it's still there…It feels fine. Maybe it looks…funny. I don't know; he's the medic here. Did he hit my ear during the fight?_ After struggling (and failing) to remember, he gave up.

Blissfully, Peter became busy – quietly busy – with the puzzle, finally allowing Sylar to mentally fuzz out. He sipped while Peter fiddled with the pieces; then he tried to think how he'd gotten to this state, emotionally, because whatever had happened before was important. That brought him down some more so he rubbed at his eyes wearily with the back of his hand. "'S a good idea," he mumbled softly, honestly, once again propping his elbow on the desk, his fist to his temple, the glass of water resting on the chair between his legs as he poked a finger around the maze of pieces. Sniffing an inhale, he asked what randomly came to mind, "Did you know Matt uses his ability at work, too? He got to be a real cop," Sylar intoned with bitter, facetious mockery, not devoid of jealousy. _He's so out of his league and yet he's probably one of the most…'normally' successful specials I know…I bet it's his ability – cheating as usual. _"Not always the reading minds bit, either…"

XXX

_Nothing wrong with that. I used abilities every chance I got at work. Telepathy's really powerful, especially for a cop. I wonder if he could know about crimes before they were even committed? Does Sylar know about that painting-the-future thing Matt developed? Just how much does Sylar know about Matt anyway, and how does he know it?_ Peter looked up at Sylar's casual but sneering delivery. He clearly meant something more worthy of disdain than a little eavesdropping to determine the guilty party. "You mean pushing thoughts?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed a clear affirmative, raising his brows to indicate a bull's-eye. Yeah, because reading people's minds is so fucking invasive, even on Peter's scale.

XXX

Peter grunted - a distinct, unhappy sound. He considered some of the ways that a person could abuse that ability. _Reading people's thoughts is mostly harmless, but what about making them do things? What about commanding them not to commit crimes ever again? Is that right? Wait - Sylar!_ Peter's eyes fixed briefly on the other man and his lips started to move before he stifled himself, looking down and pretending to examine the puzzle piece in his hand. It was a transparent dodge, but it bought him a moment to think and self-censor. _Is that what Sylar wanted Matt to do? Keep him from ever killing again?_ Distorted snippets of conversation flashed through Peter's mind - Peter saying, _'you should have done something … you should have stopped it … what you did was wrong'_, and Sylar agreeing, _'I've always known'_.

Sadness, understanding, and sympathy flashed through Peter all at once. _You went to Matt to have him stop you. You did know. You did try to stop it. A little late, but …_ He looked up at Sylar with compassion. _That would explain Matt gloating. You asked him for help and this is what he did to you instead. Why did you kill so many first? Why did you wait so long to come to this point? What happened to you, Sylar, to make you the sort of person you ended up being?_

"Do you think it's right to use an ability to stop someone from doing something wrong?" Peter tapped on the desk a couple times in excitement as he thought of a good example. "There was a guy holding some people hostage in a building. I tried to talk him down. It didn't work and he shot me. Now if I'd had Matt's ability, I could have made him put the gun down. Would that have been right? Or wrong?" Peter tilted his head, honestly interested in Sylar's answer. He hoped it was distant enough that Sylar wouldn't see the parallel to himself and think they were just discussing the morality of Matt's ability. He also, aside from Sylar, wondered about it himself. "Is it all that different to use super-speed to yank the gun out of his hand? Don't all abilities make things unfair, if you use them against people?"

XXX

Sylar looked up, taking his time doing it as the man spoke. "_You_ are asking _me_ that?" He blinked. _What would I have to say about it? He already thinks I think it's okay to…do stuff like that._ Come to think of it, Sylar had thoroughly avoided pinning his conscience down on this subject so he didn't actually have much of a prepared answer. He didn't know quite what to think of it, but he knew what he felt about it and that was the problem. Sylar hated so much being morally, socially, verbally hog-tied into silence: no one knew his pain or his struggles and he couldn't tell anyone for fear of exploitation or judgment or punishment. Besides, no one would believe a word he said, such was the sinner suddenly claiming innocence or that he'd been wronged. _It's fine to do it to me, any way you can and then some. But I do it and everyone grabs their pitchfork…and torches. _The 'good guys' were always right, so… "It's had some success for you so far, so yeah." He couldn't help his body tensing, his lips tightening and his eyes flashing before blanking out in reaction to the vast host of memories. _If it's…okay when they do it, that makes it okay when I do it, too. Because they can't have it both ways._

XXX

Peter gave a very soft snort at Sylar's obvious disbelief at being polled for his opinion. Sylar's eyes widened slowly as a host of emotions flickered over his face. It was the emotions that sold it as authentic, at least as far as Peter was concerned, and damped down the irritated response he might have made otherwise. Instead, Peter was silent and let the quiet speak for him. Sylar's typical avoidance of giving him a real answer was disappointing. Peter frowned at the man's anger and looked down at the puzzle, picking up a likely piece and trying it as he refused to respond to the threat in Sylar's shifting body language.

XXX

Sylar blinked again, adjusting to the concept. _Wait, when did that happen to him? Or… did he mention something about that before? Huh…_Eventually he hedged, "Suppose it depends on how invested you are in free will or doing…uh…" his face scrunched briefly as he thought mid-sentence, "doing what's best for the other person. Which isn't…" Sylar's eyes darted aside and shook his head, "It doesn't matter much. Going by what you and your family and…friends do, it must be okay." _Yes, I did just say that to you, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter tilted his head, looking up at him. There were at least two levels to the conversation here and very distinct ones. He didn't like that. There was the overt - Sylar answering Peter's question; and the covert - Sylar angry about the morals, or lack thereof, shown by Peter's family (and Peter himself - he didn't miss the 'you' in there). He shifted his position in the chair a little, not sure what he wanted to do about that - confront it, ignore it, respond on both levels? That last was tricky and Peter didn't like that style of conversation. It reminded him of his parents talking over dinner when he was a kid, always having at least two conversations with one set of words.

XXX

Straightening his shoulders and his spine, Sylar shrugged it off, "Self-defense is not an airtight excuse," he plastered on a pained grimace of a grin, grim as could be, thinking to add a pointed, "Right?" Curving an eyebrow at Peter for a moment, he paused and elaborated, "Use abilities or die, really. It's kind of that simple."

XXX

"Sometimes it is, yeah," Peter answered, fully realizing that Sylar couldn't pin his words down as anything - not that he was answering about self-defense or the comment about using abilities, or both, or neither. _See? I can talk like an asshole, too. I took lessons for this, jerk-face. Stupid lessons - waste of time_. Knowing that, Peter elaborated to be clear what he meant. "You're right that self-defense isn't an airtight excuse." He glanced away and then back. "I dunno about you, but I give a lot more leeway for 'in the heat of the moment' things than stuff that's premeditated."

XXX

Sylar watched Peter's face intently, the beginnings of…some kind of expression was being prepared on his face, whether a pout or a sneer or a snarl, another sarcastic smile perhaps. He was poised and Peter's reaction was so non-specific at first, it failed to trigger much of anything except a host of questions. He gave a sort of nod and looked away, sickeningly validated in hearing that particular agreement – he wasn't proud of what it said, but he was proud that he'd…well, gotten Peter to say it. _Of course he would agree – he has to. He's the resident judge so any thought I have on morality has to be passed by this…this…_Petrelli. _The right to defend yourself is hereby stripped away. Take your punishment __like__ a man. Is that what he's telling me? Like I don't know that already?_

The next part had Sylar's eyes right back on Peter, where before, he'd been about to let the subject drop now his universe had received the Petrelli Stamp of Disapproval. All was, had been, right with the world. _He does…what?_ That Peter would even think Sylar was capable of 'heat of the moment' or anything to the effect of trying to prove that he was somehow human and flawed and not every move he made or action he took was a sign of soul-deep corruption…? Sylar immediately tried to kick start his brain into reviewing all the sins Peter might have seen, desperate and curious to see if there had ever been the slightest hope that he'd not premeditated…everything. Sylar collided with Nathan and everything overlapped, like seeing something different with each eye, his personality a jarring, agonized, unfamiliar, fluid mess.

XXX

Peter tried his puzzle piece in a couple likely spots, finding a fit on the third try. "My family," he said in a low, slow, and careful tone, hoping like hell Sylar wouldn't decide this was an opening to discuss them at length, "is not a pillar of moral virtue." He looked up at Sylar without raising his head; unintentionally giving Sylar the same glower that Sylar gave to so many. "You know that. And you have to have an idea that I don't always agree with what they've done." After a long look, Peter glanced back down, deliberately selecting a new piece. He was leaving himself wide open here and he knew it. He left it to Sylar to set the tone for what came next.

XXX

When Sylar could drag his headspace from the tsunami-like depths of his own brain, recovering or uncovering very little to advocate his own fucking case because he couldn't remember the incidents (or even which person he was, which side he was on), he thought; _What does it matter? He won't listen, I can't think or talk and I'm a monster – it was all premeditated. _Something about his face fell then, considering how hopeless he was. _But I really didn't plan…I didn't mean for…_Even his mental voice sounded strange to him; it sounded young and pained, like a kid. It was probably his mind playing more tricks on him – it did that with disturbing frequency now. He swallowed a bit hard and went back to the puzzle with slow resignation. It didn't help any when Peter laid in a piece and Sylar couldn't even remember how many or even if he'd gotten any pieces himself. He seriously wanted to cry. Or pout. It just wasn't fair. _I can't even keep up!_

Peter glared at him next and Sylar adjusted his face (from the weepy pout he was working on) to a confused/menacing frown right back. _Predatory body language_, his mind supplied, so he matched it yet didn't escalate it because doing so would be suicide and stupid. The words 'you know that' was sticking with him, annoyingly so. _Did he just admit that…they did something wrong?_ But Peter's tone was _so_ dismissive, or at least threatening him into silence (trying to). Sylar opened his mouth in an exhale of disbelief and rude display, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, completely juvenile. "I know that, huh?" He snipped.

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's expressions, not seeing what he wanted. _Was I too subtle? Crap._ Sylar had declined to take the bait, not pouncing on the half-taunt of 'It was all my family's fault, not mine; _I've_ never done anything wrong.' Peter had expected to get a face-full of reasons why he was to blame, specifically, which would give him something to work with. Now, Sylar probably thought Peter really believed the BS he'd just said. He face-palmed, concealing it somewhat by rubbing over his forehead. He was still sore near the hairline where he'd cracked his head into Sylar's and of course his left brow and eye were still tender. He probed at it anyway, wincing as he took his hand away.

His choices now boiled down to trying again and being more explicit about it ('Oh yeah. You _know_ it wasn't me. What did I ever do?') or just dropping it. He blew out air, not able to stomach any more. It was too close to a lie and it wasn't something Peter wanted coming out of his mouth even if it wasn't. _I'm probably going to have to pay for what I've already implied anyway. _He spent a moment loathing manipulation before taking the latter option and dropping it.


	48. Channeling

Day 13, Morning

"Okay, so here's the problem with power." Peter spoke slowly, fiddling with the puzzle as he did. "Let's say you got Matt's power, with all the bells and whistles. You go to this crime scene, because you're trying to do right by people. There's a guy who's been shot - I'll call him Chris. And there's a guy who's been beaten up and stabbed in the neck - we'll call him Bill. EMTs are working the scene and there's cop cars arriving, but they're going to let you handle it because you're the hero, see?" Peter waited a beat to make sure Sylar was following his mostly hypothetical situation.

XXX

Sylar's brows drew together as he listened, trying to picture…himself on the 'other' side of morality. He just didn't belong there and it made imagining it difficult. _What…does this matter, Peter?_ he wondered. Also, _Is this a paramedic story masking a test? _It sounded like a hidden test.

XXX

"You use your power to find out what happened. A while back, Chris borrowed money from Bill. Today, Bill showed up to get his money back. They got into an argument because Chris didn't have the money. Bill called Chris names and Chris pulled a knife, threatening to slice Bill up. Bill went back to his car, got his gun, and shot Chris. Chris' friend, inside the house, heard the shot, came out, and got in a fight with Bill. He got the gun away and beat Bill up. Chris gave his friend his knife, and the friend stabbed Bill in the neck. Thinking Bill was going to die, they just left him there and called 911 for Chris' gunshot wound, while the friend ran off and hid so he wouldn't get in trouble for murder. Chris tries telling you that he'd stabbed Bill in self-defense, but you know he's lying. Both Bill and Chris are going to survive and there's no evidence to implicate Chris' friend unless you say something."

Peter eyed his companion to make sure the other was still with him, then added, "Okay. You have this power. You're the hero. What do you do?"

XXX

A moment to wrap his head around the actual scenario…well, that took longer than his answer. "If I'm the 'hero', I'd make them tell the truth." _It sucks to be Bill_, Sylar thought emphatically – outnumbered and looking for repayment…granted getting the gun wasn't called for. It was simple enough to Sylar. "All of them," he said to include Chris' friend. "They're all guilty of something, so punish them all." _Wait…is that the point he's…We're all guilty?_ He frowned, obviously thinking that through. "Then…why do you call me names and treat me like shit and lie to me about everything if we're all guilty? What makes you so…" Sylar's voice wavered and broke. He recovered after a few seconds of anguished mental static, regret, really, that he was as horrible as he was. "So special. No one died and made you God. You don't have any authority either."

XXX

Peter's mouth gaped open for a moment at the rapid transition, but he didn't interrupt and by the time Sylar's statement paused, Peter was shutting his mouth. _'You' doesn't mean me. He means … everyone else. No. No, he means everyone other than him, __**me**__ included._ Sylar's pain was so palpable that Peter felt some of it himself. _'Call me names', 'treat me like shit', 'lie to me' - well, I wanted a list. _Desperately as he wanted not to be at fault for any of it, there had been many times in the previous week where Peter had vividly imagined and a couple where he even violently tried to hurt Sylar. And succeeded.

XXX

_Oh._ It struck him then. The Petrellis, the heroes, they weren't natural-born monsters. Their specialness and power came to them innately, intuitively, organically. That was the difference between them, the distinction, reason, logic, whatever. It was a damn good reason, too. He inhaled a rough breath, letting it out in his words, "Right. That." _I just have it coming. They're right and I'm still wrong._ "Never mind."

XXX

Peter waited for a long pause, before saying sadly, "No, we don't have any authority. We're not God, no matter how many powers we get." Peter used the plural 'we' intentionally, meaning everyone and knowing that Sylar would probably hear it as 'everyone other than Sylar'. It didn't matter - it worked either way. _'Lie to me about everything' … \\__'You jumped ... Peter. Twenty-five feet to a fire escape. I climbed up and carried you down. That's what happened. The rest is just crazy talk. You understand?'__\\ Nathan, of all people, should have told me the truth. _"Does it help any of us, in the end, to punish us all? Has it helped you to be treated badly, or would things have turned out differently if someone had … given you help, or the truth, when you needed it?" Peter's brows were drawn together, his voice low.

XXX

Sylar could only watch Peter, partly listening and partly trying to determine if the man spoke the honest truth. So much of this was unfathomable, always had been, to him anyway. _I wish someone could just…tell me my…purpose. Why I exist. At least I'd have an answer._ "There are consequences to prevent chaos. That's….universal. It has to apply to everyone, not just the black sheep or the weakest links or the outsiders." _That way I know where I stand…I know what the rules are and I can…pick and choose my…mistakes. I just…don't think it's…really fair to punish me because I didn't get a fair start. It wasn't for lack of trying and…lack of options for people to help me when they knew, they _knew_! I had a problem. That's their fucking job!_ "My calling is keeping you in check." _And I don't think it had to be that way…_He desperately wanted to think it was possible for him to have been a hero before things went wrong. Most times when he started thinking that way the word_ monster_ would ring in his ears as the scars and bones and memories tried to heal while he ran again.

Sylar's lips worked miserably after that for a moment. "Has it helped you to treat me badly?" he posed back, throat gravely and stuck. The idea of getting help and truth, thus changing the outcome, wasn't a new consideration to him. At all. The probability of it happening? That was impossible as well he knew now. He couldn't bring himself to answer that part of it. _I didn't deserve it, Peter, is that what you want to hear? _Almost as an afterthought, he realized something important had been hinted at, "And why would you even say you've treated me badly? You don't believe that."

XXX

Peter snorted. "Sylar, you're beat to hell. Unless you wanted that somehow, then of course you've been treated badly." Peter's brows jumped in emphasis as he leaned forward. "I _believe_ that's wrong – it's wrong to hurt other people. There have been times when I have thought I needed to stop you from hurting people or …" _to get Nathan back_. Peter gave a brief shake of his head, grimacing as he leaned back. "But there was probably a better way than violence. If I couldn't find that way, then that's my fault for not finding it."

He growled, pushing his hair back aggressively._ I'm not doing a good job of explaining. _He spoke more slowly, intentionally trying to relax. "It's complicated. But the simple stuff is that I say I've treated you badly because I _have_. It hasn't helped me, except that sometimes it seemed like the only way to stop you." _Or to shut you up, like the other day. You might have started that, but I'm the one who started swinging. I've got to do something about that._ "There were probably better ways of accomplishing what I was trying to do. I didn't know those ways, but that's not a moral excuse. I did the best I could. That's … hardly ever good enough and it doesn't make anything right, but it _is_ what I did."

Peter exhaled and looked away for a long moment, mulling over the rest of what Sylar had said. He didn't want to talk about his endless fuck-ups in pursuit of trying to do the right thing. The only good thing about those were that they were more palatable to Peter than if he'd screwed up (or succeeded) while chasing after more selfish goals. But the times when he'd succeeded in heroism were outnumbered by the times he'd fucked up. He tried to change the subject. "What do you mean by 'my calling is keeping you in check'? Keeping _me_ in check? Or someone else? And what do you mean by 'calling'?" _What are you trying to do? You have some greater goal? Like right now, keeping me from … leaving this place or something?_

XXX

Sylar did his best to take that in, but the concussion added insulation from strange and foreign ideas. Peter's words just didn't sound like much, strung together. The words 'my fault' coming from Peter just seemed…odd; it didn't seem right. It certainly couldn't be directed at Sylar; that would be like some kind of apology. _How…was it his fault? Why…I don't get that. Treating me badly because there isn't another way….because treating me any other way is a waste of time. If Peter doesn't know another way, then…This really is all there is, then. I already knew that._

_By Peter's own definitions there…he did the right thing, though. There's no other way and he's doing the right thing. I'm evil, so he beats me up. It's simple. _"Nature, Peter. You don't punish your own. So someone has to punish you and…the good guys." Sylar looked down to the puzzle piece he was playing with, exhaling a light snort or ironic derision, "You struck first; I'm just finishing it." _I'm always finishing it, always behind._ Or so it felt. Sad, too, that the cycle of punishment never ended. It was a never-ending game of tit-for-tat catch-up. _I wish it didn't matter anymore, but it does. It will always apply to me._

XXX

Peter tilted his head. _'You don't punish your own.'_ The image of his father sighted down the barrel of a gun came to mind as an example of a time when Peter had certainly tried to punish his own, but it was chased away by his focus on the next things Sylar said. _'You and the good guys' - we need to be punished? We _need_ it? That's kind of like saying a dog needs to be kicked - it's just stupid. But … wait, there are people who think that kids need to be spanked, like it's morally good for them_. His father came to mind again, but this time in a different context. Slowly, he said, "You know, my father used to say that what a young man like myself - this was back when I was a teenager - needed was a good beating. He seemed to think that would teach me to respect him. He said as much." He glanced away with a sullen expression, not liking the memory of getting casually backhanded or the sentiment expressed. He looked back. "Since then, I've been beat up a lot. I've had bad things happen to me. I've even been killed a few times." Peter shook his head slowly and spoke with condemnation in his tone as he said, "None of that's ever made me more respectful of anyone. It just pissed me off and made me _hurt_." Hurt in a way that transcended the mere physical.

XXX

_Well, you were kind of a pain in the ass as a teen, Peter…_That didn't negate the fact that Sylar thought (and knew from Nathan) that that course of action wouldn't help or produce results, not from Peter. It would just make him dig his heels in. _I need to remember that._ Sylar could understand Arthur's perspective a bit; even Martin's. But beating a hero, the good guy, Peter…that was pretty brutal. _Some teens have it coming, though_, he thought with a depressed, painful pang in his core as he tried not to remember being beaten himself, at any age, wondering why it was happening to him. He knew now, of course, but that was little comfort_. I deserve it; Peter doesn't; it's that simple._

But then Peter brought up the Achilles' heel of that rationalization: pain. Sylar floundered with that concept or consequence, whatever it was. _Pain just….is. I can't avoid it, I can't change to not deserve it. Isn't it only fair that he suffer some, too, hero or not?_ His sense of fair, right and wrong internally roared: _He can't be that perfect!_

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath. "You beat the crap out of me a couple days ago," he paused for a long beat before continuing, "but what made the biggest impact on me was that you _stopped_, right in the middle of it, and you let me get my bearings. I'm still trying to figure that out. You didn't have to do that. What were you doing there, Sylar? Why didn't you just keep beating on me?" _You had me. The only reason you're concussed is because of that breather you let me have._

XXX

Sylar's brain arrested at the word 'impact'. Damn, his cognition! That meant something and he couldn't figure it out, being too stuck on the irony of 'beat the crap out of' in connection with 'impact' even though he knew that wasn't the point Peter was trying to make. "I did?" _Yeah, I guess I did. Why did I do that?_ "Uh…You….You were down," he delivered lamely. _I was enjoying my win? I liked…sitting on y- no. Being on t- no._ "Maybe it was because you brought up your b-…" Sylar drew out the consonant 'b' making a sort of 'bbbbbrmmhmm' sound as he shut his mouth. That was a dangerous tool Peter might try and use (never mind that Sylar thought it was probably nothing of use, a one-time lapse): mentioning Nathan to get Sylar to instinctively quit beating the kid. Peter had suddenly looked like _his, _Sylar's, brother. Or maybe his one and only, somewhat close friend. Potential fuck-buddy or something along those lines. Suddenly hitting Peter when he was down, bleeding and injured didn't appeal to him. It was as startling to him as it must have been to Peter.

XXX

_My brother_. Peter had a moment of weighing if Sylar had cut himself off because he remembered Peter forbidding the subject, or if he was doing it for some other reason. Given the lack of guilt or any quick glance on Sylar's part to see that he wasn't in trouble, the indication was for the latter. But then why? There seemed no other likely way of finishing the sentence and certainly not a way that would lead Sylar to fail to finish it.

_What was it Sylar said? 'Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can't ...'_ Peter cocked his head a bit more. _Maybe he didn't stop because him-Sylar wanted to stop, but something happened to distract him into him-Nathan? Is there even a 'him-Nathan' to consider here? … Well, he more or less said there was. I suppose if you're forced to play a role for a while, like Matt making him think he was Nathan, then … maybe it's not so easy to shake off? And in the middle of the fight that's why he stopped?_ Peter's brows drew together and lips tightened as his head moved back to vertical. He would have rather thought that Sylar offered him a moment of mercy and found at least a shadow of goodness in his heart. _Does it count if it was him-thinking-he's-Nathan?_

XXX

"There isn't much pleasure in beating the unconscious, Peter. They're not awake to know they're beaten." Sylar gave Peter a briefly pointed glance before shrugging, "Besides…I know I have to keep you alive here. I have enough _self-control_," he stressed on the subject of anger management, "To stop because I'm not a nurse and I can only patch you up so much, assuming I wanted to do that at all." _Which I do. Oh, yeah. Let me give you a physical. It'll be fun, I promise._

XXX

Disbelief. Peter didn't believe what Sylar had just said_. I'm being lied to. That's a dodge. Sylar's had plenty of opportunity to be a sadistic bastard before and he didn't that I know of. Gloating - yes. Sadism - no. But there's something there that turns him on, for sure._ Peter could read a hint of lust in Sylar's demeanor now and he remembered getting slapped by the guy in the middle of the fight, accompanied by some snarky glorying in being on top. He wasn't sure what to make of it, being left with the feeling that the answer was right in front of him if he'd could only see it. All he could make out was: _Winning - important._

_Keep pushing? Or leave it alone?_ Peter glanced over at one of the clocks. The morning was wearing on. He sent a glance back at Sylar, wondering how the man felt and what Sylar's stamina was. _Best way to find out …_ "Speaking of nursing, how do you feel? Do you mind talking like this, or does it wear you out? I'd like to go out a little later and I want to make sure you're up for it, if you're still interested in going."

XXX

Leaned on an elbow, he was trying to shove his hair back while he studied the muted puzzle pieces when Peter's questions struck him. Sylar looked up, paused, then straightened up and away from the table, removing his elbow. In his limited capacity, he tried to make it look purposeful and relaxed enough to imply that he was, in fact, healthy, capable and in control. "I'm fine…I'm fine…Sure." _Of course it wears me out, you idiot. Of course, circulation will help my raging headache. Of course, let's go for a walk. I can't talk, so walking will help! This has got to be some kind of test. I thought I was supposed to sleep and drink lots or something, not go on fieldtrips to god-knows where. _This was still Peter's idea. _Who said I was interested?_

"When?" he asked, surprised by his own politeness, intentionally not phrasing it as 'when are we going?' This was all rather new and strange to Sylar – medical treatment, company, a sort of invitation/demand to go somewhere with someone (he didn't confuse that with Peter desiring his presence in any way). _Where were we even going again?_ His imagination supplied a few ugly scenes, but nothing that happened in them wasn't impossible to perform here, in his apartment, so they made little sense. Point was, he didn't have a clue what his role was in this beyond being…available.

XXX

_That_ was irritating. Peter's lips thinned_. For a guy who doesn't like lying, he's sure doing a lot of it today. _Peter didn't buy the 'I'm fine' routine any more than he did the 'I stopped beating you because I wanted you to feel me beating you' line. _How would I treat a normal patient who was snowing me?_ "That's great." Peter's voice came out a little tense. He immediately softened and modulated it to the usual tone he used with recalcitrant patients. "We'll go just as soon as you've had a chance to lie down and get some rest. There's no hurry." And then Peter looked at Sylar levelly and directly for a few seconds, trying to draw inspiration from Nurse Hammer, who was famed at Mercy Heights for bossing patients around. He made a pointed glance at the couch just in case Sylar wasn't getting the message.

XXX

Sylar blinked in surprise before his eyebrows furrowed as Peter's seriousness slowly dawned on him. _What?_ His head tilted a few inches, eyeing Peter right back. _Did he really just…? Wh- take a nap? Seriously?_ He followed the glance at the couch with confusion. _He's gonna make me? Why? He's making this…conditional? I'm not a kid! Fuck…what do I do? _"Uh…wh- but I don't need rest," Sylar hedged, torn between asking a question and sticking to his story. _You're the one who's bored, Peter! Why do you want to wait and watch me sleep? (Actually, I don't wanna know)._

XXX

"Yes, you do," Peter said firmly. "You're not telling me the truth and I'm not going to play games with you to figure it out. If you feel fine, go ahead and lie down, get comfortable, and we'll keep talking." Peter glanced at the couch, then turned his chair so he could get a pillow and blanket from Sylar's bed. _It'd be better if I just left, but I promised him earlier I wouldn't. Sort of. What I meant was not leaving this place, this universe, this mental construct-thing we're in, but it would look bad for me to say that to him and then take off a few hours later._ In a quiet voice, Peter said, "Tell me the truth or not, I'll still keep you company," as he rose and brought the pillow and blanket over to the couch. "Not like being lied to is a big change of pace."

XXX

_But how did he know that? There's no way he knows that. He's just guessing._ The offer of talking even if Sylar got comfortable, horizontal was novel. It seemed too good to be true, probably was. Mentally, he wanted to stick to his guns and deny his condition and limitations. Physically, he wanted to lie down, relax and enjoy. Hell, Peter was making him a nest over there. His next internal sound was a whine of frustration – this had to be a test. _He said even if I feel fine. I'm not losing face if I lay down. Or is that just a joke? He said he won't leave…_A squirm and shift, hesitantly, towards the edge of his chair, he froze when Peter turned back, began to approach him. His instinct was that he was going to be beaten and/or dragged into place, like it or not. It made him cringe inside, but he did his best to puff up to look bigger on the outside. Peter said that last piece. "What?" he blurted, purely incredulous, bordering on how-dare-you? _How does he know that?!_ Then it hit him. Peter wasn't talking about Sylar, but about the Petrellis. "O-oh."

Peter reached out for him when Sylar didn't make a move for the couch. Sylar stiffened and canted his head to eye the incoming appendage and that stopped Peter short, long enough for Sylar to take a much-needed breath and begin positioning himself to stand, unassisted. Dizziness from sitting too long, nausea and a miniscule wobble of balance – _hey, I'm getting better!_ – came when he stood, but he limp-marched over to the couch with purpose. "…'M telling the truth," he mumbled, adjusting the blanket over himself as he settled his head into the pillow as directed. He thought back to all the times he'd been allowed or encouraged to sleep, waking up unharmed and undisturbed in Peter's presence. This seemed safe, historically.

XXX

Buoyed by the cooperation, Peter smiled as Sylar settled in. In a good-humoredly sarcastic tone, he said, "Yeah, of course. You have a concussion and I'm sure your head is killing you, but you're fine!" With his right hand, he ran his fingers in a quick stroke over Sylar's left deltoid, tapping them against him a couple times in a finger version of a pat. "You're a tough guy, Sylar. I know that. Lemme look at your toes. I'm sure they're fine, too, but I want to see them."

XXX

Sylar's glanced at the hand touching him. _Touching. He's always touching. He hates me and he still touches me. Does- Is his problem that bad? I could get so used to this…_His eyes twitched towards narrowing – _Is he mocking me? _- but he allowed his ego to be stroked. Some respect was due for physical durability and endurance after all and he was long overdue for having that noticed. _So long as he knows that. I kicked his ass twice._ The blanket was pulled up to reveal his foot and he watched with interest. _And he's gentle, too. _Perhaps that was the majority of his surprise: there was a difference between doing something for Sylar like he was worth it and doing the same thing bereft of that gentle touch, begrudging him the treatment the whole way.

XXX

Peter's examination was brief; resting the fingers of his right hand on the bridge of Sylar's foot while his left cupped the ball. He moved it in a slight flex, not moving or touching the injured toes themselves, but watching the faint change in coloration that told him about circulation and degree of inflammation. "Doesn't look like ice would help you much at this point. Looks okay." He tugged the blanket over Sylar's feet, tucked it in carefully, and went on.

Seating himself again, Peter looked at Sylar's face for a few moments in case the other man had something to say. Seeing no immediate indication, Peter picked a topic. "Tell me about Matt using his ability at work. I've used different ones of mine at work, but I had the impression there was something wrong with what Matt was doing." Normally, Peter didn't like thinking about Matt's ability. It gave his stomach a queasy turn. But given who he was spending time with, and where, and how, it seemed like the sort of thing he needed to confront.

He could remember commanding people to let them through security (did they lose their jobs?); ordering them to draw guns on their coworkers while he and Parkman infiltrated the government's databases (were they or their coworkers traumatized by that? How would Peter feel if Hesam one day pulled a gun on him under some supernatural influence, or if he lost control of himself and was forced to threaten an innocent without knowing if he'd be made to pull the trigger or not?); Matt whammying a bartender to allow them to dope Noah's drink and then drag him off later (did that make her more likely to look the other way for similar misconduct in future? Did she think less of herself for 'allowing' that?); and then … there were the serious things. Like the way Noah had jerked and twisted and fought against Matt's mental invasion as Peter had stood by, tacitly endorsing the interrogation and what looked like torture. Noah didn't seem to take it personally, but then again, they were talking about Mr. Bag and Tag who left confused kids with lethal powers all alone in a situation that led to the kid killing his own parents. Noah's moral compass spun as much as Samuel's in his hand.

Peter looked at Sylar, remembering Sylar's words from earlier when the subject of Matt's effects on him had come up: '_I'm fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!_' was what Sylar had said, angry and sarcastic. Defensive. '_I'm fine_,' Peter repeated Sylar's line to himself. _Huh._ Sylar did not seem as hardened to it as Noah. Not as internally scarred, cicatrized, and calloused as the man who was twenty years their senior and had been dealing with specials for four or five times as long. And perhaps Noah had come to the situation more prepared, less mentally vulnerable because he understood what was going to happen to him. Peter remembered how much of his own terror and desperation had made things worse for him when he'd just discovered his abilities. He doubted Sylar had had any warning the first time he was blotted out. Peter had given him only a few seconds the next time. He remembered Sylar jerking his head back during the exam and freaking out for a moment when Peter had reached for his forehead. _Ah!_ Peter's eyes widened slightly at the realization._ It wasn't a mirror image fear that I was going to cut into his brain. It was fear that I was going to do that to him all over again. Especially if his head hurt and his memory was fucked up and we'd just had a fight and … yeah. Yeah._

XXX

Sylar licked his lips, turning his head to the side a moment to cope with a rush of memories – his own, Nathan's and Matt's – all of using powers at work. Telekinesis in his watch shop to murder Brian Davis; telekinesis to call the coffee cup to himself, electricity, shape-shifting and flight; pushing thoughts and readings minds of friend and foe and stranger and victim alike. He swallowed, forcing that uncontrolled panick-y feeling away, having to ground himself in his identity. It helped him to wonder what powers Peter had used; how and why.

"That's the only way he got to be a real cop, I'm pretty sure. Reading minds. He can't read, you know," Sylar snorted. _Cop with a GED. Mastermind with a high school diploma. Peter….with a medical degree and some law school._ "He used it to save his job, push thoughts on his boss." A chuckle was next, "He made the water boy get a new route because Matt was feeling threatened," he leered, comfortable from his throne now, smirking and waggling his eyebrows briefly to make his lewd point, "His wife has needs he's not fulfilling, but other men can, apparently. _Filled_ her needs just fine," he heavily implied with the tone of 'I filled'. "Oh, he beat up a suspect in his custody and threw a chair at a guy he was…interrogating." _/'I'm going to use this room for…interrogation again. I'm gonna get a confession out of you about how you murdered your mother'/_ He twitched sharply at that, blinking, feeling the fright chase through him still, dulled somewhat now, but that time, when he'd been a mindless body wandering around, had been terrifying and amazing at the same time, very clear even now. _Lubbock's dead. Serves him right. _"He used it all the time on me," Sylar sniffed an inhale, shrugging back his shoulders in dismissive defiance as he crossed his arms, "Of course, that's all fair and above board."

XXX

Peter listened, an expression of slight befuddlement growing on his features. "How do you know all this?" Not that Peter doubted him - he didn't - but those weren't things Matt would have shared willingly and since Sylar didn't have telepathy … _What had happened after the Stanton Hotel? What was going on that Matt Parkman wanted Nat- Sylar? to touch his hand in the hospital?_ _Should I ask that?_ Peter weighed the situation. Sylar was lying down, relaxed, and non-threatening, even if a bit twitchy and defensive.

XXX

Sylar frowned at Peter because it seemed so obvious. "I was…stuck in his head. You were with me- Nath- um…my body. He said he pushed me out, stuck Nathan in and…we found out that I hung onto Matt's pea-sized brain for what that was worth," he snorted disgusted and dismissive. _Bastard wouldn't take me to my body!_

XXX

_Really? That's … weird. Like Matt made a copy of Sylar somehow when he tried to erase him? _Peter's brow furrowed, but he put it aside for pondering later. Back to topic he thought,_ Better__ question is _**me** - _can I handle whatever he says? Whatever he admits to? Matt was angry enough at him to do _this_ - this place - to him. 'That's all fair and above board,' huh? He wants me to tell him that what Matt did was wrong, like it justifies the stuff Sylar's done. Don't know, but maybe he'll tell me more if I lean it that way._ "I don't know what's fair or not without knowing the whole situation. Will you tell me?" Peter tilted his head slightly, watching Sylar for a long moment before looking back at the puzzle pieces, giving the man an opportunity to gather his thoughts.

XXX

Sylar huffed slightly, annoyed that the conversation was focusing on Matt (yet he'd offered Parkman up as the topic all the same). He felt like he was getting pumped for information – he probably was – _There's more entertaining ways to do that, you know, Peter_… "He was in substance abuse counseling, trying to quit his ability, the idiot." He shifted, his intensity rising as he leaned forward a bit, gesturing passionately, "You can't do that, it's part of you," a drop in the intensity as he realized what he was doing, at least physically, settling back, "I told him he was crazy for trying. He did all those things while trying to 'quit,'" he sneered the word. It was repugnant to him. Everyone had told Sylar to quit; he'd tried and failed because there was a need in him that could not otherwise be met without abilities. _/'The powers are me now.'/ Why can't anyone see that?_

XXX

Peter gave another quizzical look. _How do you quit an ability?_ But then Sylar answered Peter's unspoken question, getting genuinely emotionally engaged in the subject, which made Peter smile faintly to see. That tiny blip of positive or at least non-negative emoting made Peter realize how little of it Sylar had done. He didn't count much of the long walk they'd taken, discussing favorites and such. He'd had such an impression that Sylar had been _acting_ then. This seemed genuine.

XXX

Pondering that as deeply as he could, Sylar wanted to ask Peter something important. "Why does everyone think they need to get rid of their ability like it's a disease?" _It's the one thing that makes you special. /'You've been handed so much. And yet you want to destroy the one part of yourself that makes you truly special. Your power,' he remembered analyzing Nathan the same way./_

XXX

"Not everyone," Peter said mildly, looking down at the puzzle to fiddle with a piece. "I happened to like mine. Both of them." _Scary as hell at times, though._

XXX

"That's a relief," Sylar murmured. Peter thinking otherwise about his ability would probably earn the man a beating all its own somewhere down the line.

XXX

He breathed out and put the puzzle piece down, pushing the chair back a little and swiveling it towards Sylar as he leaned back. He rubbed his right forearm with his left hand before saying, "I think a lot of people are scared of changing, of becoming something different than they were." He was thinking about Nathan and not only his brother's initial pretense that he couldn't fly, but his later assault on everyone who was special. "I think the difference scares them. They want to control it, maybe starting with themselves." He shook his head. "People don't work that way."

He leaned forward, brows drawing together as a thought struck him. "You say Matt did all that stuff while he was trying to quit. Did you get the impression he'd done worse before? Was there anything in-"

XXX

"Worse?!" was Sylar's instantaneous, mortally offended demand. _Obliterating me wasn't worse?! Of course not!_

XXX

"… um," Peter suddenly put two and two together and didn't like the answer. _Did Matt try to quit his ability because of what he did to Sylar? Was that just too much for him?_ He took a deep breath and let it out, thinking of a different angle that seemed more likely. _Or was it the whole Homeland Security/Daphne thing?_ "I don't know about his wife, but he lost someone really important to him not long before that. Maybe he thought that if he quit his ability, he could quit," Peter gestured around vaguely, "all the dangers that come with our life. I was just wondering if, in his process to do that, he was under so much stress trying to live a lie that he was being worse than he had been before."

XXX

Peter clearly realized his blunder and auto-corrected enough that, with a glare, Sylar grudgingly let it pass at that and continued to listen to Peter's semi-interesting points that made little applicable sense. Change was part of life, humans were made to evolve – barring that, they were made to _adapt_. "Since when is that an excuse?" he reasoned disdainfully about Matt being under stress and wanting to get away from the dangerous life. Because, really, that 'excuse' would never pass for Sylar; why should it for Matt?

But something in the way Peter phrased it, 'I don't know about his wife' and 'lost someone really important to him' caught up with his brain. Parkman wasn't in contact with his father, his mother was still alive, Sylar knew that for a fact; the man had no siblings and no one dreadfully close besides maybe (sickeningly) Mohinder that Matt would miss…When he tried to think of Matt's past, Nathan supplied some of Parkman's history during the whole Building 26 phase that Sylar couldn't otherwise account for. A name and a face appeared (albeit dimly) as well as an ability: "The Millbrook woman." Sylar laughed until it hurt his head, halting him with a grimace, "Oh, that's rich." Another pause to think that through, connecting some guilty dots of Matt's life, chuckling, "And that explains a few things." _That's why Matt acted strange when I fucked Janice, all that fake anger was just for show. He cheated on her. Ha!_

XXX

Peter made a long, disapproving frown at Sylar's laughter, ended by a judgmental grunt and looking down at the puzzle. He chose to otherwise pretend the outburst hadn't happened and responded to Sylar's prior comment. "I'm not excusing him. But there's always something that happens to set things in motion. I'm trying to understand what happened." _Like I'm trying to understand __**you**__._ "I want to know what motivated him to do those things."

A puzzle piece slotted into position unexpectedly. Peter picked up a new one. _Sylar doesn't give a flip about Matt's motivations. We're talking past each other - I'm not connecting. He doesn't want to hear the difference between an excuse, an explanation, and a justification. What __**does**__ he want to hear?_ He glanced up briefly, casting his mind back over the most recent bits of conversation, thinking of Sylar's moment of engagement. He focused on his companion, gesturing loosely with his words. "You said a person can't quit their ability. Can they at least channel it? Choose when to use it?"

The answer seemed obvious, but he wanted to hear it from Sylar's lips, because there was a hint in what Sylar had said that maybe the man felt his own ability wasn't something he could direct. If Sylar's control of his ability, early on at least, was no better than Peter's had been, then what if it activated every time he encountered a special, the same way Peter's ability hadn't consulted him about adding a new power to the arsenal? Peter's had done its 'thing' even to the point of putting him in a coma. But was Sylar saying that people couldn't stop using their ability? That Matt had been _forced_ to use it? If Sylar were equally 'forced' to use his ability when he was new to it and couldn't control it … what would that mean? Peter's absorption was painless and unnoticeable when it activated, so uncontrolled use didn't hurt anyone else. Sylar's ability was … not the same, not at all.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed a centimeter or two in confused curiosity. "Evidence shows they can be channeled, yes." After all Matt channeled his; Peter channeled his; Claire…sort of did. Sylar was much more in the grey whether he did any channeling – if that was even possible. He always felt _channeled_ instead, like there was far too much power contained in his body and brain and he was just the weak conduit, steps behind and lacking the strength to fight his own power. His options at that stage had not been pretty, healthy or desired. It was a "choice" between sanity and insanity at best. So it wasn't much of a choice.

He gave a slow blink at Peter, "You can probably choose. You're not going to want to, though. People with powers come with the urge to use them. That's why everyone gets into the messes they do – they want to use their power…Most of the time it's a choice between letting the bullet hit you, kill you, or…stopping the bullet. I don't have to use my powers; I could use a scalpel and drill and get the same effect – that's why the police couldn't figure out how I did it. I don't have to worry about a murder weapon with prints," he stated proudly, feeling clever and ahead of the game.

"Doing that," in reference to the drill/scalpel bit, he turned disparaging, "it's…it's…normal…it's cheap, it's average. It's too easy, anyone can do it – it takes _skill_ to do what I do. I'm the _only __one _who can do what I do, except…for when you take my power," he hedged somewhat unhappily about that, ignoring thoughts of Samson, too. _Why did you tell him that?_ "I _like_ my abilities and they aren't something that can be separated." Sylar switched to warning and threatening, backing it up with an intense stare, "I won't let you take them." _I'm not a walking….Rolodex or power bank for you, either!_


	49. Morals of a Monster

_Day 13, mid-morning_

Peter's brows rose. He smiled slightly and looked away with a very soft snort_. I didn't get any choice in losing my abilities, buddy. If someone decides to neuter you, I don't think they'll ask permission first. I'm sure my dad wasn't the only one with that power._ He shook his head, deciding not to comment on any of that. "Didn't come to take your powers. And anyway, the way mine works these days doesn't 'take' anything. It just copies." He looked back at Sylar, reminded of a thought he'd entertained before about what would happen if he tried to use his ability here, on Sylar. It seemed like a bad idea, though, no matter how strange he'd felt a few times when he'd touched the man.

XXX

Sylar grunted, relenting. _That's right. But the ability he claims to have is Matt's, not Claire's. I just hope he isn't lying and he really has the Haitian's…_

XXX

Peter leaned back in his chair again, saying, "Story time again. This one's about abilities." _So you'll like it._ "I needed healing for a friend. I went to Noah. Asked him if he could help me find someone who had it. Claire's blood wouldn't work. He knew this kid, named Jeremy, who he'd last seen …" Peter pursed his lips and shook his head, "years ago. Kid was 15 or 16 now. So we went to his house …" Peter stared off into the distance, his eyes directed towards the shelves over where Sylar lay. "Plants outside were dead. Inside, his parents were dead. Had been for a week or so. Hard to tell, given that there weren't even any _bugs_ alive in the place." His nose wrinkled, but Peter looked distressed from more than a remembered stench.

"Jeremy was still living there. He couldn't … figure out how to do anything but kill." Peter swallowed, blinking himself out of it and glancing down uncomfortably at Sylar. He shifted in the chair restlessly. "He shot me, with a shotgun, right through the chest. Point blank." He chewed his lip. "Noah … heh. I guess he talked him through how to switch. How to 'channel' the other direction." Peter scratched at his upper lip with his thumb. "Obviously, I survived."

XXX

A scowl-type frown of intent interest (aka 'listening') crossed his face when Peter got to the parts about dead parents and pure killing. _Is he trying to insult me or…say something here? How much could he really have to say on the subject? He had my power for, what, a day? _Something in him, something that probably wasn't actually him, twinged when Peter told about getting shot. His protective urges, however misguided and rotten, were useless now. Then his eyebrows went up a little. "_Noah_ talked him through the switch?"

XXX

Peter gave an 'I guess so' shrug about Noah talking Jeremy through it. He remembered Noah and Jeremy yelling, voices raised in tension, while he was very certain he was about to die. He had that moment of clarity just as he'd had twice before: when thrown off the roof by Claude and when falling off with Sylar. Peter had died a lot of other times, but the others had been too fast for him to think about it; he'd expected to revive, or he'd been too distracted by other things. This time, too, death had lost its grip on him, he'd woke up laughing.

XXX

_What does Noah know about-…Oh. Yeah. _Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, too angry and sad to do much else. _Of course Peter's worth saving._ "I suppose you would get the benefit of everything…Knew that bullshit about him retiring was a lie, too. He never could keep his nose clean." A tilt of his head and a blink as he hit on what Peter probably meant by all that: "A healer who killed?"

XXX

"Yeah." Peter gave Sylar a very intent look for a second or two before breaking it, deciding that Sylar's interest was on the level. "A healer who killed," Peter mused, picking out a different puzzle piece to toy with while he talked. He looked back to Sylar, more conversational in his eye contact now. "Noah called it a 'dual ability', that he could either drain life or give it. Story doesn't end well." Peter's eyes slid out of focus as he pondered a few things. _I told Sylar he should have killed himself when he saw he couldn't stop himself. That's … that's what Jeremy did. Was it right? _He sighed heavily. _Jeremy was just a kid, but did Sylar's age make a difference? Jeremy had had his power for years before losing control of it. And Sylar? _Peter chewed the inside of his lower lip, uneasy at the hypocrisy he knew he was enacting. _How would I feel if Jeremy had killed someone I loved? But Sylar's different, right? He was trying to kill or at least impersonate the president and he didn't kill Nathan for his power. He did it because he __**could. **_He gave Sylar a half-second glare before turning his eyes to the puzzle to keep from escalating the tension. _Just leave it alone._

XXX

Not for the first time, Sylar wished for his full mental capacity – dual abilities was something of deep interest. _What does that mean for my ability?_ He'd tried fixing people, helping them, saving them a few times so he had a little experience, but it hadn't resulted in much experimentation. _Is there another side to it?_ He wondered, since that was all he could do for now. He beat down the flutterings of hope (ridiculous now that he didn't even have the problematic aspect of ability); he didn't want it crushed. _Of course it doesn't end well._

XXX

"He died. Jeremy, that is. Noah was fine." Peter turned back to Sylar. "But my point was that I've seen a lot of cases where channeling an ability … wasn't easy. You said people couldn't quit them, but they could be channeled. What does it take to do that? When I had my first ability, I never did figure out how _not_ to absorb an ability. And I tried. Tried every way I could figure out – not to meet Ted, not to get his ability, not to activate it. Didn't matter."

XXX

_Of course he died. Saw that coming. They killed a kid._ _Does that mean they have something against people who have '__dual__ abilities'?_ A mental snort and eyeroll accompanied Peter's admission that Noah was fine – _This is me real worried about Noah, Pete_. Sylar nodded at first, mostly sarcastic if that was possible. It made him feel a little better that control-less, powerful, perfect Peter couldn't control his ability much either. Then again, that meant that Peter was a hypocrite just like the rest – persecuting and damning Sylar for the same fault that every special suffered. Really, the only abilities he'd ever lost control of were his original, shapeshifting, and the memory-touch and only one of those was actually dangerous. He considered that pretty good control, given the number of powers he possessed. Peter was like a gun waiting to go off at all times. Sylar's temper was similar, but not the same.

Head down for a few seconds, he plucked at the blanket over his thighs before curiously looking up at Peter after he asked, "So you killed him?" _I'm not surprised. Noah would insist. Or do it behind Peter's back._

XXX

Peter stared at him blankly. _Ted? I didn't kill Ted. __**You**__ killed Ted! Is his concussion and memory stuff that bad? Wait, no. He's talking about Jeremy. But … why would he think I …?_

XXX

Sylar thought on Peter's question then, again, wondering why Peter would ask about something Sylar clearly hadn't mastered himself. "I don't know anything about channeling. Every time I try I get my neck broken," he gave a dark, pointed glare, "or drugged or something like that. I'm lucky to wake up alive and in one piece as _myself_, not stuck in a cell or related to a bunch of crazies. There's only so many times you can find out you're adopted or not related to people before it loses its thrill, Peter."

XXX

Peter frowned and his brows drew together. A number of nasty comebacks floated to the surface of his mind, but he pushed them back under. Sylar's tone, with his last words, shifted from being deliberately offensive to something else, something more like … wistful. It sent Peter's thoughts to how Sylar had reacted to the idea of being related. _'Brothers come back for each other.' He was a hell of a lot better brother at that point than Nathan was. At least, he understood loyalty. No, he didn't really. He had a fantasy of what family was like. _Peter snorted slightly and glanced away. _'Pie in the sky', 'dreamer', 'head in the clouds' – that's what Nathan and Dad would tell me, sometimes even Ma. Like it was a bad thing. And here I am about to accuse Sylar of the same thing, of being too idealistic, of wishing things were good and better?_

_He wouldn't have made that bad a brother._

Peter had no idea where that last thought came from. It made him instantly uncomfortable, sending his mind scrambling for a new topic, anything to distract and think of something else. "No, I didn't kill Jeremy," he blurted. "I left Noah to … Noah said he had it. My friend was dying. I had to get back. I thought," Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. _I thought Noah could handle it. _"I thought wrong. The police took Jeremy in for questioning. Apparently, there was more background to things than just his parents dying. Noah got him out, but Jeremy accidentally killed someone else outside the police station and then turned himself back in. He was dead that night." He sighed heavily, looking away and trying not to think about the manner of death. He'd seen enough motorcycle accidents that he had a good idea of how gruesome it likely was. "Someone tore down the police station right after, crushed a bunch of people. Whole thing made the news." Peter chewed his lower lip briefly, looking back to Sylar thoughtfully. "I'm thinking it was the same guy who made that sinkhole in New York. Killed a bunch of people there, too."

XXX

Okay, so it wasn't Peter and Noah. Or so Peter said – supposed truths coming from a Petrelli about a Company man? Peter's story did sound a bit…far out to be a lie, though…_It made the news? Where was-? Hmm. _Sylar watched Peter's lip a moment as the empath played with it before returning his gaze innocently to the man's eyes. The concussion slowed him down, he felt more sluggish the longer he sat propped with pillow and blanket and company. It also made him a bit fussy – the fear of sleeping and waking up alone was still very much present.

Sylar scrunched up his face in thought. _Sinkhole…sinkhole…I assume he means a power, so who has the power to…?_ His face lit up and smoothed out, "'S probably Samuel. Sullivan. Uh…you know about the Carnival, /I told you I was there for a week/? Er…" he shook his head and refocused, "Longer…than that, I think…Anyway, Samuel's…not the guy he says he is. Those pebbles of his are pretty deadly. Think sandstorm." He backed that up with a 'yeah, I've been there' expression, not necessarily a proud one, crossing his arms. "I think I have myself a copy-cat fan," by which he meant Samuel.

XXX

"Samuel, huh?" _A copy-cat fan?_ Peter's brows pulled together and he looked down at the floor for a moment. _Samuel tried to recruit me. Does he kill the __people__ he recruits? Is that what Sylar means? Or does he just keep them around him? What if he traps them somehow? That would explain a lot. Emma … she can summon people. Did Samuel create that sinkhole because he was pissed I turned him down?_ "What do you mean by copy-cat fan?" he asked as he looked at Sylar again. "What's Samuel up to?" _Because he was definitely up to something._

Peter was wondering if Samuel's 'plot' involved using Emma to draw specials to him. Perhaps he gained powers through proximity? Maybe Samuel had a form of empathic mimicry like Peter himself used to have, except instead of needing to think about the power-donor and remember what they meant to him, he needed to have them on hand? Someone like Emma would keep people from being able to say no to their captivity (at least initially - Peter wasn't sure how her power worked), but Peter didn't see how that fed into Emma being forced to summon thousands of people to their doom. What purpose did that serve?

XXX

Peter seemed contemplative. _He knows Samuel? Has…No, he hasn't been to the Carnival. He said the guy was in New York and that's where Pete works._ Sylar shrugged. He knew things at the Carnival had been heating up (in more ways than one) from desires he'd stolen from Lydia's kisses. Samuel was relying on a witless lackey, Eli, for mysterious tasks and Lydia was worried about the run-away Edgar and her daughter, and wanting Samuel out of the picture little did Samuel know. "Every time I show up there, he's talking about _family_," Sylar snitted out the last word, "And there's always new…family members. I mean, he can't be collecting them just for me," Sylar chuckled a little, his meaning obvious. The thrum of being amongst that many powers was an aphrodisiac, a narcotic. He was half-high the last time he'd visited and the haze had cost him a bit. It had been a while since he'd felt that. Failing to kill the slimy bastard still rankled, getting killed by him even more so, but it flew in the face of being hugged and welcomed, freaking baptized (what had he been thinking? That was just it – he hadn't been thinking). Samuel had gone out of his way to make Sylar ingratiated and comfortable during his stay(s); that hadn't gone unnoticed.

However, the Irishman had been too pushy in his delivery, his desperation was unmistakable – that whole bullshit about Velma? Valerie? That was a rip-off. The tattoo had been bunk as well. More was the pity. "He killed a cop that was after me. Or rather…Edgar did. Samuel seemed to want me back, my powers, my memories. _My_ memories. Because they weren't…in the body at the time." He glanced at Peter then, a little questioning. "He made me part of the family," he intoned with some light, hesitant pride and challenge. _Then he killed me and tried to be my best friend after giving me back my memories and baptizing me into the cult. What an idiot._

XXX

"Hmp," Peter grunted in displeasure. _Guess the thrill of thinking you're related to people hasn't worn off completely._ "Yeah, he had a lot to say about his family when I met him, too. I didn't have a good impression of him. His opening move was to sue me for negligence." Peter pursed his lips, looking away and concentrating. "You know … I told him I was wrong, that I'd made a mistake … but I still don't remember him being at the accident." Peter exhaled, realizing this didn't make much sense for Sylar without background.

XXX

Sylar blinked. _What? Sue him fo-…They met in New York, yeah. Peter got sued? For something he…thinks he didn't do? Doesn't remember? Did Parkman or the Haitian do something to him? Maybe that explains him being nice…_

XXX

"First thing I knew about him was a process server giving me papers that he was suing me. Samuel was going under the name of William Hooper. I found him in the hospital." Peter chewed his lip again. "What I noticed right away was that he was lying and used to doing it. He was trying to manipulate me. Hardly a word about his injuries and a lot of talk about how what I'd done was going to cause his family to starve." Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head, a more honest reaction than he probably would have had elsewhere. Being trapped with Sylar had its perks. "I just couldn't tell what he was aiming at. But I thought Hesam remembered him and then I found a picture of Samuel at the accident scene, so I decided he was right and my memory was wrong. I found him again. He accepted my apology and shook my hand. There was definitely something there – an ability, and something _else_. I felt it.

"That night, the tattoo of that compass that's on his carnival showed up on my arm." Peter rubbed at the spot on the inside of his right forearm. "Took me a while to find out what it meant. Wasn't until Samuel sent E- ..." Peter smiled sourly like he'd just been suckered into something. Being trapped with Sylar also had its downsides, as it seemed far too short a distance between Samuel giving Emma a cello and Sylar figuring out she had a power. Peter stood up, making no attempt whatsoever to conceal his sudden change of topic. "Hey, you want something to drink?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows arched when Peter mentioned the tattoo, then dropped into a frown when Peter grimaced in mental discomfort, cutting himself off. He just couldn't figure it and the segue to drinks wasn't subtle. He exhaled a grumpy sound lightly in answer, unhappy at not getting the full picture.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said, walking off into the kitchen. _Nearly slipped there. I dunno what to think about that. We're just talking. If we're talking, then I'm going to talk. How the hell am I going to censor myself for the next however long?_ He sighed and drew Sylar a drink anyway, leaving his own on the counter, partly drank. _Just like with Hesam and all the rest – just different subjects._

Peter dropped off the drink with a low but distinct, "You should be drinking as much as you can." He moved on without waiting for a response and sat down. "What do you know about that compass, anyway? Does it mean something?"

XXX

Sylar glanced back and saw the man return, with a glass. _Oh, stop mothering me. On second thought…never mind that. Keep nursing me._ While Sylar had done nothing to deserve this, he felt entitled to it. The Petrelli family certainly owed him dues aplenty. Besides, who didn't like getting pampered when they were sick or injured? "The compass?" Sylar snorted. _Why does he assume I know anything about them at all? What should I tell him: 'Nathan got a tattoo of a compass on his left nut while he was there'?_ "Yeah. Samuel gave one to me before /I came to see you/. It's…something to do with his power and…specials – it's how they find their way back to the carnival." His eyes scanned over Peter's frame, what he could see of it. "It's not there anymore…the tattoo?" _Might be kinda hot…Matching ability tattoos? Oh, God_, he groaned to himself, wishing as he always did for more people in the world – for his full power (strange as that sounded) and for abilities to consume. His reaction was one of lust. _He could lead me right to them; fuck!_

XXX

Peter pulled up his sleeve, hesitating at Sylar's obvious examination of him. The expression on Sylar's face looked … odd. Sort of 'sizing him up' odd, or maybe being a bit too appreciative of how Peter looked. But nothing else came of it and Peter's forearm was not a part he was bothered to reveal, even if Sylar wanted to ogle it. He raised his right hand to display the area – smooth, normal, and currently un-inked skin. "It comes and goes. Or at least it did – showed up, disappeared, showed up again, then gone." He tugged his sleeve back into place. "Been gone for a while now." A few weeks, which Sylar would probably characterize as three years, so Peter didn't go there.

Instead, he reached up around his neck and tugged out the necklace he'd been given several years ago. "Do you think the compass is anything like this?" _If the compass is all about family and this symbol is about the Company, then is this some sort of weird work/life balance statement? _Peter knew symbols held great power. He looked down at the squiggly bit of metal he often wore and rubbed it between his fingers restlessly. "Is this some sort of … rallying cry to call everyone together?" Peter's brows drew together in concern. All these forced adoptions seemed off. Family was important – perhaps the most important thing there was, but it wasn't something that could be bestowed with a few words and empty promises. Anyone who claimed it could was selling something. He looked up at Sylar. "I don't think I'm on board with that."

XXX

"Samuel gave me one, too," Sylar frowned a little. _But he had to use a stick in his mouth, not a handshake…_He gestured with his own right arm. "It's gone now." _I don't know why. I used to miss it, back when there were no…faces here._ For very obvious reasons he didn't mention the nature of the tattoo or why he'd insisted on getting it.

"Like a plot to wipe us out? I doubt it, from Samuel." Sylar eyed the necklace, a little surprised that Peter still wore it given the connotations of the medallion – of course, it related back to the Petrellis, which should have been a sore subject. "He seems to want to run some kind of…hidden home for stray specials." Maybe Peter could understand that? Then again, maybe not… The Carnival had been pretty successful except for allowing Sylar himself in, and Captain Lubbock. "The Company was trying to keep us a secret by whatever means necessary; Pinehearst was trying to hand out abilities and destroy the world that way." Clearly, he was not a big advocator of either party, but he especially didn't want to become obsolete.

He shrugged. "You don't have to be. They're all gone. This is all just speculation." Planting his hands, he adjusted his half-upright position on the couch, making use of his bed pillow behind him to recline a bit more, still eyeing his companion. He could feel physical comfort (such as he was able to feel with a concussion) creeping up and he allowed it, feeling safe as Peter was only talking. In a way, he supposed, 'speculation' was an invitation to Peter, intentionally or not.

XXX

Peter frowned, but he didn't disagree about everyone being gone. "I suppose it only makes sense that each group would have a goal that's bigger than they are – a mission. It's just that so many of these missions don't seem to be in the best interest of … well, anyone." Peter's frown intensified and he turned to look at the puzzle, picking up a piece and trying it against another that didn't match it. "Like with my d-dad," Peter said, stumbling over the word and furtively glancing Sylar's way. This wasn't a subject Peter wanted to talk about with Sylar, but who else was there? It wasn't like he could talk to Nathan about it. He huffed.

"He's … He **was** really smart. He'd been," Peter grimaced and waved his right hand, the one with the puzzle piece, "at this 'special ability' thing for forty years maybe. So ..." He sighed, emoting all over the place. "He should have known what he was doing. He should have known … right, you know? But what he was doing just seemed so _wrong_."

XXX

"I don't…think the time spent doing something…_wrong_ matters. It's…abilities, Peter. It's pretty instantaneous," Sylar intoned seriously, speaking for himself. He knew it was the same for Nathan in some ways, but the senator had done some very strange things that lacked mental reasoning. The whole Building 26 fiasco for example. It made sense to Nathan, but there was no follow-through plan. Hell, the facility didn't even have proper holding cells or any medical treatment plans (not surprising, given how the Company used to work as well Sylar knew).

XXX

Peter did not follow that at all and as a result, he got quiet and focused his full attention on Sylar. Whatever internal dialogue Peter might have had in the course of trying to make sense of Sylar's statement had the volume turned way down on it. It was nothing but a murmur in the back of his mind as he listened to what else Sylar might have to say.

XXX

Sylar knew Samson had been on the hunt for at least as long as little Gabriel had been around, so thirty some years? If not more. Samuel had probably been working some angle with Joseph over the years, too. Mostly, he didn't want to be judged by the years he'd spent murdering – he'd been condemned the moment the temptation crossed his mind and that had nothing to do with time spent or evil deeds accumulated. "You can't understand why…_bad_ people do the things they do. You just _can't_," and suddenly it felt like everything Peter was saying was aimed at him personally and it caused his voice to attempt breaking and wavering. He felt his face twisting up – it probably looked scary and pathetic, certainly no silver-screen pre-cry moment – the tiredness was getting to him. How could the good guys ever understand? They could only ever see….black and white.

XXX

Peter blinked, feeling the jangle of Sylar's emotions a lot more strongly than he'd felt anyone's for a long time. He _did_ happen to be paying careful attention. _Can I understand why do people do bad things? It's because they want to, right?_ Thoughts of telling Nathan off about his ill-fated decision to set Homeland Security against people came to Peter's mind. _Why did Nathan do that? Desperate? Thought it was the right thing to do? Was he that afraid of people? Hell, you'd think I'd be the one flipping out about abilities after seeing that future where everyone was dead – not Nathan._

Sylar was taking this personally – no guesses needed for why. With Sylar there was that odd confession from future-Gabriel about the hunger he kept in check for the sake of his son – but that still meant it could be kept in check. _You think I can't understand why you've done what you've done? Is there no way you can explain it? Is it that you don't think I'd agree with you? Does it matter that I agree? Can I understand something if I don't agree with it? _Peter honestly didn't know. He'd like to think he could. "I can't?" he said with doubt lacing his few words. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath and issuing a challenge: "Try me."

XXX

His brain honestly fuzzed out for a few seconds, running in place and going nowhere on that…invitation, was it? Sylar stared at him for a few additional seconds, allowing who he was trying to talk to sink in. Yeah right this was some kind of unbiased, equal courtroom. Peter was just digging for leverage, no more no less. And, what was almost worse, Sylar knew Peter would think what he would think regardless of actual fact or reality.

"You can't. There's no talking about this with a Petrelli. Especially not the one who tried to Haitian my mind away so your worthwhile brother could live in my body and the Petrelli who routinely beat me into unconsciousness for trying to help. Please…tell me all about your 'understanding', empath Peter. I'm all ears," Sylar sneered with angry contempt the whole way through. _You're a hero; you're a Petrelli; you want your brother back; you want me to do a trick for you; you want my mind erased - you want me dead and gone; and you won't fuck me. Why the hell are you even talking to me? Treating me like…a patient? Don't think I'm so stupid or sick that I'll talk to you because you're talking to me like I'm a real person for a few days – that's been done before. I do not talk about my life with good reasons._

He was tired, running on fumes as his mouth was running on flames, but still it wasn't finished. "Do you really think you could lower your stainlessly pure self down into the mud and blood and set aside your morals to try to understand an evil monster? Think you could live as they do? Think you'd survive? The life of any evil monster would eat you alive and spit you back out as a toothpick because you're a spoiled, naïve, good-guy, hypocritical prick." Sylar had to inhale after that one, a slight ping going through his head that, perhaps, he'd said too much. _What's the worst he'll do? Beat me again?_

XXX

Peter leaned back in his chair, digesting that and giving a moment in case Sylar had something more to add. He wasn't angry, despite the venom Sylar was lobbing his way. Sylar was venting and being honest. It was a nice change from how emotionally constipated the man normally was. _Funny – it was a Petrelli whose motives I was asking about. But this isn't about Arthur anymore. _"Yeah, I did that." He shifted back forward, speaking seriously and calmly, staying completely focused. "And I've done more than that, some of which you know. What I don't get is how you know some of the things I've done, yet still think I couldn't understand someone who's made bad choices.

"I'm not comfortable calling anyone a monster." He glanced off to the side for a moment, thinking of his two encounters with the malformed Mohinder. "Physical transformations aside." He looked back to Sylar. "As for evil … I don't think you're as lost as you think you are." _At least I hope you aren't. I thought the dream meant you'd save her. _"For one thing, you've got some strong opinions about what I've done that's good and bad. Those are coming from somewhere, from some sense of morality and fairness."

XXX

At first Sylar shifted, busy trying to work his mind into rationalizing the inconsistency of perfect Peter doing bad things. His eyes and head snapped up at Peter's out and open refusal to call 'anyone' a monster. He was insulted, yet his soul thrilled a little because he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't at least felt like a monster. He sat up and forward for this. _I look like a monster? _That confused him greatly. The natural camouflage his body offered had served him very well in hiding his true nature, although everyone, aware or not, still reacted to the raw power he exuded…when he allowed it to show. Never mind what he'd always felt like growing up. He frowned – first at being called an ugly troll (feeling fear, horror and sadness that he couldn't hide that part of himself even in his looks anymore), his frown deepening at the rest.

_How the hell am I not lost? My act is…that I'm not lost…that's right. But I really am. And he can't ever know that._ Peter had worked him into a scowl by the end of it; he had a point and he was right on the money. He sniffed and haughtily scooted his way around to lie on his side, back to Peter, hissing out a yelp as his right hip pulled under him, "Aah!" His only response as he got situated so was a bitter, bitchy mutter of, "Morals of a monster. They're nothing compared to your saintly ones, I'm sure."

XXX

As usual, when Peter won an argument, it wasn't nearly as satisfying as he wanted it to be. He wasn't sure anyone's mind had been changed or anything useful had been accomplished. But maybe Sylar was going to sleep. That was a good thing, as Peter realized the conversation had likely only been agitating and bothering an already tired and hurting man.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair and ruffling his hair – once, twice, then bunching it up a third time and finishing up by swiping it out of his eyes. For good measure, he shifted and got out his comb, despite that calling into question why he'd tousled it to start with. Peter finished with his comb, returned it to his pocket, and watched Sylar for a while. He could see the man's face in profile. He was handsome. Nearly all the swelling had gone down and most of the discoloration from their fight had faded.

_Monster._ Peter's mind drifted to when he'd told Mohinder that in the future, the man had changed into one. He'd disliked the term even then, but it was the only shorthand that had come to Peter's rattled mind at the time. He'd been drained of powers, abandoned by his father (which was something of a surprise, actually – the man hated him, Peter knew, but the last time he'd seen his dad for any length of time, he'd thought they were just normal father and son battles), strapped down, and about to be given a probably lethal injection. Seconds later, Sylar had burst dramatically into the room and saved him, for no reason Peter could divine other than the supposition of blood relation – ironic given that the 'real' blood relations had been the ones to put Peter there.

_Morals of a monster. No talking about it with a Petrelli. Yeah, I can see the point. I can't trust them either._ Peter's face pulled a frown and he turned away, looking at the puzzle. He buried his mind in the minutia of quietly placing pieces for the next few hours, rising a few times to stretch and watching with concern as Sylar occasionally twitched or whimpered in his sleep. Peter frowned at that, too._ If I wake him every time he has a bad dream, then he'll never any sleep at all. He looks miserable._ Shaking his head, he left it alone and eventually started on making some simple salmon sandwiches to take with them for lunch. The grinding of the can opener sounded loud in the confines of the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar came to with a grunted groan. _What? Who…?_ He couldn't decide if he was irked or pleased to be woken. He'd been dreaming childhood nightmares of legitimate monsters – the under-the-bed and in-the-closet kinds. The shadows still got to him sometimes, if he wasn't paying attention, if he didn't swiftly convince himself it was his imagination. Tilting his head around, he searched the room for the source of the sound, imminently fearing that he hadn't really woken up and that the sound was just a medical device transformed for torturous purposes. Something that could grind tin (he knew it was tin) would have no difficulty with the soft flesh of a human body, namely his own.

Sylar worriedly cleared his throat, loudly, "Uhmm-hmm. Hey?" he called out, unsure of who would walk through the door or answer. With that, he pulled himself up by his elbows, trying to keep his head's motions to a minimum as he shifted to his left to face the kitchen. "What-what are you doing?" The sound was familiar, but it had been so long since he'd heard it, and after his disturbed sleep (which he might still be lost in), and being unsure of who he was at the moment (a glance at his hands confirmed he was in his own body at least), and whoever might make an appearance…Sylar hesitated to nail this down as his reality. He hoped for a response – silence might kill him because it would mean he'd truly lost his mind (again, if he wanted to get technical) – and a pleasant one from a pleasant source. That was probably asking too much.

XXX

Can openers, like most of the world, were designed for right handed people. It wasn't something Peter usually thought about, but then again he didn't usually have a bum right hand. He could hold the handles with his left, but he couldn't get the torque he needed with his right without a lot of misery. Irregular grinding was interspersed with grunts, curses, hisses of pain, and the occasional clatter as Peter dropped the damn thing. It hadn't occurred to him to save the task for Sylar.

He missed Sylar's first noises, but clued to the second, longer question. _Crap. I was being noisy. Did he hear me cursing? Well … he needed to get up anyway._ "Ah … I was just trying to get this can open," Peter said, setting can and opener aside and wiping some stray fish juice off his brace. He left the kitchen, saying, "I could really use some help in here. I was going to make salmon sandwiches for lunch. Need to know what you want on yours – butter, mayo, nothing at all?" Peter stopped next to the couch, looking at Sylar's confused, just-a-little fearful expression. He looked so open … It was weird given how frightening he could be at other times. Peter smiled softly, in a manner that could have passed as fond, though his feelings were more for the way Sylar looked than Sylar himself.

XXX

_Peter_. For no good reason (really, the reason was probably Nathan, or so Sylar chose to blame) why his reaction consisted of his heart going _thub-lub!_ upon hearing Peter's voice. It was equal parts relief and affection (yeah…affection) and the rest fear and tension. _It's just Peter. _Telling himself that didn't help. He couldn't figure why Peter was here at all so he was a mess of confusion. _Can? Can of…what?_ _Oh. What? _Then Peter said the magic word as he entered the living room – help. But Sylar was still stuck between deciding if the situation was dream or reality because, c'mon…this scene had to be a dream.

Peter was…smiling. Something foreign twisted in him because it wasn't often someone showed him a happy or pleased face and when they did it was usually a joke (at his expense) or they wanted something. And Peter just said he wanted 'help'. Sylar always hated when a person appeared to smile at him when they were really smiling at someone else standing behind or beside Sylar. He just wasn't pleasing. So seeing that expression made it that much more likely this was a dream.

"Am I awake?" he thought to ask. Getting lunch and a smile from Peter freaking Petrelli was a very big stretch, one his mind was amply capable of supplying and sick enough to provide.

XXX

Peter's smile broadened, taking that as a compliment – 'Am I dreaming? There's someone in my house making me lunch and taking care of me? I must be dreaming!' "Ha. Yeah, buddy, you're awake. Come on. Let's get you up." He put his right hand behind Sylar's shoulder and nudged to guide/encourage him upright. "If you're okay with it, I'd like to go out with-" Peter stumbled on the wording, nearly saying he wanted to go out with Sylar. "Go outside together. Um, go down the street to where we found that piano and see if I can't tune it a little or something. I think it might be good for us to get some air, see something outside of the apartment." _And get away from this constant ticking!_

He stepped back a little, giving Sylar some space while the man finished getting oriented. The salmon wasn't going anywhere; they weren't in a hurry. Peter had to tell himself that, though. The prospect of leaving on an expedition other than 'going shopping' or 'going back to my apartment' was exciting.

XXX

The smaller man's smile turned up the wattage and Sylar's stomach nearly lost it from nerves right then. He wanted to look behind him to see if someone else was standing in the bathroom; that might explain who or why Peter was smiling at all, but he was too paranoid to look away from the potential threat. _What is he smiling about?_ Peter reached out and Sylar had to control his cringe: 'Let's get you up', that wasn't a good sign. Oh, he picked up on the impatience alright. Either he would be made to get up or he could do it on his own in a damn hurry.

Sylar bit his tongue to hold back his noises of pain on sitting up as fast as he did, head swimming, hip spasming, nauseous, spine a little stiff. He wound up gasping, breathing harder and blinking to see straight. Peter didn't do anything more than touch him. Sylar couldn't figure out his part in this as he didn't even know what the impatience was about, besides maybe sleeping for too long (but Peter didn't seem angry – it just threw him off all the more). "What do you want?" he managed emphasis on 'want', his question surprisingly un-sassy as he was asking seriously. More information might tell if this was a head-trip or real-time. He turned so Peter was firmly on his left, his feet on the ground, albeit supporting himself on either side with a hand to the couch cushions.

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar. The man was acting hurt. Well, probably not 'acting'. _Did I get him up too quick? Maybe he's just stiff? Or maybe he slept wrong. _"Just thought maybe you could turn the can opener easier than I can. I was having a lot of trouble with it." Peter fidgeted. Help? Don't help? Go back to the kitchen? Say something useful? _Relax. He's just … getting his bearings._ "Just … catch your breath. Come on in when you're ready."


	50. Butterfingers

_Day 13, Noon_

Peter took off into the kitchen, setting out a couple sandwich bags and then getting out the cloth reusable bag he'd been using for groceries. He couldn't think of anything else they'd need. The place probably had a vending machine somewhere they could raid for drinks. Failing that, there were always apartments. He turned and leaned against the counter, trying to stifle his enthusiasm, frustrated already that Sylar couldn't keep up and that Peter would need to go slow.

Peter gave a small cock to his head as he stared at the faded, slightly uneven linoleum. _I'm thinking about … me. Not him. Not what he needs. I'm not … caring that I'm going too fast or he needs me to slow down. _His head tilted the other way now. _Of course, why __**should **__I care about him? Given who he is?_ Peter had lived his life doing for others. He sensed what they needed or wanted and he provided. There was no thought about it, no consideration of whether or not he wanted to do that with his time. It just was. Barring his disastrous interactions with authority figures, his life was a constant flow of finding out how he could be what other people wanted him to be – the hero. His understanding was so intuitive that he rarely paused to think about what people would really benefit from, or about nuances of needs. He certainly had never caught himself, before now, thinking about what **he** wanted with no regard for the desires of another.

Peter was caught in the dilemma that not only was he being selfish, but he didn't want to be anything other. For the first time, he didn't think this other person deserved, or had a right to, Peter's selflessness. His eyes came up to the doorway, a small line in place between his eyes to mark the serious thought he was giving this.

XXX

Somehow Sylar did not get the feeling that he'd actually be allowed the time it would take for him to 'catch his breath'. Sylar took a few anyway, desperate to calm his nerves before throwing himself into what was sure to be the middle of the storm. _Why are "_we" _tuning a piano again? Although a piano makes music…maybe he wants to play…and I could listen?_ That was very good motivation for going at all (or trying to go at all, rather). He'd lacked sound or company for too long. Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet (still dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt from the day before, but he was groomed for the day) and wobbled into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his face before he was in view of Peter. _Something about a can opener?_ When he did round the corner to see Peter, the guy had a deep, thinking face on and that stopped him short in the doorway. He felt, as usual, that he was out of place and interrupting. Sylar tilted his head, curious as to what was causing that expression (of mixed feelings about it even if Peter was finally contemplating poisoning him) and wondering what he should be doing. _Really, that face can't be good for me. Peter's thinking…not a good sign? _He didn't speak, in case that, in addition to his presence, was out of line; instead he tried to school his own face into a somewhat-interested blank canvas, ready and available for anything.

XXX

Peter straightened and focused on Sylar, waving at the can where it sat on the counter. "If you could finish opening that for me, I'd really appreciate it." He shelved his too-deep introspection. He wanted to go and he wanted to bring sandwiches, so that clarified what he needed to do at the moment. He glanced around the kitchen, again trying to think of what was next. Bread and a fork were already sitting out, so … spread? "What do you want on yours?"

XXX

Sylar followed the directions, glad to be given any at all, glad Peter's…mood had passed (leaving him unharmed). The can was easy with two hands; he shuffled over and threw away the 'lid' of the can, returning to the counter. "Mayo and mustard…Please."

XXX

Peter got out the condiments along with bringing over the butter and dinner knife. He stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to juggle this, with who doing what, that would work out best. He only needed to butter one piece of his bread for his customary treatment, which meant he could use the salmon right now. And he didn't know how much of what Sylar wanted on his sandwich. "Uh … here. You hand me the salmon and the fork. I'll give you the bread and toppings. You set up yours like you want it and I'll get some fish on mine." Peter pulled out two slices for himself first, then pushed the stuff over in front of Sylar.

Peter smiled a little in quiet amusement that he and Sylar were cooperating on a project, however trivial. Sylar had proven to be a lot of help around the kitchen, which Peter appreciated a lot. The combativeness and uncertainty of the first few days had faded. Now they were standing practically shoulder to shoulder doing something together. It was cheering, given the prospect of being stuck in this place for the long haul.

XXX

Sylar took bread, condiments and knife, opening the jar of mayo with ease. He applied it with far less coordination than a watchmaker or brain-man should, or so he felt, and that upset him because his hands wouldn't obey (even though he knew the cause was his brain – it was always at fault). Something with the balance involved with knife and delicate bread with both hands was taking too long, and he did try to hurry and be thorough because…Peter was in a hurry. He didn't question that or his own rushing. Mayo went on one half of the bread, mustard on the other.

XXX

Peter handed over the can of salmon and the fork after he was done, waiting for Sylar to hand him the knife. "Knife, please," he prompted when Sylar didn't seem to clue to that right away. Peter licked off the mayo and mustard without a second thought, followed by using the knife to cut into the stick of softened butter for his own spread.

XXX

After that Sylar was stumped, left holding the knife, literally. _Ha? Murder weapon_. He gave a slight start, mostly at hearing Peter's voice again (and so close to him), looking at the utensil before passing it over. Peter then licked the knife…and stuck it in the butter. Sylar gaped. When he recovered, his voice was part whine, part rebuke, "Peter! What the hell?" He shelved his thoughts of, _Well, I don't mind watching him lick things, but the rest of that…_"That's gross!" Now his tone was definitely wheedling, but he couldn't help it.

XXX

"What?" Peter's voice sounded more startled and confused than outraged or argumentative. He shot a quick glance down at his partly-buttered bread. _You aren't one of those guys who object to meat with dairy, are you? I always thought that was just beef and pork anyway._ "It's … it's just butter," Peter stammered uncertainly, thrown on the defensive and having no idea what Sylar was objecting to.

XXX

"You licked the knife and stuck it in the butter." Sylar with dripping condescension, not buying Peter's little innocence act. _I'm not Nathan and that won't work on me._ Peter's fuck up, intentional or otherwise, was obvious.

XXX

"Well, uh ..." _Yeah, that's gross._ He looked dumbly at the butter again, trying to weigh if he should defend himself aggressively, maybe by asserting there wasn't anything wrong with what he did? After all, Peter helped with food prep all the time and … yeah, indefensible. And he didn't want to pursue that angle and perhaps make it so Sylar refused to eat anything Peter made. He wondered how many times Sylar had not noticed Peter tasting things while they were cooking. Given the number of times he'd 'gotten away with' it (generally without considering any potential wrongness to what he was doing), he didn't feel like apologizing, either. "So what?" Peter threw that out there with mild belligerence, committing himself to little and hoping that Sylar would back down. "It's _my_ sandwich," he added, trying to distract from the part about putting the knife into the communal butter. _I'm not doing anything wrong … right?_

XXX

Blinking and honestly stunned by the insinuation that proper food etiquette was above his ilk and that he should just roll over and take that disrespect, Sylar decided that rolling over once would only encourage more of the same from Peter. With some heat, he shot back, "So that's unsanitary and gross. That's my butter you just licked. Why would you do that? Do you know how many germs exist in the mouth? Do you think I want that all over my fucking food?" _Really, Peter! Just because it's my fucking butter, it's okay to spit in, is that it? I'm not a monster, but you'll slobber on my food and that's okay? That doesn't even make sense!_

XXX

"I didn't lick the butter!" But Peter was retreating, physically at the very least, as he went to the sink and tossed the knife beside it with more force than necessary. It clattered noisily on the counter. _And it's not YOUR butter as long as we're eating here together all the time!_ "There's nothing gross about it. Germs don't live on butter. That's why people leave it out all the time." Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? "It's like … olive oil. It doesn't go bad." That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn't contaminate it first, but they couldn't have been _that _cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?

XXX

Sylar twitched and winced at the noise (and noise level) of the knife being thrown into the sink. Peter was still speaking, so he listened, feeling strangely that he was the one doing something wrong, not Peter.

XXX

"There's nothing gross about it. Germs don't live on butter. That's why people leave it out all the time." Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? "It's like … olive oil. It doesn't go bad." That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn't contaminate it first, but they couldn't have been _that _cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?

XXX

"I…" was Sylar's brilliant defense, his head thundering and it felt like it was blinding him of reason and expression. Peter's explanation made sense, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember if it was factual or not. He had no idea how to find out – obviously asking Peter, his erstwhile caretaker, wasn't going to work. _Olive oil?_ Sure, that stuff lasted for a while, but that had nothing to do with butter or germs near as Sylar could determine (which wasn't accurate in and of itself either). Assuming the topic truly was germs or butter. _I'm confused…_

XXX

Peter got out another knife from the drawer and came back, making an elaborate show of using the new knife to carve off the next chunk of butter, along with an exasperated but somewhat playful look at Sylar. "See? All _my _germs are going on _my_ sandwich which will go in _my _mouth. The butter is purified again." He tried to put a good face on it, hoping Sylar would drop the matter. He'd fixed it and he'd make sure to be more careful next time if Sylar was in line of sight.

XXX

Feeling put on the hot seat for doing something wrong, he didn't know what it was, and properly put in his place, Sylar experienced hurt. Peter acted like whatever it was Sylar had done was far beyond what Sylar thought it was, though that wasn't a new occurrence in his life_. I-I didn't think it was that bad…I don't even know what I did…_But somehow, it was his fault, not Peter's. _I was just upset about the b-…Oh. I can't…be upset now? Not even about my food? What will he do next time I complain and he has a sharp object?_ Sylar considered the force behind throwing the knife and the elaborate posturing and sarcasm Peter made when getting a new knife. The threat sunk in and Peter made his point. Sylar's face shifted from hurt and confused to understanding and blank with a healthy hint of 'I don't like this; I still think you're wrong.' "Okay," he said quietly, still unhappy, ducking his head back down to tend to his sandwich (at least, he _thought_ that's what he'd been doing before, given the ingredients that lay before him), applying his probably-contaminated salmon to the bread. _That's still really gross. I don't…see why I have to put up with this._

XXX

_'Okay?' _Peter thought, watching Sylar as much as he could out of the corner of his eye as he assembled his own sandwich. _That's it?_ He replaced the cover on the butter dish and pushed it to the rear of the counter. Peter carried his knife over to the sink, resisting the urge to defiantly lick this one, too. He set it down with less flourish. Sylar was acting weird – a bit drawn up, fidgeting with his sandwich, head down. _I wonder if I intimidated him somehow?_ Peter couldn't think of what he'd done that might be taken that way, so he gave a slight roll of his eyes and went to collect up a baggie for his sandwich. As he passed by Sylar, the man stopped all movements until Peter took his former position next to him. Peter wasn't sure what to say about that. He bagged his sandwich. Finished, Peter turned and scrutinized Sylar more obviously as he mulled over what it meant that Sylar had conceded so quickly.

XXX

Sylar felt the other man's eyes on him. He'd been spotted. Surely that was a silent social demand for an explanation or submission of some sort. Sylar angled himself away as much as possible as he hastened to conclude making his sandwich. When Peter didn't quit, Sylar glanced towards him, murmuring a half-honest, half-confused, "I'm sorry…?" to see if that would lift the watchfulness or alleviate whatever Peter's problem was (Peter seemed to think it was Sylar's fault to begin with).

XXX

"You … you don't need to be sorry," Peter said slowly, looking away. _I was the one who did something wrong, not you. Is he afraid I'll leave if he argues with me? Is that what he'd do if our positions were reversed? What kind of care would he take of me? _Peter's eyes unfocused a little as he thought about Sylar taping his hand a few days before, holding the brace for him a few days before that. He wasn't sure what kind of a caretaker Sylar would be. _Seems likely Sylar doesn't know either._

XXX

That said, with nothing else to do, Sylar looked around until Peter told him, "Bag your sandwich."

_What? Where are…?_ He glanced for the bags, spotting them, procuring one and getting his meal in with little trouble. He wanted to move away, but didn't, even after his tasks were done. Sylar was not comfortable or appreciative of Peter's orders (even if he supposed they were rational – _Sylar_ was the irrational one here, of course) and once they were completed, he had nothing to do but stand there in the man's continued presence – something that might prove dangerous in long periods.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar. "Get that bag over there and lets put the sandwiches in them. Is there anything else you want to take with us?"

XXX

Sylar turned to his left and saw the canvas bag Peter had been using of late; he brought it within their combined reach and assisted in loading it, once again, without question or comment. _I'd like a Taser to keep you away from me if things get bad. I really can't keep up…This isn't good._

XXX

Peter glanced down Sylar's form, giving a tiny jerk as he noticed something amiss. "Um, you need to change into jeans. Get some socks and shoes on. And you'll need your jacket. It's been gloomy and overcast out there for most of the week." Pretty much since they'd had the fight. Peter had wondered if there was a connection, but speculating about it seemed as pointless as trying to pretend he didn't need sleep or food here in this crazy world. The world was as it was, regardless of what was causing it. "I'm pretty sure it rained or drizzled overnight once," he added conversationally, wondering if that was a new thing for Sylar here or if it was just something that happened now and then. "The pavement was wet when I went out."

XXX

"Huh?" Sylar looked down at himself more slowly because of his head. It took him longer to reach Peter's conclusion, but he got there, taking that as a dismissal, he shuffled out into the living room to look for the items. He wasn't in any particular hurry, aside from Peter's jittery mood. They weren't anywhere apparent, in plain view. He thought to check where Peter was before he began and saw Peter watching him from the entryway; he straightened and did his best to walk like he wasn't hurt; Peter was searching for weaknesses. When he'd fooled his nurse into disinterest - Peter having returned to the kitchen - he moved slow once again, his steps less sure, his expression lost. A few long moments later, he'd gathered socks and jeans, taking them into the bathroom on habit, instinct – there was company in the apartment after all. He tripped on the leg of the jeans on the way, grunting and huffing, but Peter wasn't there to see and his neck remained unbroken. He sat on the covered toilet seat – door shut - and changed pants, then suffered through the splitting pounding of the headache by leaning over to apply the socks. _Uhh. That hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts. Why are we going out? Why do I have to go?_ He did stop to check his hair, sweeping it back again anyway, just in case.

Sylar returned to the kitchen, jean- and sock-clad, clearly forgetting the other two garments. He waited once more for direction, trying to take up as little space and annoy as little as possible.

XXX

Peter puttered around the kitchen while Sylar did his thing. He put away the mayonnaise and mustard, then sealed the bread and put it away. Lacking anything else to do, he went the extra mile and wiped up the crumbs from the counter and rinsed the knives. There really wasn't much else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, so he washed the knives, thinking still-slightly-outraged thoughts about Sylar calling his habits 'gross'.

Then Sylar returned, still missing shoes. That made Peter think about what else he'd directed and realize that wasn't the only thing missing. "Shoes, Sylar," he said with an exasperated tone. "You're gonna need your shoes. Do you know where they are?" Peter gave a quick sweep of the kitchen, having no idea where the guy kept most of his things. _Next to the door? _Peter herded Sylar out of the kitchen, looking next to the door. _No shoes._

XXX

_Uh-oh. No, I don't know where they are, obviously_. Peter advanced on him and Sylar backed up, not liking the empath's tone. His hands were jerked from his pockets as he back-pedaled into the living room. He was ready to defend because he couldn't tell what Peter was going to do – or do to him – about the lack of shoes. "Uh…um…" he threw out as a stalling tactic (really, it was all he thought to say), his voice a bit strained. Sylar didn't feel like incurring more bodily harm than strictly necessary. _Think…try to think. Where were they last? _On thinking that, he heard his mother's voice harping that at him, and not just about shoes. It was a good lesson – one he would have figured out eventually, but this one had her voice ingrained into it like a broken record. It probably helped freak him out more in his…impressionable state.

XXX

"Sit … just … sit down, Sylar." Peter considered reaching out and steering the guy to the couch, but thought better of that. Touching him seemed like a bad idea with Sylar acting apprehensive like this. Instead he just gestured and waited for Sylar to comply. "I'll find them." And just like that, he spotted the toe of one shoe sticking out from next to the couch, between the tote and the furniture. He maneuvered around his companion, picking up the shoes and handing them to him.

XXX

Sylar sat as directed, not wanting to find out what frustrated Peter would do if he didn't. Peter was clearly frustrated with him and he didn't like that feeling at all. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten so bad all of a sudden. _(It's just shoes…) You can't keep track of your own goddamn shoes? No wonder he's upset! (I don't…want to make trouble…) Than keep track of your shit._ Luckily Peter first offered to look for them – he'd certainly do a better, faster job at it than Sylar would – then found them almost immediately after. "Thank you," he murmured gratefully and bent down to slip them on, tightening and tying off the laces as best he could, but the pressure to his head upon leaning over was incredible.

XXX

Peter turned away immediately, scanning around the place. "Now where's your jacket?" He gave Sylar a quick glance and then went to the closet, looking around through it without so much as asking permission. _Am I being a dick or am I being helpful, trying to find his jacket and get us both moving? Probably being a dick._ He sighed, not having found what he wanted anyway. There was no jacket, although there were a couple shirts heavier than what Sylar was currently wearing that would be better than nothing. _It's got to be around here somewhere._

XXX

_Fuck. The jacket, too? Ye-ah, we're going out, remember? Can't remember anything today._ "I don't know," he said in the same tone as before, minus the gratitude. He looked up at the sounds of Peter…opening his closet. While Peter had already seen the contents, the action seemed a little…rude. Peter thought he owned the place, which, again, wasn't anything new to Sylar. _Act like a kid, get treated like one,_ he thought with resignation. He tried to think back if he'd ever tried to get the guy to respect his belongings. _Aside from…butter, I guess._

XXX

"Maybe it's in the bathroom," Peter muttered, closing the closet door and passing by Sylar on his way there. A quick search was fruitless. _His bed? Didn't he get undressed over here? _Peter went to Sylar's bedside, trying to remember. _I brought Sylar in. He sat on the couch. I cleaned him up. He … he took his jacket off and used it like a pillow. _Peter turned and looked at the couch. Sure enough, there under the blanket, an easy arm's reach from Sylar, was the jacket, wedged into the seam of the couch.

Peter walked over slowly, hands a little out to either side, palms forward. "Hey." He tried to soften his voice some because he had the feeling he was being a bit rough. "Your jacket's right here." He pulled it out and offered it. Peter gave a brief mental debate about taking a breather or taking off right away. His stomach growling settled the matter. They could rest and hang out wherever they were going rather than impatiently cooling his heels here, waiting for whatever. "Put it on and we'll take off."

XXX

Sylar breathed something of a sigh of relief. His companion found the- his wayward jacket. Both shoes and jacket had been within reach the entire time, too, but Peter made no additional comment about that, didn't rub it in. Best of all, Peter appeared to take his intensity level down a notch, which Sylar appreciated almost as much. Sylar took the jacket, flashing a brief twitch of his lips towards a grin in thanks, both for the assistance and the muted behavior. He threw the jacket around himself with hands that decreased their previous shaking and poked his left fist at the armhole a few times before succeeding. He looked up at Peter on hearing the hunger pangs. That was…kind of amusing. He bit back his facial expression in reaction to it, though his face probably shifted before smoothing out again: situation normal. Standing, after a few seconds to balance, he moved past Peter and towards the door with the feeling that he really was forgetting something now. Sylar hesitated at the hallway, betwixt kitchen, living room and entry door.

XXX

Peter grabbed his own jacket off the chair, swinging into it with only a few pangs from lingeringly sore muscles and joints. Head down as he followed, he was wondering if he should look out the window before they went or what, when Sylar stopped suddenly. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye and nearly ran into the guy before putting on the brakes. His left hand flew up and touched Sylar's hip or waist. "Oh! Sorry. Almost ..." Yeah. Peter sidestepped away to the right, looking at Sylar expectantly for the cause of the delay.

XXX

"Um…" Sylar gulped. Even that casual touch was distracting. Whatever he'd been trying to remember or think on was blasted into a million pieces on that contact. He looked once, quickly, at Peter, noting that he wasn't going to be slugged or dragged around or berated or even sighed at for having stopped the show. That helped. He turned in something of a half circle, taking his time, looking over his apartment, hoping whatever he'd forgotten would jump out at him with obviousness. When his eyes reached the kitchen, he spotted it. Sylar pointed to the cloth bag with the sandwiches inside, saying to the closer, more mobile man, "Peter," with something of a nod. His body language said something to the effect of 'would you?'

XXX

Peter's brows rose slightly and he pulled his head back in surprise at the familiarity, although it certainly wasn't out of place since he'd been virtually helping the guy dress. He turned and looked where Sylar was gesturing. "Ha. Yeah, almost forgot. Got distracted with the clothes and stuff." _We're a weird pair, aren't we?_ Peter thought with a moment of warmth. He reached for the bag and slipped it up his right arm to the elbow, turning back and hesitating himself now. He made a couple formless gestures as he mocked out how he might support or catch Sylar if the man lost his balance. He mentally ran through different positions – leading, guiding, or even the more involved Sylar's-arm-over-Peter's-shoulder that they'd used to get Sylar from the fight to his apartment. In any of them, having the bag on his right arm seemed best, even if it was a bit purse-like at the moment. The appearance of masculinity was not very important.

Peter settled on leaving the bag where it was and waved decisively at the door. "Let's go." And out they went.

XXX

He stifled a sigh. _Back to it, I see. He's really going to frog-march and drag me to the piano whether I'm up for it or not._ Once he realized the severity of it, Sylar did his best to settle into 'alert energy conservation' mode. He knew he couldn't go at his own speed, either, for Peter would be on him, hovering or huffing at him. Keeping up was his only option. He didn't like that much, but none of this (barring the sandwich) was for him. _I could have sworn he said bed rest and sleep…This just doesn't seem like a good idea to me._ Hell, just being in the hall was a little chilling, so, yes, Sylar was biased in wanting to slide back under his blanket on the couch. If he did that, though, Peter would just leave him there for God-alone-knew how long and go without him.

Hands at his sides, he proceeded down the hall, leaving Peter to shut the door which he did, Sylar heard. He walked at a medium-slow pace, still limping on toes and hip though he tried to cover that up; his back and neck were protesting the motion. When he rounded the corner to get to the elevator, taking it because he really didn't want to take his chances with Peter in a stairwell, he noticed the nurse was catching up to him, like he'd been lingering behind for some reason. That was baffling. _He's not admiring the view, not with this limp; even if he is practically riding me to get me going on this adventure._ He slowed to accommodate, until he was waiting with Peter at the elevator, having pushed the button already for the doors to open.

XXX

Peter hung back. He was still impatient, yes, but he'd nearly rear-ended Sylar once already and he also needed to see how well Sylar was moving. He didn't know if he needed to give a lot of support or just walk slowly. For now, Sylar had a lot of surfaces to hang onto as they made their way to the elevator. Peter glanced into the cart of books and at the piles of stuff scattered around. Peter wasn't a neat freak or compulsive about organizing things, but the stuff still nagged at him. He didn't even really want to put it up or throw it out so much as understand what it was doing here, in Sylar's head. _Cluttered? Sylar's head is cluttered? What's it mean that I emptied my apartment? That I'm brainless or something?_ He didn't feel brainless or unthinking, so that couldn't be it. _Maybe he has a lot of baggage to unpack and that's what all this stuff is? Though if that's the case, then why's my apartment empty? I'm not exactly baggage-free myself._

He watched Sylar contemplatively. _You and I both have a lot of … stuff to process before we can be …_ Peter's mind blanked, not able to find the right word. 'Normal', 'sane', 'decent' … none seemed right. _Functional, maybe._ "Hey, I'm glad you're coming with me." Peter made a tip of his head. "Getting out. Today. Thanks." He hoped it wasn't more effort that Sylar was up to.

XXX

XXX

They moved inside the car and Peter pressed the button for the lobby as Sylar settled into the railing, making it look casual even though it was more of a slump. At the man's dialogue, Sylar made a quizzical, somewhat wary face. _So now I'm likeable? We go on a trip and now you like me?_ Up til now Sylar was pretty damn sure he'd been the ball-and-chain holding Peter back. Still the nurse had some moments of appearing calm, relaxed and peaceful, even happy – he'd given a smile just earlier. 'Drag your patients around much, Petrelli?' he thought to quip, but didn't. _He's glad? _The door dinged and he moved to exit the car, making a half nod back, "Yeah, sure." _He's thanking me for this? Why does he act like I have a choice? He must be planning something. That's the only explanation. I bet he's gonna make me clean up the glass he broke._ Sylar walked through the lobby and out onto the street, catching the full effect of the overcast clouds and slightly rainy weather in his face. He was relieved that Peter was carrying the bag because looking over the wide streets, which offered him no support; he knew he'd need all the balance he could get. His mind was filled with the fear of stumbling or growing tired, left to crawl after Peter as he walked away and left him there on the sidewalk and that was going to have to be enough motivation to keep himself upright and moving.

Again he waited, bracing himself for the journey, for Peter to indicate their direction. _I don't even know where he's going to find him_, he thought with more paranoia disguising his fear.

XXX

Peter came outside, looking up at the crappy weather. It wasn't nasty by any means and certainly wasn't something to send him back inside, but it wasn't good. "I should have brought an umbrella. Well, it's not far." He popped his collar against the chilly air and gestured to the right. For the first block (the same one that Sylar's apartment building was on), they could walk under the overhang of the buildings, with a firm (though glass) wall on the right if Sylar wanted support. Peter fell into step on the man's left, moving slowly and taking small steps.

XXX

Somehow that gesture made him feel better – just a little bit. Peter popping his collar was familiar to him.

XXX

Once they were past this block, they would cross a street and have a half block of nothing useful as support (well, aside from trees and a flimsy fence on this side of the street, and intermittent planters on the other side). Then, if they went to the other side of the street, they'd be back under an awning for the other half of the block. The building Peter wanted to go to was on that side, the next block over. So from where they were, they had a half block of protected distance, a street to cross diagonally, a half block of open space, another half block of protection, cross another street, and they were at their destination. Seemed simple, right?

Peter sized Sylar up discreetly as they walked. He seemed stable enough. But he was also very stiff, very careful, pale, and shooting Peter irregular, jerky looks. The looks were like Peter was a predator who might at any point detect weakness and pounce. Sylar looked stressed and scared, but reading this guy's emotions was like deciphering code. Peter thought about what had worked before. Even though he was itching to ask Sylar if he needed or wanted help, he was virtually certain that wouldn't get him an honest answer – just an 'I'm fine' like earlier.

Peter swapped the bag of food to his left, taking the straps in his hand. He stepped closer to Sylar and offered his right arm, sticking out his elbow like he was offering to guide a blind person. "Take hold of my elbow," he said, direct and plain, very intentionally not asking, but telling. He had to say the words distinctly and with effort to avoid asking, 'do you want to take hold …'. The obvious answer to that was 'no', because no, Sylar didn't want help. Or rather, he did want it, but he couldn't get his ego out of the way enough to ask for it. So Peter didn't make it a question.

XXX

_Uh…what?_ At first confused, he caught on when he saw the elbow. Sylar immediately felt like a girl being asked to dance or maybe a granny being asked about assistance to, yes, cross the fucking road, with Peter's elbow proffered like that. He frowned. Another glance at Peter's face made it clear this wasn't optional. He set his mouth, trying not to sneer at the offer, really. _He's making me dependent on him now. Great._ He didn't bother to hide his reluctance in taking Peter's arm – _Thank God there's no one here to see this, thank God there's no one here to see this, thank God…_

XXX

After fifty feet or so of walking, Peter tried to make small talk – the contact, even so slight, changed the tenor between them from semi-comfortable silence to Peter wanting to engage. He didn't know what to say, so he tossed something out at random. In a low, neutral voice he asked, "Did you grow up here, in this neighborhood?" This neighborhood that was all in Sylar's head, but it was a representation and served well enough for the conversation.

XXX

The silence and steps dragged on until Sylar was quite uncomfortable. His hand was fisted in Peter's sleeve jacket to hold Peter to him in case the nurse made a dash for it or perhaps tried to trip him or…something, he didn't much know. Peter was too short for this to really work, but he was solid and something as they neared the next block where there would be no otherwise support. "Ha!" The question was an odd and unexpected one, so he laughed, sort of. "No, no. No," he shook his head, amused and a little envious of the idea. _He thinks I came from somewhere like this? I must…be doing a good job, then._

"I was raised by wolves," Sylar elaborated.

XXX

Peter laughed at that and looked back to flash Sylar a grin. "Oh, really? Ha." He shook his head slightly. "I was just wondering. So how old were you when you moved here?" He ambled diagonally across the street, jay-walking for the hell of it. He noticed Sylar really had a grip on his sleeve. The fabric was tight around Peter's arm. The weird part was that Sylar didn't seem to be using it for stability. It was more like he was just hanging onto him. _Huh._

XXX

Another strange question, not one he was unwilling to answer, though, so he did. "Um…four or five, I think….?" _I wasn't- I don't think I was born here. Don't know where I was born, actually. There was that…diner. Big Jim's. I think I was about that age._ "My mom would tell you I was born at Queens Hospital, but…" he exhaled and shook his head again dismissively. It didn't quite register what exactly he'd let slip (or nearly so) for a moment. It sunk in and he panicked some more, needing a hasty, believable, cover-up. "Uh…I mean…She was….easily…confused." _She's not the only one…_

XXX

Peter glanced back again. "Yeah? Moms," he said, looking away with an eloquent expression of disapproval towards certain maternal figures. Almost entirely, Peter meant his own, but it was … interesting to know that Sylar's mother hadn't been a stable, trustworthy element in his life, either. He recalled Sylar saying something about not knowing if he had any siblings. That could mean a lot of different things.

"I had a call once – EMT work - for a teenage boy who'd overdosed on drugs. The kid's mother had called us, but as soon as we got there, she started insisting he was fine and that she didn't know why we were there. We had the right address. We asked to see him anyway and he definitely was in trouble. So we started getting him out of there and all the time his mother is telling us that he hadn't taken anything, he was just sick from eating too much candy. There was a grandmother in the home. Far as I could tell from seeing her around, she had some form of senile dementia. There was no one else in the house. Poor kid. We were loading him into the ambulance and his mom was yelling at us that he'd never done anything wrong and didn't deserve to be taken away from her again. The kid was real quiet through everything. Of course he was hurting, but he was _real _quiet." Peter hesitated, Sylar's adamant 'I'm fine' and persistent efforts to conceal his injuries coming to mind, along with the odd way he was hanging onto Peter's sleeve. "Once the doors were shut, the boy started talking. He said his mother knew he was doing pills and stuff, but … I remember he told me, 'She doesn't talk to people. I mean, she says things, yeah, but she doesn't talk to them. Like Gramma.' It stuck with me."

XXX

Sylar swallowed. _See I'm not the only one._ He felt something shift in his chest at this story. He couldn't help but feel a little bit bad for the other kid because he knew just how horrible that could be. He couldn't help but wonder why the kid talked and admitted to the drugs. Clearly, the boy hadn't learned that every scrap of information circled back to the mother and telling medical officials anything was definitely a bad move. "Did he make it? The kid?" Sylar couldn't believe he was asking after the well-being of a drug-user, one too stupid to keep his mouth shut at that, but he was, apparently. _If Peter keeps making these not-subtle metaphors, maybe there's something to this ending._ The answer or conclusion seemed quite important, enough to ask after it.

XXX

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. They pumped his stomach and kept him overnight for observation. He was okay, as far as the drugs went. I don't think it was a suicide attempt." There was something to Sylar's tone that implied he was deeply interested, so Peter hesitated for a moment, thinking back and trying to pull up anything else he remembered about the case. "I heard they had to call social services to have someone pick him up, though. His mother didn't show. I hope they looked into his family life."


	51. A Little Off-Key

Day 13, Afternoon

"That, um…sounds…rough. You really can't talk to those people. They don't…see or hear you." Sylar attempted to keep his voice on 'commentary' mode - neutral by-stander with no experience - even though his eyes lost focus and he slowed his walking pace slightly, his head ducking down briefly before he stood straight as if nothing of interest had been said or felt. _I'd considered Alzheimer's but it doesn't work like dementia._ It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, for him to try to diagnose his own mother. He didn't want there to be anything wrong with her (or himself) at all, but he dealt with the evidence that the wrongness, the brokenness, existed every day. As a child, he remembered being afraid of being like her when he grew older – losing touch with the world and getting weird looks like he was crazy and needed to be on pills or locked away or lobotomized (an odd worry for a child, but now he knew why and it made sense in a sick kind of way), needing to be taken care of and not having his own life, his ability to function stripped from him.

XXX

Peter glanced back at Sylar, gathering that there was an emotional reaction going on back there other than just 'hey, that's an interesting story, what else happened?' He was silent for a few paces as they walked along, thinking back over the topic and Sylar's comment about his mother, his past comments about his father not being present in the house as he grew up, then about Sylar's interest in Jeremy's situation, and Peter's other suspicions of Sylar's past along with the talk of channeling or not his ability. There was definitely a picture coming together here. _It might explain things, but that's it. An explanation is not a justification. It's just not. No matter how bad his life was, that doesn't make it right for Sylar to kill and … do everything he did._ He ran through possible things to say – asking Sylar about childhood friends who might have been a support against an unstable parent, asking more pointedly about Sylar's mother, and so on. But it wasn't Peter's place to ask. Sylar had not extended that level of trust yet. And anyway, Sylar … well, he was telling his story, Peter realized. In bits and pieces, but he was telling it.

He exhaled heavily. "I hear you," he said, realizing a beat after saying it that it linked up with what Sylar had last said. He tensed a little, then let it go. It didn't say anything Peter hadn't meant.

XXX

Sylar thought, _No you don't. You just think you understand. You hear what you want to hear no matter what I say._ He shifted and didn't comment. There was too much behind it. That and he didn't know how to articulate a general feeling of frustration and not-being-understood.

XXX

After waiting a few beats, Peter cleared his throat and changed the subject, asking, "How far away was school from here? Did you walk or ride the bus or what?" They were approaching the next area with a building and overhang, which was to his left. Sylar was on his right. Peter wondered if the man would change sides for the support of the building, or keep hold of Peter, or switch and take up Peter's other arm. Since Sylar hadn't stumbled yet, Peter didn't make any suggestions and waited to see what Sylar would do.

XXX

Sylar frowned briefly, feeling the damp air beginning to invade the bottom of his lungs as they walked. Up the opposite sidewalk they went, continuing down it the same direction as before. But back to the question, which was somewhat confused or confusing. "What? I didn't live here. New York, yeah, but not this area. I think it was…maybe fifteen blocks? I rode and walked sometimes. School…" he panted as walking and talking and staying upright got to him, his head spinning a bit, pounding harder…Sylar tried to keep it all under control, "School….uh….new policy in junior…high. Got to ride." It was fun on occasion, getting in a vehicle and getting driven around to see things (almost always the same sights, the same route). If he let himself he could pretend it was an adventure or a road trip. Sometimes he didn't want to ride the bus with his peers, out of the elements though it was, his peers being too...everything – rude, crude, loud, mean, smelly, close, scary. Sometimes walking cleared his head; he rarely told Mom about those times. It was exercise and being outdoors, but she would say it was dangerous to walk alone even if the bus was a germ farm according to her.

XXX

_Ah, 'here' isn't here-here. He moved to New York from somewhere else, which is why the comment about his mother and the Queens hospital … which makes sense now. So if this isn't where he grew up, then why is he here? That's his apartment. Must be where he lived as an adult? Huh._ Peter was a little thrown because his own past labeled his parent's house as the only 'home' he had. Everywhere else had just been where he'd been staying at a particular time, sometimes changed semester to semester. They were crash-pads, some more disposable than others, and the Company and Homeland Security had made sure to drive that fact home, as it were.

_Is that why my apartment's empty and his isn't? That's his __**home**_. Peter gave a head-tilt that probably meant nothing to Sylar, if it was even noticed. A new level of respect for Sylar's things was called for.

Going back to the conversation, Peter asked, "Public school or private?"

XXX

Something toggled and things jumbled, overlapping in Sylar's mind's eye as he couldn't distinguish which life he'd lived; so many memories, so vastly different. Sylar was quiet for a moment, just trying to recover from that and refocus, hell, remember the question while he was at it. "Uh," he began softly, still attempting to hide his limp and keep pace with Peter but it would soon grow taxing. His head throbbed and he tried to match his thoughts to the beat. "Public. Nothing…special." Sylar had the feeling that he'd have been eaten alive (more so than in public school, if that was even possible) had he attended a private school like the Petrelli brothers had. No social skills would have made him a target and an outcast even more in that setting. It bothered him to think on it, comparing himself to the Petrellis. It was just as well. He'd learned survival of the fittest on his own in public school. That was something Peter never learned – that Sylar or Nathan knew of, anyway. It just seemed…unlikely. _I have something he doesn't._

XXX

They were approaching the intersection. Peter nodded absently, wondering why Sylar felt like his grade school experience should have been 'special' or different from anyone else's. Something else he noticed as he thought it over was that the way Sylar was holding his sleeve had changed. Not the grip itself – but there was weight being put on it now, pulling down. It wasn't a lot, but it was noticeable. He glanced back. Sylar hadn't changed sides and so was still to Peter's right, his eyes seemingly fixed on the goal of moving forward, to the point that he seemed slow to notice he was being looked at. Peter considered the gaps and pauses. Sylar shouldn't be laboring for breath, but he was.

Pain, stress, and tension leaped to Peter's mind. It certainly didn't seem likely that the conversational topic was too much to bear. "We're almost there. It's that building right across the street that we're going to." He gestured forward with his right hand, stopping in place abruptly. He reached across himself with his left, trying to take Sylar's left wrist.

"Here, come on," he said in a low voice. "Let's switch position. It's okay."

Peter didn't wait for response. He slipped his right behind Sylar's back while dipping his head and pulling Sylar's left arm over his shoulders. He waited several seconds after getting the guy into the position he wanted, having tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, yet not asking permission or even telegraphing what he was going to do. If he was lucky, Sylar might be startled, but would settle into it. If not, the guy might freak out.

XXX

_Oh, thank God_, Sylar though fervently. The end was in sight. Peter hadn't lied – it really was close. The building even looked familiar (well, that he'd been inside of recently) and it ought to, it was so close. "Oh, good," he replied, perking up a little. The headache made him feel heavy and clumsy, along with lingering stiffness all over his body made walking more challenging than it should be. While he was looking to the building, Peter was moving, though Sylar wasn't paying attention. In fact, he didn't notice until he'd taken a few steps and by then Peter had ducked, slung Sylar's arm and practically hugged him. Sylar inhaled, eyes widening, back straightening, but the re-positioning was helpful, not harmful and it was already over. _He's touching me and it's okay. It's okay. Why am I trusting him? _He wondered at that, ignoring for a moment, the fact that he had no other option. This was Peter Petrelli who was holding him up and helping him walk.

"Um…Okay," was the belated answer to a completely unvoiced statement. Peter's hand felt fantastic against his side and back, almost enough feel-good to pump him with more energy. It was definitely intoxicating. After a brief struggle to focus, he recalled the topic. "I'd…ask you about your school years, but I…" he trailed off, hoping that would indicate that he already knew about it and didn't need to ask without saying it outright. Getting hit was not on his agenda today. He bit down a story about Valentine's Day that he wished he could remind Peter of – it was Peter's life after all, Nathan's memories, too. "Don't know why we're talking about it in the first place," he muttered, expressing his confusion at the topic, especially since it mostly centered around Gabriel's life. Meanwhile the lunch bag tapped against his ass and thigh as they walked, amusing and annoying him with its presence and location. He almost wished to swat it aside or point out that Peter's bag was molesting him.

XXX

"Because I'm trying to get to know you, Sylar," Peter said as barely more than a murmur while they navigated the curb into the final street they needed to cross. "We're here together. You made a point of that this morning and you were right. We're going to _be _here together for … long enough that I'm … I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you. Be … friendly. Or something." He ended muttering and grumbling, the starts and stops because he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to express. _You know, what I can manage. Polite at least. _It was a grudging acceptance of Sylar, but it was an acceptance.

XXX

_Friendly with me? Are we sure I didn't hit him on the head too hard? Poor Peter…one good knock and he's completely upside down….Suppose the same could be said of me. _Truth be told, Sylar didn't even remember what he'd said this morning that was of such importance, but he was glad something he'd said made an impact for Peter. Then his thoughts arrested on 'I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you.' At least he stated it outright. A battle for information then. It was confirmed. Sylar wasn't going to give an inch. "Trying to get to know me? Are you that bored already?"_ That's ridiculous!_

XXX

Peter made a noise in his throat, something between a snort and a grunt. Otherwise, he didn't grace the question with a response. He adjusted his grip on Sylar's left arm, moving his hand up from the wrist to the forearm, recalling that Sylar had had the wrist wrapped the last time he'd done this. _Should I have been wrapping his wrist since the fight? Does it still hurt him? It's not like he's focused enough to take care of it himself, really. Or like he's the sort of person who would point out to me that it hurts. _Peter insinuated his right arm a bit further around Sylar's back and snugged up close to him, unconsciously a little protective. More consciously, he thought it made it easier to walk together, falling into stride as they crossed the street.

Still mostly muttering as if talking to himself, Peter said, "I just wanted to talk. When it's quiet, I get to thinking. Don't always like what I have to think about. Don't know you. Might as well." He shut up though as they came to the opposite curb, feeling a little shut down for Sylar not wanting to talk about school, and wondering if he was pushing Sylar too hard to manage keeping up conversation while walking.

XXX

Sylar bit back the noise he wanted to make at being held closer – unsure himself if it was one of protest or pleasure. It felt nice, but it was awfully close. _He has no understanding of personal space, none at all_, Sylar realized and remembered. Being connected almost always to Nathan had much to do with that he was sure.

"Your thoughts upset you? Wow. Rough life, Petrelli," Sylar said with sharp sarcasm. He'd been alone for years more than Peter, alone with his own highly unpleasant thoughts and nightmares and memories (two sets of them!) And before that, aside from his mother, he considered himself alone for more years before that. What did Peter have to whine about? Sylar made a grumble of his own, thinking about spoiled, rich younger brothers. But it made him wonder as they walked, approaching the door of the building. Peter offered no further conversation, seemingly a little put-out about that, too; Sylar thought to ask, "Do you…have nightmares? Not /Ma's/ kind- your mother's kind, but just…without abilities? Do you have those?" _Or is it just me?_

XXX

Peter gave him a displeased look as they parted at the door. He also gave Sylar a quick up-and-down, making sure the guy wasn't teetering. It didn't seem likely – Sylar had recovered at least his mental equilibrium surprisingly quickly once he wasn't having to focus on both walking and talking at the same time. Peter opened the door and waited, not bothering to suppress an annoyed sigh at Sylar's slip of 'Ma'. _You get off light because I'm still in a decent mood about getting out to do something fun._

Yet the question itself belied Sylar's dismissiveness about Peter's thoughts bothering him. Sylar had heard him, understood, and was making an observant and perhaps empathetic question. _Does Sylar consider his sarcasm friendly, I wonder? Or maybe it's a prelude to him making fun of me? Nah. He's too messed up to be planning ahead that far. And anyway, he has nightmares all the time._ Peter let go of the door after Sylar was through and moved on to the next one. "Don't like to sleep. I've been working out a lot. That helps." Mostly the exercise got him so tired that he couldn't remember his dreams and the persistent shortage of sleep left him unimaginative. Between the two, he could keep his focus on what he absolutely needed to do and avoid thinking about what-ifs.

XXX

Sylar read Peter's avoidance for the confirmation that it was and inquired further, "What do you see in them?"_Interesting…exercising helps him? That makes sense, though. He's certainly been…working out._Because he knew just how long it had taken Peter to not only grow into his frame, but fill it the way he wanted, or rather, Nathan had known. Sylar got to appreciate the results.

XXX

This time Peter did grunt, looking around the foyer of the building as if seeking something else to talk about. He walked out in the middle of it, leaving Sylar to pick between moving along the wall or taking the somewhat more risky route of walking unsupported. The door they were headed towards wasn't far away, to the left. Peter stopped about ten feet from it.

XXX

Sylar looked around himself as Peter moved away from him, clearly intending for Sylar to fend for himself. The way he saw it was follow Peter or follow the support of the wall. Maybe that's what Peter was doing – scoping out the support…No. Unlikely. But his pause worked in his favor because it got Peter talking again on something the nurse had otherwise been looking to avoid.

XXX

"Different things," he finally said, brushing his hands back and forth uneasily along his jeans. "My dad, a lot. F-" Peter shook his head. "Falling," he said quietly, shaking his head against the images of himself … Nathan … even Sylar … falling … and usually hitting. Mere impact didn't wake him. He'd usually continue to lie there, in the dream, feeling himself die slowly or have to suffer through trying to put himself back together with or without regeneration. It often morphed into some of the worst things he'd seen as a paramedic. He counted himself lucky for the nightmares where he was the dying patient, because if he was the medic, then he would be presiding over the death of someone he cared for.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said quickly, drawing in a breath and making a handful of motions – a shrug, reaching up to scratch his cheek, rubbing his other hand along his jeans, that all served to camouflage what would have otherwise been a shudder. "I don't dream very often anymore. Let's go look at the piano." He tried to get back the equanimity he'd had just a few minutes earlier, able to dismiss Sylar's faux pas without offense, but bringing to mind the things that haunted him when he couldn't escape was hard to deal with.

XXX

Sylar walked slowly alongside the wall as he listened, trying to make it look casual, knowing he failed at that and was showing vulnerability but it wasn't like Peter hadn't picked up on it by now, hadn't had chances to act on it before now. He just nodded as he brushed the fingertips of his left hand along the pale golden-tan, vaguely sparkly stone of the wall, there only in case a surge of to his equilibrium. Sylar understood not wanting to talk about things; nightmares; their contents, so he let Peter dodge (even though it brought up several more questions). "Okay," was all he said to the dodge and their destination, aware of what he was doing and concerned at himself for offering mercy like this. Maybe because Peter held all the cards and Sylar had no way to force answers from him. He made it to the door – Peter held it open – and he passed through looking to the right to spot the piano. It was a basic brown-wood wall-piano, only lightly edged in gold. The bench didn't match, being made of a different wood or maybe that was just the finish. It lacked a cushion but it wasn't like he was going to be sitting on it. There were collapsible tables; foosball, ping-pong and billiard tables and a dead TV mounted to the wall in the left corner. The chairs lining the opposite wall, left of the piano, had cushions to his relief. They wouldn't be comfortable forever, but they were much better than other options or the floor.

XXX

"What happens in yours?"

XXX

"Hmn- What?" Sylar turned to assess and address that, stupidly surprised by it. "Oh…I see…" he frowned, trying to even summarize what he experienced in sleep. "I see my life." Reflected or screened through another's eyes – Nathan, Taub, Virginia, someone he'd _been_ – at times, but mostly it was his own life, the nightmare that it already was. "Lots of…people, lots of events and…things." Blood, brains, the rush and the horror, the everyday triviality, being unseen, unspecial; being stuck, being hurt, being left, being sold, tortured, watching himself powerless…Feeling that this was inviting way too much of an opening for righteousness from Peter, he tried to uplift the conversation, "I like the wet dreams, though." _Always liked those even if they were hell to…clean up and…deal with_. With any luck, they could talk about wet dreams with less tension and evasion.

XXX

Peter chuckled, accepting Sylar's vague answer about nightmares. It wasn't like Peter's answer had been all that specific, or even comprehensive. There were a couple other categories on the 'recurring theme' scale, but he didn't like thinking of them any more than telling about them. Sylar offered a good distraction. "Yeah, I like those, too. Thank God they don't get mixed up in my nightmares – the sex, that is." He'd had a few where Caitlin had faded into nothingness in the middle of making out (or more) with her, but they were infrequent. He gave Sylar another brief up-and-down, this time thinking about the subject matter at hand and deciding that he didn't want to talk about sex with the guy, regardless of how distracting it was.

XXX

Sylar frowned at him over that. _Lucky you._

XXX

Peter made a general wave at the chairs to indicate where he expected Sylar to go and walked over to them himself, dropping off the bag of sandwiches. "I guess just have a seat and I'll try to figure this out," he said, cutting back over to the instrument. Peter looked at it with a general once-over. It had seen better days, but looked sound. He glanced up at Sylar, who was ambling over towards himself rather than the chairs. Peter was unbothered by that; he liked the attention, if he were honest with himself. He folded up the fall and stroked the keys, the ends of them a bit jagged and unevenly chipped. Peter pulled out the bench and slid onto it, wondering whose memories the device had been plucked from, or maybe it had been fabricated from their joint imaginations. He didn't know. It was enough that he didn't recognize it. He made another glance at his companion before turning back.

He depressed a key, which twanged horribly off-key. He smiled. "This is going to take a lot of work." He arranged both hands over the right octaves, smile fading. "I'm three fingers down." It would obviously be a while before he was able to play worth a damn. He pressed a few more keys at semi-random, finally finding one he wanted with his right thumb. After a pause, he gave a very poorly tuned, one finger version of the main verse of 'The Old Grey Mare.' He chuckled ruefully, "Yeah, a lot of work."

XXX

Sylar moved to stand beside the piano – that way he could see both keys and player - only slightly wary since Peter was distracted and appeared to be cheerful. His gaze switched between Peter's face and his fingers as they both were in motion. He agreed, how could he not, that the piano needed serious help – it was old and hadn't been touched in at least three years. What did Peter expect? "Do you know how to tune a piano?" he asked simply after allowing Peter to chat amicably at him; the dialogue was general and didn't require response anyway (besides, he had no idea what to say about Peter being short fingers besides 'then don't hit people next time'). Peter seemed happy enough just to talk _at_ him, which was fine by Sylar.

The piano was badly off and was old enough to have that ringing bell-type sound Sylar would find pleasant in-key. Once tuned or once Peter began to play or otherwise bang on the keys, it had the potential to seriously hurt his ears. He wasn't looking forward to that. As it stood, only the tone was abrasive. He didn't think Peter knew how to tune the instrument, but Peter had hidden talents. Nathan hadn't always been around him, their age difference made sure of that. The nurse sure seemed to think he knew how. Sylar wished he himself knew so he could either teach his companion or lord it over him and point out mistakes. While he didn't know specifics, he knew it required training and tools and that last part worried him. Peter would eventually have to go out and look for them. _What if he goes to my apartment and…does something? Did he bring me out here to ditch me? What if he doesn't come back? He probably won't like it if I come with because I'm slow and annoying. 'I'm just going for tools, I'll be back' he'll say, yeah right. _He tried to hold back the worry, the same one he'd had earlier, as it returned.

XXX

Peter explored a few more keys up and down the range, pressing them and listening to the tones they produced. Some sounded fine; some were definitely off. "It can't be all that different from a guitar, can it? It's a stringed instrument, after all."

XXX

_Erm, yeah. It can,_ Sylar was pretty sure. Leave it to Peter to have no craftsman's frame of reference for how something was built. It worked or it didn't work for him. Apparently Peter had a Mr. Fix-It urge and Sylar didn't know what to make of it.

XXX

Peter stood, pushing the bench away with the back of his knees and making to lift the top of the piano. He moved it a little, looking over to make sure Sylar wasn't leaning on it or blocking it, but the man had his weight on his feet, not the piano, so it wasn't an issue. Peter lifted the top and looked in. "There should be a peg with a screw in it attached to the wire, and then you turn that just like the tuning pegs on a guitar."

Peter peered inside. It was dim, but he could see what looked like hundreds of wires arranged one way and the other, possibly overlapping – hard to tell in the bad lighting and angle. "Looks kind of … complicated." He looked around at the insufficient overhead lights, then back inside. "I'm not even sure how I'd get to that stuff." Peter reached inside, over the wooden top and into the bowels of the instrument. He could feel around, but not see what he was doing. Plus, he wasn't tall enough to get his arm in there comfortably. This wasn't going to work at all. He frowned, not with a pouty expression, but more just momentarily stymied and forced to actually think about how to proceed.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Ya think?_ _He didn't even bring a flashlight. This is going to drive me nuts, watching him screw this up. No…I'll let him entertain me with it. I'm not up for helping him or getting tools. He's a big boy and this is his problem. He'll figure out that much and I can rub it in after. _He looked between Peter's hands and face.

XXX

"The guy at our house," Peter said, left arm still all the way in the instrument and his face pointed the same way, "he was working on a grand piano and everything was a lot easier to get to." He felt along the strings and hammers, plucking one of the strings experimentally. It made generally-pleasing sounding twang. "No, this thing's got to come apart somehow. There's no way a person can work on it like this."

XXX

Sylar gave him a narrow look. _I know you had a grand growing up, /I was there/. Does he think I need reminding? Of course it was fucking easier on a grand. _"Maybe not a short person," he pointed out, noting Peter being on tip-toes, straining to reach inside, buried in the piano up to his shoulder. With Peter talking, it was an amusing picture – his voice didn't carry so well and Sylar pictured what it would sound like if Peter got his head in there and spoke. _He_ was the one with experience here – a former watchmaker with the height advantage, concussion and all.

XXX

Peter huffed slightly, looking Sylar up and down. _Joking. Joking is good._ He smiled a little and pulled his arm out to wave briefly at Sylar, just to indicate him. "Look around over there and let's see if there's some way to take it apart." Peter looked to the end opposite from Sylar, but it was dark and he didn't know what he was looking for.

XXX

The medic then flapped a hand at him, wanting participation; he shifted his weight to look invested but didn't move just yet. "Um…doesn't the back come off?" he said like it was obvious. It made sense to him. Something had to come off or lift up, right? Sylar moved around to the side of the instrument as Peter had indicated, frowning slightly. He still thought he was right and Peter wrong – the backing was removable, but he looked anyway. _Why does he even want my help? _The answer was as baffling as it had been thus far. He debated not helping but he had no reason to.

Sylar felt around lightly along the backing inside the boxed insides first – making it look far easier than Peter had – but found nothing to his disappointment. He continued running his hands along the inside walls away from the actual mechanics of the piano. As he came around the front panel his finger stubbed on something metal and he peered inside. He couldn't see what it was easily and didn't want to lean over, but he felt a movable part and, with little forethought and a lot of curiosity, he fiddled with what turned out to be a pin, tugging it. He looked up at Peter in surprise and to communicate his find but Peter already heard the releasing sound. "The…there's a latch…"

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said eagerly, finding the matching fastener on his side. A moment later he actuated it in tandem with Sylar and the light, thin wooden partition lifted out smoothly. "Oh yeah!" he said with a pleased grin at how accessible that made everything. He didn't know what to do with it, then. Letting go and letting Sylar handle it seemed rude. Hanging onto it and hogging it himself seemed rude as well. "Let's put it down on the other side of the bench," he suggested as a compromise.

Peter looked back at the piano after putting aside the panel. He was pleased, left fist against his hip and a distracted smile on his face as his eyes roamed over all the strings. "Yeah, it's complicated, all right." He moved closer, getting a good look now that the top was up and the front panel off. He was faced with a criss-crossing set of wires, more than he'd expected. He depressed a key, looking at the wires, then did it again as he leaned in to see the hammer move. He did it a couple more times, tracing along to the tuning pegs.

"Huh. These don't look easy to turn." They didn't have the little flanges for tightening by hand that a guitar featured. Nor did they even have a slot for a screwdriver. He felt around the peg, noticing that it had a distinctive shape that didn't match an allen wrench or anything else he was familiar with. "I … think this is going to take specialized tools." He looked up swiftly at Sylar. "Hey, do you have tools that could turn these?" Peter stepped back, indicating the pegs with a gesture and giving Sylar room to look if he wanted.

XXX

_What was he expecting - a walk in the park?_ Sylar eyed his companion curiously, noting the facial expression plastered there. Peter looked pleased that it wasn't easy. _He likes a challenge then?_ Sylar felt buoyed, feeling pleasure in knowing the nurse had something in common with him and a strange jealousy that he wasn't the only one. He was pulled from his reverie when Peter turned on him, starting him a bit. "Huh? No. I think that's why you would hire a tuning person." _Specialized tools. Does that mean he thinks I have special tools?_ He shifted his shoulders, mainly by straightening his arms and back when his hands were in his pockets, taking the compliment.

XXX

"Hm. Maybe we should eat and think about it." Peter headed over to the sack of sandwiches. "You think it might be like a clock where the winding key is kept in the case?" At least, he assumed that was where most people kept the winding key. That was where his mother kept it for the grandfather clock in the hall. The key for the mantel clock in his dad's study was kept under it – the point being to keep it easy to find and handy. "Do you think maybe each piano has a little tool to adjust it and maybe it's clipped to the side?" He got out the sandwiches, distracted by which was which and reluctant to pull one out and open it to find out. He set them down on the chair.

XXX

'_We.' Such a strange word. He throws it around so easily. He's used to it. I know all it means and is me and him coexisting as odd as that is, but its still weird to hear._ Tagging behind Peter, he was zapped with that strange logic. His instant answer was 'no', but his own reasoning took longer to realize. "You could look," Sylar hedged, standing behind and to the side of Peter. "Usually you need a device to tell if what string you're tuning is in key. Or…a really good ear." _Me_, he thought with pride. _Maybe that's why he brought me! _He noticed Peter was getting that pre-jump-off-the-roof jittery energy that didn't bode well.

XXX

"I'm going to go scavenge for some drinks." Peter paused, thinking about how Sylar had hung onto him and the 'I won't leave you' thing from breakfast. _I didn't promise to stay within arms reach all the time. He handles me going back to my apartment every night, so it's not like he'll freak over this._ "I'll be right back," he said with emphasis.

XXX

_Ah, shit. There it is. I knew it! _Sylar felt his face droop as his eyes widened. It was an expression of horror and dawning betrayal. He slowly sat, barely missing the sandwiches as he wasn't paying attention to the landing zone. His mouth opened in a fish-like gape, closing wordlessly seconds later. _Why can't I come?_ Yet he knew why. Emotion and desire warred with intellect.

_He leaves me with food but not drinks? I'll die from thirst before I die from starvation, that's the rule of thumb. Course I told him I didn't need him, a week without food won't kill me but.._."Okay," he croaked, disbelieving.

XXX

Peter had been watching for Sylar's reaction and there it was, a lot less guarded than he'd expected. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out to touch the seated man on the shoulder with his right hand. "I'm just going upstairs. It'll be five minutes, tops." Peter straightened. In a normal tone of voice, he indicated the food. "If you could sort out which one of those is yours and which is mine, that'd help." He turned and walked off, saying over his shoulder one last time, "I'll be right back."

_Three years all alone. What does that do to a person? Well, he's got a concussion working on him, too. _Peter sighed as he pushed open the door to the stairwell, remembering the longest period of his life that he'd spent alone – a couple weeks in a cargo container in transit to Ireland. He'd had no memories, no understanding of where he was, and no knowledge of when his confinement might end. He didn't know if it would have been worse or better if he'd understood what was going on. As it was, it was utter boredom and sensory deprivation against a constant backdrop of terrifying ignorance and impending death from privation. He usually did his best not to think about that time or the implications of it (who had put him there, on whose orders, and how that meant they _knew_ what he was going to be subjected to...). Realizing he'd slipped into thinking about it now, he shook his head and focused on his more immediate mission.

The first apartment he went to had a six-pack of Seven-Up. It wasn't Peter's favorite by any stretch, but he wasn't going to keep looking if Sylar was downstairs being anxious. He mused on that as he walked back. _Huh. I guess I care about Sylar being upset. Kind of hard not to, when we're alone here. I don't think I care about a lot of his other feelings, but … yeah. I don't want him in misery all the time. Just when I want to beat the crap out of him._ Peter smiled a little and was wearing that blandly pleased expression when he walked back in the rec room. "Hey. I'm back. Seven-Up good?" He hoisted the six-pack of cans in his left hand. "Got those sandwiches sorted out?"

XXX

Sylar heard him in the hall, looking up in anticipation. _I wonder if my mind is capable of making up an illusion like him? It's…so detailed, though. Aren't you supposed to know, deep down, if your mind is playing tricks on you?_ Peter returned and Sylar felt as like he could breathe again – maybe he wasn't crazy. He definitely wasn't alone. "Hey," he said as his shoulders eased. "Yeah, it's great." Sylar didn't really care what Peter brought back so long as he came back, which he had, almost happily, too. "Mmm-hmm!" He'd dutifully peeked inside the sandwich bags to identify them.

XXX

Peter took a seat to Sylar's left, leaving the seat the sack was on between them. He put the sodas on it, removing one and offering it to Sylar, then getting his own and opening it, watching the other man deal with the sandwiches. "This is like a picnic." He flashed a sudden, amused smile. "Urban picnicking. That's kind of cool."

XXX

Sylar thanked Peter for the drink, handing over the respective butter sandwich. Sylar eyed his meal for a moment, feeling like he'd just eaten breakfast, before taking a small bite. He chuckled, "It kind of is. Like a picnic." _Just with chairs and a piano_. He thought back to his most recent picnic with less-than-fond feelings. He'd been with Maya and wine while her brother was busy internet searching his name. Funny, the Mexican had managed the English language just fine to do that. His scenery had somewhat improved since then, concussion and barren streets aside.

XXX

"Uh-huh," Peter said agreeably. "Better birthday than some I've had." He gathered his sandwich and took a bite, looking over at the piano, chewing slowly.

XXX

_Birthday? Shit! Best behavior then, not like I wasn't on it before._

XXX

Peter went on, "I think the lousiest was when I was locked up in Level Five. I didn't even know it had passed until Elle brought me dinner on Christmas Day. It was ham." He frowned, looking over at Sylar. "Dietary preferences didn't rank very high there." Softening his voice a little because he knew it might be a sensitive subject, Peter asked, "How long were you in there?"

XXX

_Dietary…Oh!_ Sylar lowered his sandwich and stared with some confusion at the one in Peter's hand containing salmon. _Should he be eating that? He won't get sick, will he? What did he say about that? Fish have…spines? _He was lost in thought when Peter asked his question; it took him a moment to realize he was being addressed and only figured it out when he noticed the man looking at him. His eyebrows went up as his eyes met Peter's. "What?" he gulped, surprised in more ways than one.

XXX

"I asked," Peter repeated gently, "how long were you in Level Five?"

XXX

Sylar made an unhappy face, lips firming, expression shuttering. _Long enough_, he thought and almost said as much, but what the hell. "Um…I think I lost three weeks the first time," he snorted a bitter breath. "First time's always the worst. You were there for the rest of the second; maybe a week? It…" Sylar looked across the room, sandwich held in his lap, forgotten. "It always seems like longer. But being related to your jail wardens helps," he gave Peter an apathetic look, then, "Why do you ask?"

XXX

_First time?_ Peter shrugged ambivalently. "I don't know. It's something we have in common. I suppose … a lot of specials do." He frowned. "I'm not sure that being related to the Petrellis is a help to _anyone_. Not that Elle's father was a good guy, but Bob's interest in me seemed to start and end with keeping me in my cell and out of touch. I got food, wasn't killing anyone, knew who I was, had a bed, even had Adam to talk to if I wanted." He took a bite out of his sandwich and shot Sylar a sidelong glance as he swallowed. "That's a hell of a lot better than I was treated when my mom, dad, or brother had me as a prisoner. Every one of _them_ tried to kill me or worse." He snorted, bristling in anger, making some sharp motions in folding back the baggie that was still surrounding the bottom half of his sandwich. He was exaggerating a tiny bit – whether or not Nathan had _intended_ to kill him was suspect, but certainly he'd intentionally put Peter into situations where he was literally in a sniper's crosshairs or disappearing into a secret gulag.


	52. Lullaby

Day 13, Afternoon

Sylar gathered from the way Peter spoke about it that he'd had two stints in juvie as well. _What a hell of a thing to have in common. It's like…manifester's initiation. Trial by fire_. "So…how'd they get you?" he asked, curious but uncaring. It was by minor miracle (and Peter's niceness, one and the same thing) that kept the sarcasm from his delivery, because, really…a Petrelli in prison? The idea was laughable. Not that one shouldn't be in prison; but that it had happened at all. The difference in treatment they'd each received was as different as mud from water – his own being the mud, of course. He was not expecting any true horror story here.

XXX

Peter looked off into the room, talking without looking directly at his companion. "They pitched it to me as a rehabilitation program at first – that 'help' I said- I thought you should- Well, anyway, I nearly blew up New York, so I probably would have gone in even if they told me exactly what it was, which was just a prison. I had a cell. They drugged me up enough that I didn't mind most of the time. Adam was in the cell next to me. We'd talk sometimes. I'd see Elle a couple times a day most days, the guards the other days. That was pretty much it. Couple months of absolutely nothing, aside from the electroshock and the occasional screams down the hallway."

XXX

It was a good thing Peter wasn't looking at him because Sylar glared. _Don't even start with me._ The sad thing is, if the Company had soft-balled (or hard-balled) it to him when he'd manifested and killed Brian Davis, he'd have probably went eagerly; in handcuffs, too. Sylar shifted at the mention of that long-lost angel. _That's right. C'mon, you were stupid to ever think she was…innocent. The only thing about her that was was her face._ He snorted on hearing about Peter's electro-therapy, feeling somewhat vindicated that Peter had suffered even a little bit or at least been unhappy.

XXX

He turned to face Sylar. "How about you? Can you tell me about that 'first time'? I don't think I know anything about that." He was calmer now. His time in Level Five wasn't nearly as upsetting to him as the persistent and senseless betrayals by his cursed family. Listening to Sylar was a nice break, although he hoped whatever had happened to the man wasn't yet another sin to be laid at the feet of House Petrelli (which meant it all fell to Peter, since everyone else guilty was dead except Angela … and mad as Peter was, he wouldn't make her answer for what she'd done. She was his mother; she was exempt).

XXX

_I don't see why you care_. But it didn't hurt to tell Peter. His sandwich forgotten, Sylar answered, a little surprised at himself for doing so, "I was the 'screams down the hall'. Right after your swan dive off the stadium…Homecoming, imagine Bennet getting his hands on the man chasing after his precious indestructible daughter and that's how it went. You know how much they _love_ their research." He cast Peter a you-know-how-it-is glance every sentence or so before amending, "Or…you wouldn't, but…They tried to put me through my paces. I wouldn't give them anything and they couldn't find anything but telekinesis in all of my genetic code." _That_, he stated with arrogant pride. That his power was something undetectable (read: safe) by modern science was a pretty fucking cool. It was like Intuitive Aptitude came with a fail-safe.

His native ability, once thought impossible, un-special and non-existent, came from behind like an underdog to hide his stolen ones he knew not where. His was the only one capable of transferring, stealing – not replicating – abilities with a mere touch and the raw intelligence of his mind. From what he knew of Peter's own loss of abilities, Arthur had used a power to do it; therefor he was completely unique! With less joy-filled recollection, he continued, "OD'd me a few times; said they gave me enough drugs to kill an elephant."

XXX

"No. I think got a taste of how much they 'love their research' at Pinehearst. Thanks for that, by the way – getting me out of there." Mostly he meant saving him from Mohinder's syringe, but Peter supposed getting thrown out the window counted, too. He started to take another bite, then glanced over at Sylar's sandwich resting on his knee. "Eat up, Sylar. I can't have you starving to death on me here," he joked gently.

XXX

Sylar looked over at Peter, getting a mix of unfamiliar and familiar feelings. Easily he could have blamed it on his near-constant déjà vu à la Nathan Petrelli and it was to blame in part, but Peter was interacting with _him_. _Another thank you. Is he the only one who values__ having his life saved? I've never been thanked so much in my life. _He frowned slightly and nodded, accepting the gratitude but not knowing what to do with it or the conversation. He didn't have do much in the end – Peter piped up, still chatting away mostly. Sylar was happy he didn't have to answer why he'd saved Peter in the first place. Talk of starvation earned Peter an amused/confused expression. _I'm not hungry. I had breakfast – he was there. He's…always been there since the fight, at least that I can__ remember. Huh. He cares if I starve._ Dutifully, Sylar hefted his sandwich and took a bite, making a bit of a show of it. _He hasn't tried to force me to eat, either. I guess he does know about the nausea._

XXX

"You know, something I've been meaning to say … I'm a nurse and a paramedic. I'm not a doctor, definitely not a neurosurgeon. I didn't pay any special attention to how to deal with head injuries in any of my classes and I've already told you I never had any bad ones myself. If I'm pushing you too much … tell me. Same if I'm not." A little softer, he added, "Don't 'I'm fine' me. I'm trying to help."

XXX

At first he couldn't figure what Peter was trying to get at. Then Sylar's gaze slid over him, some of the wariness returning. _Do you think I'm that__ stupid? What do you think you're going to do if I do say it's too much? Or if __it's__ not too much, hmm? _Annoyance spiked but not to dangerous or even verbal levels. _So tuning a piano across the street is you helping me? You're just here to help me, not get __me to save your girlfriend, right? Oh, please._

Sylar plastered on something of a pleasant face, "You know what they say; if you can't trust your doctor…" _who can you trust? That would be no one._

XXX

Peter gave a half-hearted nod in response. After finishing his sandwich, he went over to the piano and began a careful exploration of it, looking for anything useful – a tuning key, a label, directions, anything. He found a label and read it aloud to Sylar, but it wasn't particularly helpful. "I'll bet that music store we went to would have stuff for how to tune this. Might even have a book. Or the library would have a book, I'm sure." _Fake book, because this whole place is fake. But a metaphorical fix is still a fix._ He glanced over at Sylar. Seeing the man's expression, he hastened to add, "We can go check there some other time – not today. Let me try playing some stuff and we'll see how out of tune this thing really is."

XXX

Fed and comfortable, as much as he could be and he hadn't finished his sandwich, he felt tired so Sylar was sure his face showed everything he was thinking on it – please no; don't demand that; I can't make that; I don't want to. And Peter saw it, but he didn't insist on the trek of pointless doom. "Yeah, okay," he agreed eagerly (at least about going to the music store another day). _How did Nathan keep up with him? Twelve years older…I'm only a few years older than Peter (I think). This feels…almost like having a little brother. Now if only I didn't want to strangle him every__ time he opened his mouth but that's not just me – everyone wants to do that._ Peter certainly had a holier-than-thou complex that he paired subtly with that endearing, boy-next-door attitude and charm. It was quite winning.

XXX

Peter arranged himself in front of the instrument, without sheet music and with the front panel still off. With one hand, one finger, and one thumb, he stumbled through 'When the Saints Go Marching In', doing a recognizable job of it. He glanced over at Sylar for approval or at least reaction, then turned back to repeat it – same song, several times, showing the patience that had served him well in school, drawing, and medicine, but was at odds with how he approached crisis situations. By the end, even given his limitations, he was playing appreciably better.

XXX

_What a ham_, Sylar thought, completely entertained by the idea of a personal concert, even if the instrument in question was going to burst his eardrums. The music was broken, off-key, but Peter didn't hit a whole lot of wrong notes. It was impressive. _When was the last time he played? And he still remembers the notes and…how to play. _It seemed like a lot of memorization over a long period of time, from what little he knew or could guess at. His impression of the maestro was confirmed when Peter checked back after finishing the song – a fitting choice about saints. "Sounds good," he grinned a little, delighted at hearing human sound filling a room.

XXX

Peter stood to fish around under the lid of the piano seat, pulling out some music and then replacing the front panel. "So what do you want to hear – popular folk tunes or hymns?"

XXX

Sylar had settled in now that Peter had a toy to play with, allowing his lids to droop as he stared at nothing, focused on listening, taking it in. It almost ached in his chest, the feeling of being in the same room with someone, of music and lack of immediate threat or requirement. He could just…sit and be and listen. Peter seemed very taken with the piano, playing the same song several times – Sylar assumed he was trying to get it right. Motion lazily caught his eye and he looked to his companion. "Folk tunes, please." _Please! Not hymns. I'd puncture my own eardrums if I had to put up with that. Or I'd crawl back to my apartment._ It interested him that he'd been asked his opinion, not the first time Peter had done so.

XXX

Peter played, trying to get the hang of not having enough fingers to hit the right notes. For some songs, he could bridge it and manage, although there were awkward pauses as he moved his hands. For others, he simply couldn't play them recognizably. He noticed very soon that Sylar was dozing. _We need to get a couch down here, or an easy chair or something. Maybe we could get one down the elevator. _He let his thoughts wander, thinking about Emma and the tiara, about patients and their situations, like that of a little boy with a broken leg who didn't want the ambulance to leave until someone went inside for his boo-bear-lion. Hesam had done the honors, escorting the stuffed animal from house to ambulance before they left. _Comfort articles,_ Peter mused. _They're important. _He thought about his empty room and how driven he'd felt to strip out everything not absolutely necessary. He wasn't sure what it meant.

Hours whiled by with longer pauses between songs as he rested his hands. He'd had a bathroom break and stood up to stretch a few times as well. His stomach rumbled at his last and latest break as he sat turned towards Sylar, regarding him fixedly. Sylar's sandwich caught Peter's eye. It was less than half-eaten. In the apartment, Sylar usually managed an entire sandwich. If he'd even so much opened his soda here, Peter couldn't tell. _I pushed him too hard. He over-exerted and lost his appetite._ He sighed. _And no__w we've got the walk back, after which he probably won't want to eat either._

Peter frowned, disappointed at himself. It was easy to be angry – at the moment he was also in pain. He sat cradling his right hand, which ached continually and throbbed slightly from the afternoon of using it and the frequent small impacts it had to endure. He'd managed to give himself a nasty blister on the side of his middle finger where it rubbed against the brace. Sylar wasn't the only one who'd over-exerted himself, not that Peter would admit to that even as he sat there silently, a little hunkered to the side from the hurt. He'd enjoyed playing and a little pain was something he was willing to pay for it. But he was definitely looking forward to some painkillers. That, and the repeated growl from his stomach decided it. He was done playing piano for the day.

XXX

Day 13, Evening

It was that still kind of quiet that woke him – it never failed to. The lack of faint, normal noise for the first time, probably since he'd lain down served as a signal. Surprisingly he'd had something of a decent rest, the undisturbed kind. Sylar's eyes cracked open and he surveyed an unfamiliar room. _Why did I fall asleep here? And where is here?_ he thought before he noticed he had a watcher. _Oh_. Sylar froze, just staring back as Peter watched him, unsure of what was going on. Peter looked rough, but he tried to hide it when he straightened up. _Told you this piano adventure was a bad idea. _The other man was hardly a threat, that relaxed him enough to start pushing himself up. "Sorry." He supposed that was rude of him to sleep, but as usual done was done. "I heard the whole thing, just resting my eyes," he said lightly, admitting he'd failed as an audience.

Sylar hoped it didn't offend Peter or get him thinking he'd fall asleep every time the man played. It had no bearing on how good Peter's playing actually was, either. He rubbed at his brow as the altitude went to his head, immediately aggravating the dull aching of his cranium. "Ugh," he remarked, belatedly trying to make that sound sleepy. Oriented and uncomfortable now, he looked over his partner. "You look like crap." _You should sleep and play more and work less. All work and no play turn you into…well…me. I suppose he did 'play', though. _"Maybe you're the one who needs a rest."

XXX

_I keep getting caught looking at him while he's asleep. That's … I need to quit that. Either doing it, or getting caught. Or both. But … what? Should I be staring at the wall instead? I wouldn't have this problem if we weren't nearly living together._ Peter snorted at Sylar's 'I was just resting my eyes' thing and stood up, stretching and trying to loosen his back as his thoughts faded into the background, unheeded by the main part of his consciousness. That portion was more concerned with how his shoulders hurt. He might be in good shape, but hours of repetitive muscle strain wasn't good for anyone.

He laughed at being told he looked like crap. "Sylar … you and me ..." He exhaled and shook his head, bemused. "I feel like crap, too. We need to get a couch down here, or maybe a couple easy chairs and a coffee table. I'll bet they'd fit in the elevators. I could rest then. That something else we can do some other day, though."

XXX

_You and me what, Peter?_ he speculated. Sylar grinned a little that Peter found any of that amusing. Couches sounded like a great idea – when they were both fit enough for that kind of heavy lifting.

XXX

Peter stretched backwards a bit, arching enough that his shirt rode up his stomach slightly, and then straightened to try (and fail) to pop his neck. He frowned and rubbed at it with his left hand. "I'm not going to play anymore and I'm getting kind of hungry. Are you okay with going back now or do you want to stay here? I'm sure I could find some food upstairs. For both of us." He shot a glance at the sandwich. _Would it be better to have him eat before we went? Exertion isn't good on a full stomach, but … I don't know. I'll see what he wants to do._

XXX

_I wonder how much time he spends in the gym (or at work) to avoid __sleeping to get that…in-shape. _"Yeah, I'm okay to go back now." Sylar nodded, briefly rubbing his palms together.

XXX

"Let's bag our stuff up." Peter came closer for the bag, stuffing his empty sandwich bag inside. He'd long since finished his drink and disposed of it. "Might as well leave the other sodas here for next time." Plus, he didn't want them weighting the bag and dangling. He started to take a step away, then shifted his balance back, switching the bag to his right and offering a steadying, unasked-for hand to help Sylar stand. The first few moments on his feet would probably be the dizziest.

XXX

Once packed, Peter offered him a hand. Sylar looked at it, then at Peter, tilted his head like some sort of shrug and clasped his hand to Peter's. It wasn't like the nurse didn't know he could use the help - the vulnerability wasn't new – more importantly, that Sylar hasn't asked for it. The world swung drunkenly but with persistent blinking, he got it sorted. On standing it felt like a weight settled into his cranium and there was little to be done about it. His bruised hip pulled, his wrist tweaked itself, his toes throbbed dully and his back felt like a twisted, stiff mess especially after laying on a bunch of chairs. He didn't want to expend the energy necessary to get home but he wanted his own bed all the same. _Maybe I can ask him to stick close again. I know he doesn't want to but it would make me feel better._

XXX

"Okay?" Peter asked hopefully. He left Sylar to his own balance and walked to the piano, peering in like he was looking for something briefly (he was – the label – but it was too dark to see and he gave it up immediately, making a mental note to bring a flashlight next time, whenever 'next time' was). He pushed in the bench and headed for the door, opening it and waiting for the slower Sylar to join him, holding it for Sylar to pass through. Peter wore no particular expression, giving no thought to who was holding the door or relative status or anything like that. He was thinking of the blister on his finger and how he needed to get a bandage on it to minimize irritating it further.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar thought but didn't voice the 'I'm fine', though it made his lips twitch with humor. He took the opportunity to yawn, doing some light, post-sleep stretches himself. Peter looked at the piano again, searching for something, then he made for the door and Sylar followed. The door was held for him and he grunted thanks in passing, returning the favor so Peter could exit.

XXX

It was at that point Peter realized just how late it was and what that meant in late December at whatever latitude they were simulating here. The view out the glass doors was black, save for the lit foyer of Peter's own apartment building across the street. For whatever reason, street lights didn't come on automatically in this world (perhaps light detection didn't work, just like most electronics here), but other lights didn't turn themselves off, either. There was no blinking neon to disturb the night, though he assumed such signs would work if turned on.

Peter gave Sylar a worried glance and walked faster to the nearest set of doors, peering outside because it wasn't just normal darkness going on. It was raining – pavement wet, stuff still falling heavily. "Shit," he said quietly. _Even if I find an umbrella, even if Sylar holds it while I steady him … He overexerted getting here, in the day, when it was dry, when he wasn't having to hold anything, when he hadn't basically skipped a meal and had to sleep curled__ up on chairs._ Peter exhaled and looked over at Sylar to see his reaction to the development.

XXX

Sylar's head tilted immediately at that expression. The medic stopped at the inner doors, looking out like a kid seeing his play-time had been ruined by the weather, nose pressed to the glass so to speak. _Rain, huh?_ His head righted itself when Peter looked back at him with the most complexly worried expression of upset. Sylar's eyebrows lofted as if to say 'what?' _Oh, don't blame this on me. _The problem was inescapable, though: Sylar couldn't make it home. Now he would find out if Peter would leave him to find a suitable bed (the chairs he'd napped on if all else failed) or stay and make camp with him. "Uh…so…Do you want to go back to your place?" _It's clos__er. I'll get to see your apartment then. That might be fun._ He was pretty sure he'd get turned down. No port in this storm but the one they were already in. _It's just water. Maybe he doesn't want to have to deal with undressing me from wet clothes and…stuf__f. He's tired, too._

XXX

"No," Peter answered, looking back out at the rain. The apartment building he considered 'his' was just right across the road and even if he'd stripped out his own, there were others Sylar could stay in. But he didn't want him in there. The whole world was Sylar's. Peter didn't want him in his apartment, occupying his space. Or even in the same building if he could help it. "I only have one bed," Peter muttered as if that had something to do with it. _And no food. Or at least, not __very much food._

XXX

Sylar frowned. _Who said we'd sleep in the same bed? And you've slept at my place where neither of us used the bed. Whatever, his place is not an option. _"Okay," he shrugged and turned around in the lobby, facing the elevator and stairs now. The only other solution was obvious – staying here. _Which floor did I leave my book on again?_ Casually he suggested while partially limping towards the elevators, "I think the second floor has beds." _Yes, I said bed_s. _You and your delicate sens__ibilities. Big talk coming from Mr. Not-Paying-Roommates. _Once there, button pressed, he teased over his shoulder as Peter approached, "We'll save your hair and sleep here." Despite his tiredness and desire to be in his own bed, he couldn't help but be excited at the prospect of someone sleeping even near him.

XXX

"Yeah, there's beds up there," Peter said, trailing along behind and ignoring the crack about his hair. _There's a gun up there somewhere, too. And a baseball bat._ He wasn't afraid or even really concerned – just aware. "I got the sodas out of the first apartment. I didn't check the fridge, but there was a lot of other stuff in the pantry. Let's check there for food. Are you even hungry?"

XXX

"I think I could…eat something, yeah." Sylar blamed the nap for making him hungry. He watched Peter carefully, trying to gauge how his health was doing since he was giving Sylar a run for his money for being close-mouthed about his medical state. Mostly he didn't know what he'd do if Peter passed out or needed help. Silence was king until the elevator dinged for the second floor.

XXX

The doors opened; Peter stepped out. He looked up and down the hallway, memory trickling back. The gun had been in a messy, one-bedroom bachelor apartment at the end of the hall. These two closer to the elevator had made less of an impression on him, although he recalled one had a record player that wouldn't play. The other was the one he'd gotten the sodas from and was where he went now, his stomach dictating his choices. Just like when he'd come here earlier in the afternoon, he didn't notice the book and apple sitting next to the wall beside the elevator.

Inside the apartment, he went to the fridge – apples, bagels, cream cheese spread, milk, juice, condiments, cheese (and good cheese, too – several kinds with their high-end labels neatly slipped inside the ziplock for the ones that had already been opened). "Oh, wow. Good cheese." Peter yanked a couple of those out and tossed them on the counter. He could make a meal of cheese and crackers all by themselves. "There's some bagels in here and spread. I don't want to aggravate my jaw with something that chewy, but if you wanted them …?" He looked back at the other man.

XXX

_Aha!_ Sylar was glad he'd remembered correctly; he scooped up his book and apple, far more interested in the book as they would be looking for food. He smiled to himself as Peter buzzed to the apartment in question, then wandered after him. Sylar considered waiting at the door or the entry of the kitchen, but found himself in the kitchen on instinct. What's more, he was helping bag the…cheese. _Did he loose his marbles or is cheese somehow a meal? He likes crackers and chips so maybe…You would know, Peter, about good cheese, __not me._ He rolled his eyes a little, taking zip-locked cheese and placing it in Peter's canvas bag. "No thanks. But bring the spread." _That will go good on crackers, assuming that's what we're doing._

XXX

Peter could see that Sylar was taking the cheese he intended to eat and stuffing it into the bag with their lunch trash. That was … weird. But maybe Sylar thought they'd go to different apartments to gather more stuff? With a mostly internal shrug, he said, "Just the spread, huh?" and reached for it. _Wh__at's he going to put that on?_

XXX

"Is that still bothering you?" Sylar asked, reaching out to touch that side of Peter's face, aiming for his jaw when Peter turned back with the spread. His touch would be gentle, just cupping the curve of face to bring it and the man closer for inspection…and a bit of perving. Maybe the idea of bed and Peter had gone to his head. "How many days has it been?"

XXX

Peter's offer of the spread was ignored as Sylar was reaching for his face, not the food. _What?_ Peter blinked several times and straightened, the plastic tub in his hand forgotten as he thought over what to do about this. 'Nothing' seemed like a good response – this wasn't violent or dangerous, and Sylar's expression was neutral. Finding his words was a little harder, especially as Sylar's fingers skimmed over the skin in front of his right ear so softly as to be erotic. "Wr, yeah, uh, I mean, just a few days. What, three or four?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled, very much pleased with himself. The power of touch was intense for both of them unless he missed his guess – because he'd been looking for a reaction, namely a negative one, and had received, well, this. _And I thought I was the one with a concussion who can't keep track of the days. Birthday. Why do I keep forgetting __that? He's distracting_. He affirmed the count, three or four days, "Hmm." Ever-so lightly, he probed at the hinge of the man's jaw after stepping closer.

XXX

Peter put his left hand to the side blindly to slip the cream cheese onto the counter, not moving his head much and thereby letting Sylar continue whatever examination he was doing. His mind flashed to that pause in their last fight where Sylar had crouched over him, abruptly and bizarrely interested in helping Peter get his jaw back into joint. _Appar__ently this is a deal to him – jaws or maybe dislocated joints?_ "Yeah, it still bothers me. It might take a week or two to quit hurting." His left hand touched his jaw more normally on the other side, moving it a little and testing the range of motion.

XXX

"I guess you would know," Sylar said of the medic. He'd been a little zoned out, focused on something that was fixable and akin to a socket. It seemed like quite a mechanical body-part, the hinge of the jaw. Apparently it appealed to his inner-watchmaker (or worse, his ability, what was left of it here). Broken fingers he couldn't fix, nor a concussion or bruise. Lacerations could be tended, which he'd done before for Peter. He broke his concentration of that area with effort, looking over the rest of Peter's face. It was still mottled; the bruises around his eyes were fading, changing colors, too. "Maybe you should get some more ice for your face while we're here." A final lingering look at him before Sylar turned away from the obvious vulnerabilities presented in soft, human flesh. "And look around for something sweet."

XXX

"Sweet?" Peter asked, perplexed.

XXX

Sylar answered without turning, "For the birthday boy."

XXX

"Ah. I wouldn't turn down some ice cream." Peter chuckled slightly in turn and went to get the apple juice out of the fridge. "I think it's a little late for my face, though. But you know what else I'd like? Some painkillers. And a bandage. I gave myself a blister on the piano. If you could grab whatever crackers are in the pantry and see if there's a cheese slicer, I'm going to go check the bathroom for Tylenol and bandaids."

XXX

Sylar did turn at the word 'bandage', his eyes immediately searching for the injury. _I was only sleeping a couple hours, tops. What kind of trouble can you__ get into, Petrelli? _He saw nothing worth a bandage and thus stood there confused until Peter got to the part about a fricking bandaid. He closed his eyes in exasperated relief. _At least he mentioned his cracker plot. He's a real college snack kind of guy.__ How do you do a paramedic's job on…college food I wonder._ "Yeah, sure," was his reply, going back to peering into cabinets and drawers. _What does a cheese slicer even look like? I'll be the one cutting it anyway; he's only got one hand._

XXX

Peter found a band-aid in the bathroom, but no painkillers of any kind. Disappointed, he returned to the kitchen to doctor his finger out of simple human desire to be with his companion. He peeled off the wrapping and backing, observing as he did, "I see you're bagging stuff up. Do you want to go hit another apartment to eat there? Maybe they've got better food? I didn't find any painkillers, so if you see any here, let me know." He wondered if Sylar's stomach was feeling finicky or if they just genuinely hadn't found anything he wanted to eat yet, other than the spread. Maybe he wasn't as much of a cheese person as Peter was. Peter's focus was mostly on his finger, so his questions were asked mainly while he was looking down, but he was listening and could see Sylar peripherally.

XXX

Sylar located the crackers and chips next to the fridge (one of the last places he looked). Saltines and Lays Classics were present and added to their bagged items. Of course, the cheese slicer remained at large – he had always used a knife so a knife would do fine now. Peter's entry drew his attention. "I…thought we'd eat wherever we're going to sleep. I don't care where." He didn't know what to say about 'better food' – he hadn't complained, nor did cheese and crackers bother him. "I didn't see any pills in here. You already…checked the bathroom," Sylar mused aloud, "I'm sure there's more around. There always is. Didn't find a cheese slicer, either. I don't know what one looks like," he admitted sliding his hands into his pockets, idly watching Peter work. "Do you…need a hand with that?"

XXX

Without hesitating, Peter answered, "Yeah. Come over and put your finger right here." When Sylar approached, Peter elaborated, pointing with his left index finger at a flap of the bandaid that was on the top of Peter's right middle finger. "Right there. Just hold it." He maneuvered the other wing of the adhesive bandage through the gap between his fingers, over his blister, and wrapped it where he wanted it. "There. That should do it. Thanks." He was casual and comfortable, glancing up at Sylar for a moment as that realization passed through his mind. _Yeah. I think I'm okay here … with him. For now, at least. He's okay._

It wasn't a huge concession. It didn't change anything Sylar had done in the past. It just meant Peter was admitting to himself that Sylar was okay to be with right now. Since Sylar seemed to think they'd be bedding down together – probably in the same apartment unit rather than in two separate ones – that was kind of important. It was the sort of thing Peter needed to work out to decide if he wanted to argue over where they slept. At the moment, the answer was 'no need to argue'.

XXX

"Mmm," Sylar made an answering noise to the thanks. He peeked up from the hand to check on the guy's face, accidentally catching his eye in a returned look. He was already glancing away but he did a brief double-take, apparently thinking Peter had something to communicate. Or he just wanted to be aware of what and how Peter was looking at him. Nothing came of it and he stayed where he was – close to Peter.

XXX

Peter looked away, uncomfortable to have been caught staring. Instead, he brushed his bandaid trash together and dropped them in the kitchen trashcan. "You don't know what a cheese slicer looks like?" he said with a teasing smile, changing the subject. "I seem to remember you getting onto me about not knowing what a dish scraper looked like. What goes around, comes around, man." _Ha. Got you back!_ He grabbed the apple juice with his left hand and gestured at the sack with his right. "Grab that and let's go check out the next place. That's pretty funny, though." He looked back at Sylar to check the other man's reaction to his good-natured ribbing.

XXX

He gave Peter a steady stare that implied more thought should have been applied before speaking; the look said 'duh' as if that much was obvious. _How many people even have cheese slicers? It's probably some fancy, top-of-the-line thing rich people have_. Sylar pursed his lips. If he'd had more energy, he'd have made his irritation verbally clear. Perhaps it was that Peter Petrelli knew something he didn't – and that something was a household kitchen item, albeit far more costly than he would have ever seen as a watchmaker. As it was, he just heaved a sigh, "A cheese slicer is totally different from a dish scraper, Peter." That much was obvious, he was sure.

Sylar took up the bag as ordered, book in hand, trailing after his companion. "What?" he demanded at the purposeful glance back Peter made.

XXX

"What?" Peter said back playfully, hoping he wasn't about to get chased through the apartment and beaned with a bag full of packaged cheese and a box of crackers. But that was a risk he was willing to take. He chuckled, grinning broadly as he opened the door across the hall. "You can let me win one, big guy. You'll still be way in the lead, you know."

XXX

Eyes narrowed in unarticulated response. '_Big guy'?_ Sylar didn't know what to do with that one. It was friendly (and nicer than other options); he kind of liked it – it sounded like a compliment - so he let it lie without much question. _I suppose. But 'letting' you win anything isn't in my nature, Pete._ He almost protested that but…the cause lacked importance.

XXX

Feeling happy and showing it with an ebullient demeanor, Peter headed for the kitchen here, too, passing the shelves of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, including the bell collection memorializing various tourist destinations. Peter didn't give it a second look, having seen it before. He plonked down the juice bottle and started looking in cabinets for either food or medicine. He didn't recall having explored this one all that much – just that he'd rang one of the bells and been distracted by the turntable. "Look in the fridge, will you? I've pretty much got my dinner. Let me know if you see something in there that works for you."

XXX

Sylar entered more sedately, looking around. He was instantly reminded of his fa- uncle's shop in Baltimore on seeing the turntable and the figurines smacked of Tom Miller's and Virginia's apartments – a very unhealthy cross between them. He didn't like it. Uncomfortable, defensive and on-edge, he avoided contact with anything in the place. And that was before he spotted the bell collection. He stopped dead, bag in hand, wanting out-of-here-now. "Oh, Jesus…" he said quietly on seeing it, half expecting to see corny kid pictures from grade-school as well. Peter was already in the kitchen and Sylar wanted to drag him out with him.

This place was clingy and musty and dirty, maybe not physically, but his mind had no trouble layering on the filth and disgust from his memories and their associations. It was practically haunted. Nausea made itself known. "N-no. I'm..." _good_, he nearly finished, responding automatically without processing what Peter had actually said, but that would have been a lie. _Like hell I am! No way in hell am I sleeping here. _"I'll-I'll be in the hall," he blurted and didn't wait for an answer. Sylar zipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing down the nausea and memories. He was grateful that he hadn't had one of his lapses in recollecting things from the past though his imagination eagerly planted a bloody mural of an exploding city on the floor and his signature – SYLAR - swiped in blood on the wall.

XXX

_What?_ Peter had heard the 'no' and assumed there was some other dialogue coming after it to explain. A moment later it arrived, but it only gave him more questions. He stuck his head out of the kitchen to see the door still open and Sylar, as he'd said, gone. Given that last, choked up tone of voice, Peter surged forward and out into the hall, almost missing that Sylar was right there – having not continued down the hall as Peter had expected. He looked Sylar up and down as the other man opened his eyes and straightened. Sylar looked shaken and trying to quickly put his guards up. _Upset. Physically fine, I think._ Peter's expression softened from alarmed to intent, maybe concerned, but he didn't stick around or say anything before going back in the apartment they'd just left, looking around with a protective fervor._ It wasn't something I said. It had to be something in here._ Peter scanned the room quickly for the source of the threat. It looked perfectly banal to him.

Peter poked his head back out for a moment – Sylar was still there. Then Peter turned in the doorway and surveyed the room again. _Was there a weapon maybe? No … and that doesn't explain him being upset instead of angry._ With a shake of his head, he walked out to ask the only one who really knew. "What's going on?"

XXX

Sylar felt Peter's presence as well as hearing it. The speed of it was gratifying – it warmed him and helped calm him down. He was grateful for it. "Just needed some air," Sylar replied, not yet looking at him. "Let's look somewhere else." He pushed off the wall and headed off down the hall.

XXX

Peter didn't budge. "I don't want to go down that way. Let's go to the top floor. Somewhere we haven't been before. Maybe this isn't a good floor." Mostly, he knew what was in the direction Sylar was going – two smallish apartments, neither of which seemed likely to have much in the way of food and one of which had a gun. Also, he wasn't sure what had spooked Sylar (for all Peter knew, Sylar might have just seen an odd shadow cast by Peter in the kitchen and freaked over it), but Peter had seen his face. And Peter had nothing at all invested in this floor of the building versus any other.

XXX

Sylar halted and turned. "Fine by me." It was. He remembered there was a gun around here somewhere. As he passed Peter on his way to the elevator, he managed humor and a smirk, "Admit it; you just wanna jump on some rich guy's bed with your shoes on," he said of the suites that were probably on the top floor. He assumed Peter was following him – he was. They got in and rode the elevator to the top and exited to a much different hallway, significantly wider and more posh. He looked back at Peter as he exited the elevator car, then selected a room at random, walking into a more open space with streamlined dark wood and neon accent décor that looked modern and expensive. The rugs and carpet looked soft and the couch untouched. There was a foldout…door or collapsible wall to separate the bedroom from the living room. It felt like a fuck-pad from Vegas of which Nathan was familiar.


	53. King of the World

Day 13, Evening

"Hm." Peter made an approving hum as they walked into one of the penthouse apartments. It was a lot nicer than the lower floor places, which was part of why he'd wanted to come here. Why dink around in a bunch of played out flats they'd already checked when there were better options available? He went straight to the big windows, looking around outside and struggling for the view through the weather and night. He craned his neck around, but between the pitch blackness and the pouring rain, he saw nothing. There wasn't even any lightning to illuminate things briefly. He could hear the erratic pinging of sleet or ice pellets, which affirmed they'd done right to camp out instead of straggling home.

XXX

Sylar immediately noted the couch – and the pair of bedrooms. They were separated by a bathroom; one was clearly the master, the other a guest room with a more traditional, hinge door. Peter was already scoping out the place so it looked like he approved and that they would be staying here for the night (or at least, one of them would be). "Where will you be sleeping?" was his casual question. It wasn't really the one he wanted answered. Sylar wanted to know where Peter thought Sylar would be bedding. He didn't think he'd get much leeway to argue, either, if it wasn't a response he liked.

XXX

Peter looked at the bed that was visible. It was a double or a queen and looked comfortable. It was a little exposed, but apparently it could be closed off. The nagging desire to be in a separate apartment with a locked door between them ran through his mind, but he'd fallen asleep around Sylar before without mishap. His fear seemed stupid. He waved at the bed he could see. "I'll take that one," he said as he turned from the window and headed to the kitchen, putting aside his worries for the more immediate subject of eating.

XXX

_Interesting he thinks I'm offering him a choice. I guess it sounded that way. Doesn't matter, though_, Sylar thought, pleased with that. The implication behind Peter's answer was that Sylar would be rooming in the guest bed.

XXX

Peter realized he'd left the apple juice behind. He opened the fridge to see what there was. First thing his eyes lighted on was a bottle of champagne. He pulled it out and looked at it, then glanced over at Sylar as Peter tried to make a complicated mental judgment.

_One bottle split between us … I'd been wanting something to drink … This isn't hard stuff, we aren't going to get wasted on it … Is he a teetotaler? If he's not, how does he hold his liquor?_ Peter recalled the long night Sylar, shape shifted as Nathan and clutching an empty bottle, had spent in Peter's bed just a month before. _Might help to relax him. It's just the one bottle, right? _A quick survey of the refrigerator confirmed that yes, there was only the one bottle of anything alcoholic. Their other choices were milk, a few cans of Dr. Pepper, and some energy drinks – none of which sounded appetizing, although there was also some bottled water. There were a variety of other things in there – carrots, celery, some herbs in a glass of water, a package of red meat Peter didn't bother to explore, cottage cheese, eggs, and the usual assortment of fridge dwelling condiments. "Well … uh … do you want some cottage cheese? I'm not sure what else you'd want in here unless you want another omelet."

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter going to the fridge so he thought to set up the food at the small dining table. He unloaded the cheese and crackers and paused over the lunch remains. _Didn't we throw those away? I should have…remembered. Done that earlier._ But he hadn't and here it was. The problem was he didn't know what to do with it – toss it or save it if Peter wanted it for whatever reason. So he stared at it in the bag until Peter addressed him. "No, cheese and crackers are fine." It was sinking in – with amusement – just how much of a heavy snacker Peter was. _He really doesn't make meals much for himself does he?_ Nathan remembered that, dimly, but Sylar was reminded of it. _That means he's been cooking for me._ That caught him flat-footed, not that he knew how to process it.

XXX

_Not much of a dinner,_ Peter groused internally, but he was hungry _**now**_ and nothing was really coming to mind other than what they already had in hand. "Sure. Let's eat." He lifted the wine bottle. "You okay with champagne, or do you want water?"

XXX

Sylar blinked and looked up. _Did he say-? O-kay…_He struggled with the implications of alcohol at this point as well as Peter's motives in offering it. _Won't that…hurt my head? He's a nurse – he would know. He wouldn't offer it if it would hurt a patient, right? Yeah, I also don't trust him._ It's safety understood (assumed), he moved on to the effects it might have. Nathan had drunk countless glasses and bottles of the stuff so he was aware of how low the alcohol content was and how much was needed to have the desired effect. But Nathan was something of an alcoholic in his opinion so…_He wants me…buzzed? He'd be buzzed, too, though. What are we celebrating?_ He wondered before it hit him. The date was what decided him. _His birthday. He wants- Okay. Let him have it. I thought candy or dessert might be more his sweet-tooth but whatever works._

Sylar thought he was supposed to be drinking water for fluid intake. "Sure." He didn't particularly want it but he also didn't have to drink it. Most people would fail to notice after the initial agreement if he did or did not drink what was offered. Perception was a fascinatimg toy – it followed one's expectations and after that, one would stop looking for or at things.

XXX

Peter handed over the bottle and said, "Look around for a corkscrew. I'm going to look for a cheese slicer." He started on one side of the kitchen, leaving the other to Sylar. He didn't find either before Sylar happened on a corkscrew and stepped aside. Peter continued his quest, finding a cheese grater, but no slicer. _Figures. It's Sylar's head. If he doesn't know what a cheese slicer is, it probably doesn't even exist,_ he thought in exasperation. _Why don't my thoughts count?_

XXX

Sylar didn't want to extend the effort required to feel insult or relief about being given the familiar task of corkscrew location. He found it in a drawer with other utensils. Bottle in hand, he opened it over the sink anyway (in case Peter had been shaking the damn thing), hoping the cork wasn't so crappy that it broke or went down into the bottle and liquid itself, though that was pretty rare from what he understood. He didn't know much about brands to know if this one was good or not. _I do all the heavy lifting; he just looks pretty and plays detective for missing kitchen tools_. Screw inserted, he held the bottle firmly and hauled on the handle until the cork inched its way out with an eventual pop, and no mess to his satisfaction. _Ha!_

Peter hadn't gotten glasses out – surely they weren't going to share the bottle? That involved…well, germs. Peter's germs to be exact. _Might be kinda hot to see him wrap his lips around something_…Sylar assessed with evil intent.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said. "Can you slice up the cheddar and swiss? I'm going to look for some different crackers." He left Sylar to the knife work and went through cabinets this time instead of drawers, finding some upper-end brand stoned wheat thins. _Cool. Okay, maybe my thoughts count after all._ He took the box, got out some plates and glasses, putting a plate next to Sylar to set the cheese on as he finished slicing it, and put the rest of the stuff on the table. Peter looked up from his extended, fruitless fiddling with the cracker sleeve. With a sigh, he offered it to Sylar-of-Two-Working-Hands to open.

XXX

Sylar was validated when Peter failed to come up with any mysterious cheese slicer. Did they even exist or was Peter being his regular deluded self or just pulling Sylar's leg? He snorted and brought the bottle over after swiping a knife to do the cutting. He looked back to see the other man was looking for other crackers. _Saltines aren't…good enough? Or he just doesn't like them?_ Sylar knew for a fact how well the sodium and bland flavor helped upset stomachs, but the bias didn't occur to him. He rolled his eyes when he saw the fancy wheat-thin knock-offs. _Of course._

The cheddar was difficult to slice thin and the swiss was only a little better. There was another package of cheese that didn't need cutting – the wrapper said 'brie.' The force necessary kept noisily clanking the knife into the plate he was using to slice the cheese as it slipped through or slipped over which was frustrating. Eventually he got it into chunks at least that could be torn apart with fingers even if it looked anything but gourmet. Sylar held back his snicker when Peter had to hand over the stupid sleeve of crackers. _That's what you get. Getting your way here really isn't working out for you, is it, Pete? Wonder if that will continue_. But he dutifully opened the plastic for Peter and passed it back.

XXX

Peter pulled out a stack of crackers for his plate and at least got the sleeve out of the saltines box for Sylar's. "Saltine's guy, huh? Or is it just because that was what we found first?"

XXX

"Yeah. Well…I thought they'd be better for my stomach…" Sylar hedged.

XXX

Peter put a wheat cracker on Sylar's plate and pushed the open sleeve over next to the saltines so Sylar could pick. "Try one of these. They're good. I like Ritz and club crackers in soup, but not so much with cheese." Since watching the cheese operation would make him tense (the clattering was bad enough, constantly worrying him that Sylar was going to cut himself), Peter poured their drinks, giving each a full glass.

XXX

Sylar eyed the lone wheat cracker on his plate. That was overstepping multiple social boundaries. That was something friends and family did. Sharing and trying new food was a relatively new phenomenon for him, but clearly not new for Peter, given the casualness of the gesture. "Okay," he said faintly, still hung up – in a pleasant way – about that silly cracker. Recovering himself enough, he voiced his opinion, "Ritz get soggy, but club crackers are good in just about anything." _And that is a lot of champagne._

XXX

He headed back to the kitchen briefly for a dinner knife for the brie, pulling it over and unwrapping it as Sylar was finishing up. "I had a friend in college who'd take Ritz and put little squares of cheese on them and heat them in the microwave. They were pretty good. Never liked that canned cheese stuff though – the kind with a nozzle?" Peter raised his right hand and waved it around in a really poor imitation of using a can of Easy-Cheese. He gave it up and spread some brie on a couple crackers, watching while Sylar set up his own stuff.

XXX

Sylar chuckled about the canned cheese. It tasted like plastic and had similar consistencies. The idea was a little nauseating, not helped by the recollection of eating it with the sound of pressurized air with cheese. The idea was great – the product? Not so much. It belonged in a nuclear fall-out bunker for emergencies or apocalypse only situations. As they sat, he tried not to think how their current predicament might actually qualify.

XXX

"You're not getting enough calories, man," Peter put in. "It's starting to worry me. If we find some ice cream after this, you'd better eat it," he mock-threatened, waving the cheese-knife in Sylar's general direction. Peter set the knife down, handle facing Sylar, and pulled over the plate with the cheese pieces on it. He was a little surprised at how sloppy a job had been done, given Sylar's general fastidiousness, but then again, he didn't have proper tools for it. He glanced over at the sharper implement Sylar had been using, having an odd flash to 'Nathan' putting his hand over Angela's (and the knife for cutting the pie) in Peter's apartment, on Thanksgiving. Peter blinked it off, quickly trying to shove that memory away, although it did, for the moment, shut him up. He took a sip of the champagne, struggling not to remember how his mother had brought a merlot that day – blood red and complicated. Tonight's drink was pale gold and bubbly. He took a bigger drink and held it in his mouth for a long moment, tasting the lighter, simpler flavor and trying to focus on that to the exclusion of all the other swirling thoughts.

It didn't help much. Sensory overload was helpful, but what worked most reliably for directing Peter's thoughts was interacting with people. He swallowed and looked across the table, asking, "So, did you ever drink much? Beer, wine, mixed drinks, or none of it?"

XXX

Sylar laughed, watching the knife with slight wariness. "Cheese is a protein. I'll be fine. I wouldn't turn down ice cream, though." He tiredly noted the knife was placed to his advantage, ignoring it thereafter. Sylar put a cheddar…chunk, he supposed it was, on the wheat cracker to try it out. He shrugged. "Triscuits go great with cheese, too." He went back to digging out a handful of Saltines, laying them out rather neatly before alternating the toppings – brie, cheddar, swiss – in a clockwise direction. A second to admire it before he started it at the six o'clock cracker, sliding it whole into his mouth. _Cheese is going to make me thirsty_, he realized after a few chews.

Sylar glanced up to see Peter looking at him, asking about alcohol. Another realization struck: Peter was had a system, a reason to his rhythm. All Peter had to do was put things in the environment and ask Sylar about it, the champagne for instance, or a cracker type. It was ingenious and so subtle he'd missed it. It was a unique process of elimination. _Clever, clever. _Of course, that just raised more questions about why Peter wanted to know about his alcohol intake specifically. What would (or could) Peter do to him drunk that he couldn't do when Sylar was sober?

He shook his head, "No. I wasn't...Alcohol was really frowned on. I never got into it. Before…my abilities," he phrased gently instead of saying 'before I murdered people, including you,' "I was more of a wine person, barely drank at all, ever." Something about drinking alone and the idea that it was a sin anyway. That and it had a bad tendency of making him completely horny (perhaps it was the taboo of it) coupled with the 'alone' part meant he had nowhere to go but his hand. It was a recipe for guilt and more trouble than it was worth. He felt out of control, too. "After that…I got regeneration." He shrugged that off, poking at his crackers before looking up to speak, "No point drinking if you can't get drunk, you know?"

Already he began to feel Nathan's more alcoholic urges, the feeling that being drunk and numb and out of it was pleasurable. /He'd needed it to cope at times. Deaths in the family, utter betrayals, life doing down the tubes. Mexico came to mind – his failure and guilt, cowardly running and involving the daughter he'd wanted to impress…His last binge had been…the night before Thanksgiving./ He'd slept in his brother's familiarly-scented bed, safe for the moment from the outside world while his mind tore him apart in his dreams. He'd woken to Angela, lies, and pumpkin pie. "It's kinda nice here, though." _I can get drunk now, if I want_. He didn't want to advertise that in case Peter got ideas. A concussion and more randy horniness than he knew how to handle, with Peter here, would not be a good combination.

XXX

Peter nodded agreeably, listening.

XXX

Sylar felt that he'd been talking so long, he'd missed the question so he tried to review it. "I don't…um. Most drinks are fine. I don't know that I really have a preference." He shoved another cracker in his mouth just to shut up and look occupied.

XXX

"Can't say I have the best relationship with it, myself. I think alcoholism runs in my family." Peter hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say to Sylar about that. More quietly he said, "People say a lot of hurtful things while they're drunk." He toyed with his glass, interest in drinking it abruptly over. Peter set the glass down and stood up, a carefully polite expression on his face to hide his anger at himself – for spoiling the moment, for not being able to shut away the past, for even thinking that drinking might be a nice way to ease that pain in his back and hand. "I'm going to get one of those bottles of water. Do you want one?"

XXX

That was something that Nathan had never understood – but Sylar had grasped instantly – Angela's wine habit. It was because of her ability. Nathan didn't know about that until his forties, though he knew Angela came from a less-influential family than Arthur, a lawyer, businessman and a war veteran who also drank. If anything Arthur showed Nathan the ropes of alcohol – it was almost expected of him. He'd taken the brunt of imbibed Arthur to shield Peter; therefor Nathan knew just what kinds of things Arthur talked about when he'd been in his drink. And that decisive, so-called honesty turning cutting, looking for any vulnerable spot or perceived flaw under the influence when it stripped away any censor. Nathan himself had called Peter a few names after a few beers – the kid's idealism, rebellion, and pacifism making him nauseous at the time.

There were things Sylar could say to that but he wanted to relax, at least a little, enough to rest later and not worry about an attack in the night – which he would worry about if he snarked off about the familial addiction. He was just being pragmatic. He didn't want to get involved or endanger himself. Although his curiosity stood at attention, wondering what exactly Peter had heard (or said!). Gabriel's own upbringing hadn't required alcohol to allow poisonous words or phrases, even Bible versus to embed in his brain to be remembered forever. It was almost an every day occurrence for the over-sensitive and that had been torture. It wasn't like Gabriel had ever figured out the source or purpose behind any of it, eventually he gave up trying to reason it out and just accepted what was. He could definitely relate to that feeling and maybe that helped keep his mouth shut. "Yes, please."

_At least…Peter and I turned out better than our fathers. Not by much in my case, but…I think that still matters._

XXX

Peter walked to the fridge, pausing to roll his shoulders and try to center himself before he opened the door. He got what he came for and returned. Small talk about cheese came to mind and was dismissed. Instead, after settling himself back in his chair, Peter said, "My back hurts. My hand hurts. I'm not feeling good." _I'm sure you aren't, either_. The real reason why he was suddenly cranky wasn't because of his hand or back – it was thinking about his family. He didn't want to talk about that, though, so he picked up a cracker with brie on it, relying on the soft cheese to hold the cracker together after he bit off half of it. A swallow and a drink of water later, he said, "But you're right – it is nice here in a lot of ways. It's quiet. That's good and bad, but I really noticed it when I was playing the piano. Inside of your apartment has the clocks, but outside it's always so silent. You can definitely hear yourself think." _Maybe kind of literally._

XXX

_And what do you want me to do about it? _Sylar pondered Peter's pointing out his symptoms, taking the second water bottle and a drink from it. _Maybe you need to be eating the Saltines._

XXX

"There's a lot of time here. I kind of like that. It's … new." He gave Sylar a frail smile, going back to eating.

XXX

Sylar had opened his mouth to say why he had the clocks (and the noise) in the first place, but that sweet, fleeting little smile stopped him. "So you spend it beating things up and tuning pianos." A commonality struck him, "Hey, you tunes pianos and I fix clocks." _I wonder if there's pianos at hotels he can tune? Is it a hobby or…Obviously it isn't – he doesn't know how to tune a piano. Why do something you don't know how to do?_"It's probably good for you. You work too much anyway. No one here to save now." _Not even me._ "You can do anything you want." Sylar thought about that, then shrugged. It was….too much world, even for him. It was too big, too much room, empty space. He couldn't fill it or be in it all at the same time. Hence his small apartment, stuffed to the ceiling with entertaining, special items. It was a comfortable, familiar, safe nest he barely fit in. That was also what he was used to.

Any conspirator who claimed he was out for world domination was dead wrong – literally, dead and wrong now. Making a change for him was both more difficult and more profound; for Peter change was easy and accessible, possible and somewhat approved of. Maybe it came down to inborn skill sets. Saving an individual life was more a personal thing whereas being president…would affect thousands if not millions of lives. "I was here first, though, so I make the rules," Sylar sniffed, throwing that out casually and surely, munching on another cracker. He didn't think that one through because while he would have liked to establish dominance, he couldn't back it up at the moment or maybe ever.

XXX

Peter had been introspectively musing over Sylar's words until the man got to the last ones. For a moment, Peter's eyes danced over Sylar's serious face, trying to judge if he really meant that. Because it was still embedded in Peter's mind that this was _Sylar_ he was dealing with and _Sylar_ was an unpredictably violent, homicidal man with baggage Peter couldn't even begin to unpack. He was also an unpredictably violent, homicidal man who had just fed Peter a straight joke. In a twisted sort of way, he was not only acknowledging his past, but also making a joke of it. After three seconds of looking at him intently, Peter burst out in a very amused laugh.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at the laughter. It mocked him. It wasn't funny. Okay, maybe he'd meant it a little light-hearted but he was serious. Peter didn't like it here; he was new; from out of town (or wherever – Peter still thought he was in California for fuck's sake); he was younger and he was only here because Sylar had something he wanted. Besides, who had won the last two fight-fights? He wound up glowering.

XXX

Peter continued chuckling as he put some smoked cheddar on a couple more wheat crackers and leaned back, cracker in hand. "Okay, let's play that game. If you were king of the world here, what's the first law you'd pass?"

XXX

"I _am_ king of the world here," Sylar corrected with half his attention.

XXX

That spawned another bout of chuckles from Peter, who struggled to tamp it down. Sylar seemed serious, which was funny either way – if he'd intended it as a joke, then being serious was just Sylar playing along and it was definitely humorous; but if he hadn't intended it as a joke, then it was so preposterous that Peter couldn't help but laugh. He cleared his throat and forced an expression of soberness onto his face, difficult though that was.

XXX

Sylar ignored the peanut gallery this time. Already he was contemplating the question – a good one, too. The parameters were obvious – he was king and whatever law he made would be followed. Or else. It wasn't…'make a wish; what wish would you make?' The problem was he didn't know the answer to either – wish or law 'game.' _Peter can't rape me. Peter has to sleep with me? Peter can't laugh at me. Peter can't leave. Peter can't touch my stuff. Peter has to believe me? Peter has to play with me? Peter has to like me? Peter…does what I say? Or maybe…'Sylar will be safe from all physical, mental and emotional harm'? Maybe 'I'm special, not a monster'?_

Sylar had zoned out completely, staring sightless at the tabletop at Peter's right. As he came back to more conscious and social awareness, he could feel he'd been frowning. He licked his lips. "Uh…I'd make a constitution to begin with. Put…lots of things on it."

XXX

"Write it all down? That's a good idea," Peter said as he genuinely sobered. "I hadn't thought of that."

XXX

Sylar thought some more, slowly formulating because he knew he had to have an answer. Not having one was…well, it would look weird. Saying something that didn't match Peter's concept of Sylar the monster, Sylar the murderer would set off alarm bells and raise more personal questions he didn't want to answer. But damnit, he didn't have just one and the ones he had he couldn't or didn't want to divulge. So he prioritized as best he could. "I guess…my first law would be that…you couldn't leave. You have to stay living in whatever building you choose." _That's not weird or conspicuous at all. But I can work down the list from there; what's possible on it, anyway._

XXX

Peter lifted a brow. _He already has that. Damn, that really is important to him. I guess we have an exemption for tonight?_

XXX

Sylar bit off a corner of Swiss Saltine, entertaining his mind with multiple fantasies. After a moment, his curiosity peaked again. "How about you? Assuming you were king of the world, of course," Sylar smirked without much energy, downplaying the likelihood.

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, taking a liberal drink of champagne because it went better with the taste of smoked cheddar than water did. (He would have said it had nothing at all to do with any latent alcoholism that ran in his family – or tendencies towards denial.) "If I were king of the world … _this_ world … and I don't want to over-think it, but I think we shouldn't beat each other up." He took a moderate sip. "So this situation is one where whatever I order would really happen? Not just be something everyone agreed was a good idea?"

Peter knew that this proposed rule of his would impact him as much as Sylar, but he'd be somewhat gentler with Sylar if he wasn't feeling he needed to go over-the-top with violence to deter the homicidal maniac Sylar has proven himself to be in the past - the recent past, too. Again, though, this was what Peter would tell himself, because the admission that he really wanted to hurt people of his own desire rather than as a defense wasn't something he was prepared to make.

"I'd want to write it up in that constitution of yours, so we both knew what it meant."

XXX

_When do you over-think anything, Petrelli?_ Sylar queried to himself. He nodded agreement, though, when Peter seemed to look for one. He gave Peter nearly the capacity of his attention, the rest of it spared for his cracker. _Although…I'm king of the world so the only 'game' is _letting _you pretend to put things in _my _constitution. If we're both putting things in, then, yeah, it's on a __democratic__ basis._

XXX

It occurred to Peter that he might have stumbled upon a sideways method to working out some ground rules for interacting, if they could agree what was kosher and what wasn't between them. Sylar's 'rule' of Peter not leaving wasn't abusive or even megalomaniacal. Peter could live with it. He wondered what else he could live with from the other man. "So I can't leave, and neither of us can beat up on the other. What else should we have in the constitution?"

XXX

Sylar's face was droll and unimpressed. '_We' can't beat on each other. Think_ you _can handle not beating me up, Petrelli? You seemed to like it even though _I _won_. Peter's last question was different than the 'game.' It sounded familiar, too, so he wasn't unaware of the angle of Peter's motives. Whatever. Let the kid think what he wanted to. Sylar was king and this wasn't a democracy. Even if it was, both of them were far too different to reach agreement. The empath didn't balk at the enforced living condition; that was hopeful.

"Guests have to be respectful of the owner's apartment, including rare collectables and _food_." Sylar gave an unmistakably pointed look at Peter. "Don't make a mess. Don't break things, like doors or people's faces. Don't take their things, like combs. Don't move their things without permission – clocks and watches are delicate and probably have loose parts and the books are where I want them to be. Always wash your hands and don't leave the toilet seat up." Sylar finished his speech and took a drink from his champagne, suspecting that those terms wouldn't go over as well as the first one had. Most of that was repetitious – Peter had heard it before – but some of it was new and advertising what he wanted as just as likely to wind up happening because…well, he wanted it. Peter now knew how to drive him up a wall and might do it on a whim. "The infraction of which may result in breach in contract of rule number two," he muttered to himself.

XXX

Peter stifled a laugh at the emphasis on 'food'. He reached up and rubbed at his upper lip, his mouth, and then scratched at his chin, all the while failing to get an amused smile off his face. "I don't know, man. I might want to move things around just to upset you. That's worth seeing," he teased.

XXX

"Ha ha." Sylar deadpanned with so much seriousness it was nearly a threat. _I don't think it will be worth seeing. I won't make it worth your while._

XXX

More seriously, Peter said, "But I'll try not to break things." Thankfully, he wasn't a klutz. He took another sip of champagne and set about building another couple of crackers. As he finished, he said, "Guess it's my turn. Don't chase me. If I get upset and I want my space, let me have it. I've got to feel like I can get away from you when I need to or else we'll have some of those 'infractions' you're talking about." Peter knew he got emotional and more demonstrative than a lot of other people. Which was fine most of the time, but there were a lot of feelings he harbored towards Sylar which probably wouldn't be healthy for either of them for Peter to let out. Putting pressure on him or getting in his face seemed like a sure way to break Peter's tenuous control on his more violent impulses.

XXX

Sylar was quiet, lips pursed. He didn't like that one so much. It robbed him of an opportunity to get under Peter's skin, should he ever feel the need. _When I want your attention and your presence, I'm going to try to get it. There's no guarantee you'll come back. You're asking me to just…let you go? Trust you'll come back? (What if I want some infractions?_ They were just another way to get attention and the fighting rule was Peter's, not his). Sylar was aware that he had, perhaps, something of paranoid phobia about being abandoned and/or neglected. That saying about 'its not paranoia if they're all out to get you' came truthfully to mind even if he felt like some tacky alien conspiracy theorist about it. Having to remember that Peter needed him, too, just as badly – hell, Sylar was his mission here – seemed like small fry compared to being abandoned. It was difficult rationale to ask him to justify. Apparently his silence was read as acquiescence and Peter continued.

XXX

"Some of your rules from before that I'm okay with: don't lie, don't manipulate. At least not in a bad way. Influencing is different. So's persuading. Maybe what I'm saying is that being above-board is all right, but nothing underhanded. None of that 'I got away with it so it's okay' stuff." Peter paused for a bite, swallowed quickly and added, "Not that I've seen you do that, but a lot of people do – Nathan always did – and it's not something I like. No one does and it's only the two of us here, so ..." He let that trail off with an expressive shrug as he finished his current cracker.

XXX

"Nuh-uh, Petrelli. One rule at a time. Wait your turn," Sylar brandished a cracker at him warningly. The idea of being bound to tell the truth was…well, both very serious in applied reality and laughable as a concept. He didn't have to agree to that one; he didn't have to follow it - Peter didn't have to know. Peter had already caught him lying about his medical status, how he'd done it, Sylar wasn't sure. He'd been picturing the morally upright hero (Peter) would be held accountable for lying and manipulating since his last name was Petrelli back when he made that condition. The other one being that Peter not treat him like a sanitarium inmate had, for the most part, been upheld, to his surprise.

Sylar didn't talk to people; it was just too dangerous. Already Peter figured how to use his preferences against him with that book rearranging comment. The last semi-truthful conversation Sylar had…he couldn't recall. Madeline? Luke? Claire even? Or farther back to Danko or Chandra? The idea of honesty was a frightening one. It implied…safety and trust. He could always agree to the rule but distract and avoid answering, which wasn't lying…"Besides," he mused, "you'll assume I'm lying anyway." _So let I'll let you think what you want, believe what you want to believe. I don't think my truth is going to make a difference here, now, with you, where it hasn't done any good before. What's so important that he needs to know the truth? All he asks are…weird get-to-know-you questions about my childhood. Like any of that matters. He's not writing a book or planning a hit and he didn't read my file. It's just weird._

Sylar was a bit surprised Peter had so openly named his brother. He assumed the mere mention was a salted wound too deep to touch. Nathan's bipolar conscience was certainly a pain in everyone's ass; Sylar ought to know and clearly Peter did, too. _Does he mention him now because…he thinks I'll do something Nathan would do? _That was an unpleasant thought.

"In my constitution I'd make it a law that you have to treat me at least like a coworker. None of that Company, hero under-the-rug stuff." Peter felt like a brother and a friend to him, like a little shadow almost. It was jarring when Peter held him at arm's length all the time with none of the familiarities he expected to receive, the ones he was used to. Sylar knew that was just Nathan's ghost, but he wanted a foothold towards making that a reality because being the monster-next-door was going to make him crazy.

XXX

"A coworker?" Peter pulled his head back, brows down and lips pouted slightly._ Like a partner? Like Hesam?_ He gave Sylar a quizzical look over another piece of cracker. Hesam knew his cell number, they talked about school and saving people's lives and what it meant to be a medic together. They were in each other's business enough that it really bothered Peter that he couldn't tell Hesam the truth about his family or anything about abilities. Despite that, there was a lot more of a bond there than he had yet with Sylar. _He doesn't rate that!_

XXX

Sylar frowned deeply at that. _Yeah. So?__I've worked with heroes before._ His back was up over the mere suggestion that he wasn't good enough for that. _You need me enough to come get me; is this so much to ask?_

XXX

Peter blinked a few times and took another drink, washing down his food and finally moving his thoughts along to the rest of what Sylar had said. "What do you mean by that? Not just the coworker stuff, but the hero-under-the-rug thing? Because … the people I work with, we're kind of teamed up. We have each other's back." He dipped his head a little to the side, leaning forward inquisitively now. "Are you saying you're on the same team with me? That we're working together towards something?" _Like getting out? Or saving Emma? _That seemed too good to be true, not to mention Peter wasn't entirely sure he wanted Sylar on the same 'team' as him.

XXX

Just like that, Sylar's expression loosened as Peter made sense of his earlier tone and hesitation. He understood the problem because that would be asking for quite a bit, a partnership like that. "I wasn't thinking about your job. Nursing- paramedic, whatever. That's…" _Does he even have a frame of reference for what I'm asking? How do I explain it? It's not like I've ever had it either. _"Different," he tried to clarify. "I meant like an office coworker or something." He shrugged off the whole idea because it wasn't working. Peter had all but stated he was asking for too much. Sylar noticed how interested Peter was; he'd definitely stumbled onto something of value. He didn't bother to address the 'hero-under-the-rug' part.

"I don't know how well a team would work when we don't trust each other and we have no common goals. Except maybe keeping sane here. That I can work toward." _I've been trying to work towards it. I want to get laid, maybe have a friend; you wanna save your not-so-girlfriend girlfriend and probably kill me after. Of the two, mine seems more likely (except the 'killing me' part) but apparently its all a matter of perspective, warped or otherwise._ "Besides, you don't really do 'teams', do you, Peter?"

XXX

Peter frowned at him briefly, lips pursed and affecting a sullen expression for a moment to get his feelings across about what Sylar had said. He was just emoting; it wasn't a lasting mood. He sucked down the remainder of his champagne – the last third of the glass – and set it back down. "I suppose my teamwork skills could use some work," he allowed. At least, he knew, Hesam would say his teamwork skills needed work. And maybe Noah or Matt or anyone else whom he'd tried to work with on anything of importance. _Me and Noah seemed to be working together okay, once he started taking me seriously …_ He wasn't sure how Sylar felt about Noah, though, so he left that thought unspoken.

XXX

Sylar was a little surprised to get an admission at all, let alone one so direct. He didn't know what to do with it, even though he supposed it was what he wanted, so he nodded his approval.

XXX

"We have more common goals than that," Peter chided lightly, getting to his feet. "Keeping you alive. Keeping me alive." He made some loose, wide gestures with his words. "Staying sane's a good one." Peter ambled into the kitchen, calling back, "Maybe … finding some ice cream?" as he opened the freezer and checked their options. "Hm." He dug around and emerged with a cardboard box, the outside illustrating the contents as ice cream bars – vanilla with a chocolate coating. "This is good enough," Peter declared, pulling out two and putting the box back in the freezer before returning to the table. He offered one to Sylar.

XXX

_People who want to keep others alive usually don't beat them to concussions, plural,_ Sylar noted, but let it slide. It was strange to think that he took the idea of life more seriously than Peter did – Peter who was here, supposedly, to save his girlfriend. The idea of partnering up for the grand scheme of ice cream was funny – Sylar caught himself chuckling despite himself. He could definitely get on board a master plan for frozen dairy treats. The 'good enough' comment was equally amusing – it wasn't strawberry and it didn't have fun kiddie-chunks in it. It was vanilla, probably a cheap kind with equally cheap chocolate coating, but it was vanilla all the same, thus it was Sylar's type of ice cream, not Peter's. He took slightly sadistic pleasure in that as he took the ice cream bar, "Thanks." _I picked a good apartment then – convenient ice cream._

XXX

"I trust you some," Peter said, settling back into his seat and picking at the wrapper for his dessert. "Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been sitting down to eat with you, getting you ice cream, dragging you out to make you listen to my horrible piano playing." He smiled charmingly at Sylar – a staged smile more familiar to Nathan's face than Peter's, but it was the same sort of emoting he'd done earlier, just this time it was a positive emotion he was trying to project. "There's hope for us yet."


	54. Night Terrors

Day 13, December 23, Evening

Sylar narrowed his eyes at first, then relaxed, tilting his head in curiosity or maybe latent defensiveness. _He makes it sound like he's doing me favors. _Sylar supposed he was, but that meant, socially speaking, that Peter wanted acknowledgement or gratitude. The same could be said of Sylar's favors – but those weren't really favors, of course, they were…something, anything, else. Sylar tracked over Peter's smiling visage. He then removed the ice cream's wrapper and took a very cold bite as the frozen dessert attacked the nerves of his teeth. _Hope for what, though? Better play-time? Bigger goals? _"Ice cream and hope. Just what the doctor ordered," he said, just a little sarcastic, lifting his ice cream in a toast.

Something tugged at his consciousness, "Um…Ah. What would be your next rule?" He noticed the whole 'don't mention my family' bit hadn't cropped up yet. So far Peter hadn't asked for anything degrading or painful – a shock – but maybe he was just being polite at the dinner-table.

XXX

Peter nibbled gently and carefully at the top of the chocolate, flaking off a little section of it and licking that into his mouth to suck into melted goodness. He was engrossed in experiencing the flavor, paying not-that-much attention to Sylar, when the other man asked his question. "Hm? Yeah, um … guess I should have one. I don't know," he shrugged, "maybe make you answer my questions for once?" Peter gave a sudden big grin at how little Sylar would appreciate being forced to answer anything that struck Peter's fancy. He laughed a little, looking over to gage Sylar's reaction. "No, I don't think that one would work. I think it'd get voted down."

XXX

An eyebrow quirked at that. That sadistic smile was somehow innocent and very winning but the man's last name was Petrelli and something about more flies with honey than vinegar came to mind. That rule would certainly not be fun, if anything, it would be downright humiliating and traumatizing given that Peter seemed to be investigating Gabriel's past. That level of vulnerability was staggering – Sylar couldn't truly wrap his mind around it even as a fake concept. "Assuming you were king, you wouldn't get voted down. That's the whole point; if you could get away with anything. In a democracy, you'd absolutely get voted down," he asserted. _I'd have to be stupid to vote for that._

XXX

"Too bad I can't seem to break the rules of the world. This one at least," Peter said as his teeth tickled off another flat segment of chocolate to enjoy. Abilities let him break the rules of the real world well enough. "I'd have my hand fixed, be able to watch movies ..." _But would I want people around?_ The answer to that seemed like an obvious affirmative, but the words didn't want to leave Peter's mouth, for reasons he refused to examine. Instead, he set his tongue to licking a furrow in the now-exposed strip of vanilla ice cream at the top of the bar.

XXX

Sylar immediately noted Peter's shift in attention: from Sylar to the ice cream and whatever mental 'I wants' Peter could conjure up. Peter had clearly acclimated faster than he'd thought possible, or probable maybe, but then again, he had been telling the guy the facts of life as they wer now. He'd been encouraging the de-sensitization in a way and losing Peter's constant attention was just an unfortunate side-effect. Sylar glanced at Peter's very empty champagne glass and posited the theory that Peter was relaxed and tired and probably more pain-free than he'd been all day. He was even tempted to follow in the consumption of booze for pain relief, but he was paranoid of further headache that may result from a hangover. He didn't think it particularly safe with a concussion, no matter what Nurse Petrelli thought.

Idly, he watched his unaware companion as Peter fantasized and…_licked_ his ice cream. Sylar's interest sharpened and he found himself staring at the obscene display, licking his lips unconsciously of any residual ice cream, forgetting the stick in his hand. His eyebrows lofted. Never mind that under normal circumstances Sylar would not find a man licking _anything_ arousing but this wasn't a normal circumstance at all. It had been a long time since he'd seen anything besides porn magazines (which didn't really do it for him) and this here was live-action. There was no reason for that type of behavior and he wouldn't care if there was; his eyelids had already lowered and he felt warmer; perhaps he felt…harder as well.

XXX

"I'd make the weather warmer, so we could sit outside in the sun and eat all the ice cream we wanted." He looked across the table at Sylar levelly for a second or two, trying to make sense of what he meant by the 'we' that was in there. Then he brushed it off, raising his ice cream bar to suck at the bottom of it, where it inevitably melted first due to the constant warmth of his hand. "Not much point in getting out of here until I can take you with me," he mused in between rude, short, sucking sounds. He knew he was being very immature and impolite about his food, but if Sylar was offended, he could go fuck himself. Peter was having fun eating.

XXX

Sylar blinked a few times to try to right his expression, allowing his brow to drop; he must have managed it okay_. Something about taking me? _But then Peter was right back at the ice cream – that goddamn sexual metaphor – with intensity. Sylar bit his lip at the _noises_ Peter made. Live action plus the far more memorable sound effects. God, he'd been so long without action – he was eating this up like Peter was going at the ice cream. If it kept up, he'd be squirming in his seat, if not adjusting or outright touching himself. _Jesus Christ. Peter, you tease._ This was not the first time Peter had…creatively played with his food. Sylar felt sick, though, despite the flood of long-absent hormones. This was his enemy (sort of his brother) he was drooling over. It was a new low he'd achieved. His breath came shorter while he bit into the ice cream bar to rid himself of his urge to bite or growl about the teasing. He chewed voraciously even as the cold went to his head and his teeth. It was so bad but it was pretty good, too, this typical masochistic lust of his. With each lewd slurp, Sylar felt his dick harden that much more. He had other substitutes for Peter's mouth than that ice cream bar, or so his imagination prescribed. He ran through the reasons of why, again, he wasn't taking Peter by bodily force because it sounded like a really good idea right now.

XXX

"I guess I need to come up with a real rule. Everything I-" He stopped himself in the middle of saying he couldn't think of anything he'd want that Sylar would be willing to give (like cooperation or promising not to act like an asshole). He stopped because he'd thought of something he _did _want, that maybe he could get. "I'd make it a rule that you had to be truthful about your medical state to anyone who was providing health care services to you."

Peter looked for Sylar's reaction, sucking at the top of the ice cream bar to leave behind the top inch or so as a hollowed out shell. His next move would be to bite sections of that shell off bit by bit. Then he'd start on the sides.

XXX

_Erect. That's my medical state right now. Hopelessly erect. Teased to potentially violent action? Sexually frustrated? Insane? Check, check, check_. Sylar met Peter's eyes, certain his own gaze was ravenous. It snapped him out of it with a blink and a snarling grimace at having to tear his attention away from Peter's icy pink mouth around an ice cream bar that would never, ever be innocent in his eyes again. He slumped back, forcing his sex-starved mind to focus on whatever rule Peter had decided on.

_Who says I haven't been truthful?_ "Wouldn't that just rob you of the fun of figuring it out? Like choose your own adventure or something," he swallowed and cleared his throat but it had nothing to do with the conversation. "That's assuming the health care provider isn't in a position and has no inclination to fuck you up. I'm not going to present you with opportunities like that." _(Even though he's been fine so far)…It just bothers me because I can't figure out why my health and comfort suddenly matters._

XXX

Peter sighed and frowned, directing his attention back to the shell of chocolate. He wanted to defend and argue, but if his conduct to date hadn't been a good illustration of his ethics, then no number of words was going to help. It was depressing, though. _I thought I was doing a good job. I haven't killed you, or stabbed your eyes out or slit your throat or … yeah. 'Inclination' – concussion or not, I guess he can tell that._

XXX

On a literally pressing subject, Sylar rasped, "I'd like to get laid. I'd make a rule about that." _And I'd like to enact it _now. To hell with ruining tonight's slumber party – if Peter could say what he wanted, then so could Sylar. To hell with Peter's little 'not my type/I won't sleep with you' statement, too, when testosterone and blood was pumping to his organ.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed at that, glancing up from having munched down the thin layer of chocolate and effectively shortened the ice cream bar to about two-thirds its previous size. "You know, for someone who's afraid I'm going to smother them in their sleep, you're awfully pushy about getting in bed with me." He leaned back, half-regretting his words, half-pleased that he'd said it anyway.

XXX

A couple of blinks, then a slight tilt of his head was his only reaction. Sylar didn't appreciate (or find accurate) the use of the word 'afraid.' _Paranoid, maybe. Justified. You have no reason to be nice so I know I wouldn't enjoy it – you'd make sure of that. And who said anything about sleeping together? _That last thought he found the most interesting.

XXX

Peter huffed, shooting an accusatory look at the champagne bottle. He shook his head, his feelings continuing to be ambivalent – he should apologize, but he didn't care, both at the same time. "Fine. You'd make a rule about that if you were king of the world. I'd make it a rule that people had to look out for each other, instead of screwing each other up all the time."

With another sharp exhale, he went back to his ice cream, prizing off the strip of chocolate from one side and then the other, less enchanted with it now that he'd gotten pissy over Sylar's insinuation that he was a bad nurse. Or whatever it was Sylar was insinuating. 'Hey, I think you might kill me if you had the chance – that makes me so hot' just made no sense at all. Peter kept his eyes on his side of the table (and mostly on his ice cream), quietly bristling, good mood abruptly spiked by the indecipherable contradiction.

XXX

Sylar glared, his plans foiled once again (not that he'd really expected it to work – maybe Peter just hadn't had enough booze, yeah, that was it. Though he didn't legitimately want to fuck a drunk Peter). _Oh, because you're here to look out for me, not your girlfriend. I can still 'screw' you, Peter; don't test me._ To his relief and regret, Peter seemed through with his more obscene eating habits – the majority of it seemed to be chocolate coating. Sylar pushed at his erection with the heel of his hand to give it the hint that it needed to disappear, taking a large bit of ice cream again, focusing on the cold of it. _I guess it's my turn again._

"I want my abilities back. Here," he stated petulantly, mournfully, frowning at his treat, then at Peter. "Just to have them. I miss having them. Even if it's not the same without people." _They're not really special without people to see them. Same for me. I'd make a law that I'd be special but it wouldn't be real – I haven't earned it. _It was honestly like being an amputee suffering from phantom limb. They were at least familiar and comforting – the abilities, not people – hell, he probably liked his powers better! Humans being something he could never figure out. Abilities, unlike humans, met his needs. "I think if…there were more people my, um…the…the Hunger would come back, you know? It's a trade-off, I think," Sylar admitted without knowing why, maybe just to draw Peter out of his mood, get him to engage again. That much was surprising, the implication of a trade-off – it was unexpected. It wasn't like he'd been faring any better when surrounded by people. "I'm surprised it didn't come back with you being here." _Even if your ability is pretty worthless. You make me hungry in other ways, I guess._ Sylar glanced over what little he could see of Peter's body above the table.

XXX

"Glad it didn't," Peter said, Sylar's disclosure softening him from his momentary grumpiness. "The Hunger, that is." He watched as Sylar gave him something of a sizing up, eyes traveling over him almost palpably. Peter cocked his head a little at that, tfhen took a sedate, sucking bite out of what was left of his ice cream bar. That Sylar was looking him over didn't bother him. If anything was going to perk Peter's interest, it was appreciation followed by an absence of aggression - not that he was interested. He directed his attention back to the ice cream bar, now entering that careful phase where you tried to keep what was left of it on the stick long enough for you to eat it before it fell off.

He was studying the ice cream bar when he said, "I'm not real _happy_ about you cutting my head open. If I were king of the world, I'd make you apologize for that." _I don't know if I'd believe you, but it would be nice to hear it._ He glanced up a few times as he finished his dessert, sucking the stick clean and then nibbling at the ring of chocolate left on it. There was no heat in his voice or even much in the way of accusation. What Sylar had done to him way back in Mohinder's apartment was wrong. Peter was still ticked about it, but he had far greater offenses to reserve his wrath for.

He put the stick down and cracked open his bottle of water, taking a swig before asking with simple curiosity, "Was it the abilities you liked having, or what they let you do?"

XXX

His gaze since returned to Peter, Sylar spared a second to contemplate the difference. His own didn't abilities immediately strike him as having those two aspects so clearly – they were almost one and the same for him - but he'd killed other specials for the sins of self-loathing and misuse. There definitely was a difference. "Both." It was something of a random question filled with meaning (or so he supposed). "Does that…matter somehow?"

XXX

"Well … you said you wanted your abilities back, here, but I couldn't tell if you wanted other people around or not. It made me wonder if it's just having the abilities that you like, or if it's using them on other people – what you can accomplish, what you can change. It's the difference between inward-directed or outward, I guess. One is …" he waved his hand vaguely, "the abilities change you, make you different; the other is the abilities let you change everything else."

Peter pondered for a few moments, staring sightlessly at his plate, empty of all but a clean popsicle stick. His brows twitched as he thought of another way to put it. "It's like, which do you enjoy more – getting to play the game, or winning it when you do get to play? Would you play if you didn't get to win?" He looked up, watching Sylar with a serious intensity, like the conversation had strayed into something really important. Ironic, then, that Peter didn't know which answer was 'right' or 'better'. The part of him that wanted to be moral and good thought abilities should be judged by how they let you change (for the better, he hoped) the lives of others. But another part of him, a more selfish, denied, and hidden part, wanted to start that change with himself.

XXX

Sylar listened and crunched on the ice cream bar as he did so, contemplating the dialogue and the ideas therein. It was an increasingly personal question. The second analogy boggled his mind because he couldn't tell what belonged to which – changing himself or the world and playing the game or winning it. He dismissed it. "I still…like both. But if I had to chose…Hmm," he made a sound of indecision. "It can go either way. I suppose the most effective one is changing yourself." Sylar threw a check-in glance Peter's way, almost to see what the other man thought of that, if it was…approved. The guy was watching him intently; it made Sylar wonder what he saw when he looked.

A little uncomfortable, especially with the hanging implication that he wanted or felt he needed to change himself, he made to redirect: "It's not just…using abilities on people. That's all you seem to do with them, but there's more to it. I like that I can reach out…" He extended his hand in a very familiar motion, as if he was choking someone – Peter - or reaching for something invisibly cylindrical, "and take something." Fingers flexing, he heaved a rueful sigh before he relaxed back – his target, Peter's empty glass, unmoved on the table. "I used to be able to. The power of the mind. It's raw but I can harness it. Do things no one else can." _Be special. Powers substitute what I wasn't born with. Special comes from the inside, then the things you do with it. I need people __and powers to be special. By myself I'm not much._ Face darkening, Sylar tried not to remember a similar conversation with Maya in some dusty car in Mexico or how clumsy he'd been with telekinesis at first with Chandra.

XXX

Peter stiffened, sitting up straight, pulling in air, and leaning away. Adrenaline silently flooded through his system, making the room surreal and unimportant – his attention utterly riveted on Sylar's hand. _He can't … he can't … he can't do anything … right?_ He tried to breathe as he waited, finally noticing Sylar's gaze wasn't on him, but on the glass in front of him. Nothing happened and Sylar went on with his spiel, having been focused on his target and not the man sitting behind the glass. A variety of reactions were parading through Peter's mind – attacking, fleeing, smashing aside the things on the table and issuing loud, confrontational threats, or doing nothing at all, as Sylar didn't seem to get how his 'reaching out and taking things' interfered very directly with people's bodily autonomy and sometimes, their life. Peter finally managed to pull in a deep breath, letting it out slowly while a cold sensation of pins and needles flashed along his skin as the fight-or-flight hormones faded.

XXX

He bit down on his mostly-bare popsicle stick and sucked it clean before raising his eyes to Peter once more, fairly certain his explanation had gone over the hero's head. Sylar cleared his throat to hopefully cue a shift in the conversation.

XXX

Peter was still sitting there immobile, though paler than he had been before. When Sylar finally looked directly at him and cleared his throat, Peter jerked a little. "Yeah. Well. We're done here." He nodded to himself, standing and gathering up his plate and empty glass, carrying them into the kitchen with steady, sharp movements that betrayed his suddenly elevated tension. _He didn't do anything. I've got to relax. It's no big deal, _he thought, trying to sooth his nerves.

XXX

"No, Peter…C'mon…" Sylar practically whined. The other man's abruptness was obvious, the cause less so.

XXX

That tone of voice had Peter glancing back, eyes narrowed to slits as he looked over his shoulder from the sink. _He doesn't have a clue. He didn't even mean it. But he __**should**__ have. Is he killing people without even understanding …?_ Peter turned away again, shaking his head. He didn't feel that Sylar's issues were his problem. _He's still a murderer._

XXX

Sylar stared after Peter for a moment, sighing, and getting his own rear in gear to clean up. It hurt his head to stand again. _I don't even know what I did. He asked a question and I answered it_, he stewed, taking his plate and cup to the sink. '_Be honest, but don't answer my questions' is that it? Why ask the fucking question then, if you don't want my answer?_ The air was tense with discomfort and awkwardness, any proximity was unhelpful. He wasn't happy about it, having preferred their amiable meal much better. He huffed and moved with rough efficiency, going back for the crackers, twisting the plastic sleeves closed, stuffing those back into the boxes which went into the canvas bag while Peter handled the cheese.

_Some birthday. Can't even sit through one fucking meal without fucking something up. Talking too much again._ Something about this was bothering him, the formula seemed familiar – trying to please and failing, having the night's events and his role in them dictated to him. Wandering back into the kitchen to be useful or close despite the aura, he asked, "Do you want this?" when he spotted his barely-sampled champagne cup, lifting it so Peter could see. _Great going – he'll probably think I mean to get him drunk._ "Just…Never mind," he replaced it on the counter in frustration. _Let Peter handle it._ He swiped at his brow, positioning himself hopefully out Peter's way.

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar's glass. He wouldn't mind more champagne, but he was done with the meal and done with dealing with Sylar. He just wanted to get away from him and besides, drink out of Sylar's glass? _Uh, no thanks. _As Sylar was still more-or-less underfoot, very present in Peter's space (or at least the room Peter was in, which was closer than Peter wanted Sylar to be at the moment), he directed, "Go get the rest of the champagne and put it up." He watched with still-angry eyes as Sylar moved off to do it. Marginally less tense, Peter added, "You can turn the cork upside-down and it should fit." He sighed, turning back to close the fridge after putting away the cheese, and set the knife down next to the sink.

XXX

Sylar gave him a matching look but took up the bottle and made to follow the instructions, getting the cork off the screw and turning it dry-side down for reinsertion. He shoved it back inside and placed it in the fridge.

XXX

The only things left on the table were the bottles of water. Peter carried them back, offering them to Sylar to put in the fridge as the man turned from putting away the champagne. His voice another step calmer, Peter said, "Yours is the one partly empty. Mine's the nearly full one." He looked away after brief eye contact. "I'm going to go to bed."

XXX

Sylar accepted the pair of plastic bottles, positioning Peter's on the left, his own on the right. It made sense given that the master bedroom (Peter's for the night) was on the left; the guest bed (Sylar's) was on the right. He moved out of range of the fridge door, turning to look at Peter as he spoke. A nod was all he could answer with, unhappy with the- with _his_ situation. He didn't want to sleep but knew he should. Mostly he hated having the stigma of Peter's hatred for whatever it was he'd done to earn it (again) more recently. It would probably result in nightmares despite the proximity with the other man. _If I could just hear him breath when he sleeps, I'd feel better. But that's the whole point._

XXX

Peter walked over to the open-plan bedroom he'd chosen. He felt exposed, not even sure Sylar was going to go to bed himself. What if he stayed up, hung around in the living room, which was just feet away from Peter's bed? _It's not like I haven't fallen asleep with him around. Of course, he was a bit more concussed then and hadn't just reminded me of how much he likes to go Darth Vader on people who annoy him. Just because, 'raw power of the mind' and stuff._ Peter exhaled. _I'm not going to live in fear. 'Fear is the mind killer' … isn't that from some other movie?_ His brows pulled together as he failed to place the quote.

Peter gave a brief shake of his head at the irrelevancy and moved around the bed, putting his back to Sylar and sitting down. He brought up one foot to rest on the opposite knee as he unlaced his shoe, tugging it off and dropping it aside. He wiggled his toes, running his fingers between them and looking at the state of his sole. The blisters from his first few days here were now unremarkable, pink patches of skin that he recognized only because he knew what he was looking for. He rubbed over them, massaging his foot for a moment before switching to repeat the process with the other shoe and foot. When done, he picked up the shoes and loosened the laces so they'd be quick and easy to put on in a hurry if he needed. This last wasn't due to Sylar – it was something he'd been doing since being hunted by Homeland Security. He set them down together right where his feet would hit the floor in the morning, socks on either side.

XXX

Sylar aimlessly almost followed Peter into the bedroom. Instead he hovered between the bathroom and master bedroom, staring at Peter. He didn't know why he did it, really, just that Peter was here and more interesting than any room. He didn't know what he was looking for, if anything, because he didn't expect to see anything amazing. It was that stupid longing for human presence, and, as usual, it came across as creepy and perverted and desperately lonely when he wasn't angering the life forms around him.

He found interest, though, even in Peter's most mundane actions, perhaps because these – performed with Peter's back turned – were unguarded. He knew the empath's back was still sore and that he'd been limping some days ago, but Peter's care of his feet (of all things) was attentive. Sylar assumed they were bothering Peter somehow – why else look at them? Not that they were bad looking feet; Nathan had grown up with those feet but Sylar couldn't see them clearly from where he stood now.

XXX

He pulled his shirt off over his head, looking back to see what Sylar was up to. Peter didn't usually sleep wearing much – boxers were his usual, but it wasn't like he'd brought anything with him. He wasn't going to advertise his paranoia by remaining in his jeans, and sleeping in underwear was too confining to be comfortable. Going naked … despite his desire to conquer his fear by facing it down, that was a step too far. (Also, parading around nude was rude.) Peter dropped the shirt on the bed and stood to go through the dresser and closet for options. He finally settled on elastic-waisted sweat pants. A retreat into the bathroom allowed him to change and take care of his needs before emerging in his new sleepwear.

XXX

So much for not seeing anything amazing – Peter's shirt came up and off, revealing a toned, tan back (because, of course, even Peter's _spine _had to be muscled). As a body part it wasn't a provocative one, but the amount of it, bare as it was now, and the knowledge that it was very nice human skin, when Sylar hadn't seen any in years, was tempting. More so because of how soft it looked. The other man glanced around to see where he was. Sylar didn't move, though he felt he probably should. _What are you waiting for? A lullaby? A good night kiss? You're not his brother._

While Peter rummaged in the drawer, Sylar withdrew to the other bedroom. _He's actually going to wear something he found in a random apartment? He's still wearing the clothes he arrived in._ Maybe that was his own personal preference, but wearing 'someone else's' clothes seemed unappealing to Sylar. _Am I supposed to change? Should I leave the door open? Oh, what the fuck – its not like he's going to check on me._ Sleeping in jeans didn't give him trouble. Not when he'd been sleeping fully-clothed for….well, a long time. _Don't lose any clothes this time._

He glanced up at the sound of various bathroom pipes activating but Peter didn't appear in his doorway. Sylar sighed and sat on the bed. Unlike the master bed, its side was up against the wall. He tugged off his shoes, setting them by the side table. His coat was next – he rested that on the foot of his bed. He felt his head pound at the idea of lying prone on the mattress and his body suddenly dragged from the exploits of the day. Pulling back the covers allowed him to slide inside. It felt weird, this bed. It was way too big even though he mostly fit on it for a change, unlike his own cot. This felt too…open. Having sheets and a comforter was also strange but there was no help for it. Resigning himself to feeling miserable, nightmares, the strange bed and vulnerabilities therein, he clicked off the lamp and tried to burrow into the blankets.

XXX

Peter pulled back the covers and waited silently for more than a minute, not sure what he was listening for. Sleet was still stinging against the windows now and then, accompanied by gusts of wind, but if Sylar was making any noise, Peter wasn't hearing it. _He's always been good at stealth,_ Peter thought, considering the various times the man had just appeared out of nowhere – at the end of the corridor at Wells High, at Kirby Plaza, and most spooky of all, at Mohinder's apartment. He shook his head and climbed under the covers. _Thinking about how good Sylar is at sneaking up on me and mur- trying to murder me is pretty dumb for going to bed with him in the next room. Is it murder if I recover? I think it would be. Attempted murder at the very least. Ow, hand hurts. My wrist, too. And, damn it, my back. Should have taken some painkillers … maybe drank more ..._

Peter struggled to find a comfortable position, being too tired to toss and turn. Instead, he made a few unhappy, inarticulate grunts, trying out two or three positions before deciding to bore himself to sleep thinking about the law. It worked, but his first dream was an outgrowth of those thoughts - he and Sylar were sitting in Nathan's political office, just like they had been before Rene showed up to tell him about the storage unit. Except Sylar didn't look like Nathan. He was just Sylar and in the dream, Peter didn't mind. They were chatting about Mom and the carnival and things he couldn't remember real well, hanging out relaxed with one another. That was all it was – an unsettling dream, to be sure, but milder than the reality.

There were others – some banal, some disturbing, some just half-waking sensations of very real pain or wariness. The combination of discomfort, unfamiliar setting, and apprehension about his roommate did not sit well with his subconscious. Although he was usually able to direct himself out of troubling dreams, he grew tired and frustrated with himself and tried to **force** himself to stay asleep. So when the nightmare started, he did.

XXX

Sylar had managed to doze at least, his full bladder protesting enough to keep him from sleeping well. When he couldn't take it anymore, he grudgingly woke himself. No nightmares yet but by going to the bathroom, he hoped to prevent any at all (unlikely). The headache had faded to a dull roar but it quickly raced to more sharp, shooting pains of being awake. He groaned and grumbled to himself, peeling off the warm covers to stand on unsteady feet. Without waking fully or being consciously aware of his surroundings, Sylar walked to the closet - approximately where his own bathroom was in his apartment. The handle was different and he couldn't find the light switch. What he could see didn't look like a tiled bathroom, so he looked around the rest of the room to figure out where the hell he was. Recollection hit him – he wasn't in his apartment – and slowly the layout came back to him as well. He shuffled down the mini-hall to the bathroom – this time succeeding in finding both light switch and toilet. "Gah!" the light blinded him for a moment, literally, stabbing his eyes. He brought a hand up to get some relief from the glare and felt his way to the toilet using the sink counter. He was definitely sitting this round – sightless and unbalanced as he was from his injuries.

XXX

Like the other dreams, it was just a situation – Peter's thoughts too disjointed for anything with a plot. His father was trying to force him down into a cargo container like the one he'd been confined in for that horrific trip to Ireland. He knew cargo containers usually had their doors on the ends, but this one in the dream had it in the top – it was decidedly coffin-like. At first, he teetered precariously on the edge, Arthur trying to push him in with what Peter assumed was telekinesis while Peter resisted with some equally unseen power of will. A final, vicious shove and Peter lost his balance with a rough gasp, barely catching himself from plummeting into the yawning blackness beneath him by using flight. He couldn't get away, though. No matter how much he strained, he couldn't seem to evade his father's power. He groaned low in his throat, the noise coming out as an uneven rasp. He fought with the blankets for a moment, thinking they were his dad. Tangled in them, he lashed out unevenly with his right, being rewarded with a stab of pain from his broken hand.

The pain pulled a sharp cry from him as his eyes flew open but he didn't truly wake. It was dark – whatever light there was from the other rooms wasn't enough to penetrate Peter's sleep-fogged fear that he'd fallen inside the container and was going to be locked away forever, forgotten and starving in the oppressive darkness, deprived of everything and everyone, even of his sense of self.

XXX

Rubbing at his forehead to try to ease his wounded retinas, Sylar heard one of those emergency noises, the kind that automatically raised the hair on the back of his neck. In the dead of night. It caught his attention instantly as he was finishing up and he paused after drying his hands, head cocked to listen better, body tense and alert. When it didn't happen again he went about washing his hands, dismissing the sound. _Stupid concussion's making me crazy. Crazier. Peter's not helping any._

XXX

His mind rationalized the pain as being from falling. He was trapped then! He made a whimper as tears welled in his eyes, but he scrunched them shut, concentrated, and tried to fly again. Peter felt himself rising and he was almost out of the container when his father appeared again, looming over him angry and judgmental and determined that Peter know his place. "You're grounded!" Arthur shouted at him, pointing a finger at him that made Peter's chest clench in fear. It drove all the breath out of him.

That was almost the end. His concentration broke and his flight failed, but something caught him. Sylar was standing off to the side on the roof of an adjoining container, moving his hand surreptitiously, levitating Peter with his telekinesis. Peter wondered if he'd ever been flying at all, or if it had been Sylar helping him all along. He ignored his father and tried to call out, "Help me!" The words sounded like a hoarse whisper. Peter tried to repeat them more loudly, but although his throat strained, he feared he was too quiet to be heard. "Sylar! No … help-" Stymied, Peter thrashed, trying to reach the edges of the opening he was hovering over. If he could grab an edge … "Get me … get me there … Sylar ..." He struggled with the name, trying to repeat it even though his lips seemed to have turned to ice. His father must have been using an ability on him. Numbly, his tongue stumbled over the name of his potential savior.

XXX

Hand on the switch, Sylar was about to feel his way back to bed as his would-have-been scorched retinas, then he heard it again. This time it was much clearer; he heard words but the alarmed tone was the same. His eyes had been closed as much as possible to protect them but now he forced them open, painfully, asking into the night, "Peter?" _It sounded like him. That was my name._ "Whatcha need?" Because, obviously, those were very needy sounds. If only he could decipher the location and cause…maybe then he could get some sleep. He left the light on and moved towards the last place he remembered seeing Peter. There was some motion on the bed, he could see with some bathroom backlighting. "Pete?" he said again, looking for confirmation of some kind. He got none. His question turned to worry. "Pete?" The pained motions on the bed ceased entirely.

XXX

Then Peter stopped, going totally still and rigid, not even breathing. Someone was coming close to him – Sylar, he thought. Wasn't that Sylar walking closer, calling him 'Pete' of all things? He would have been annoyed by that if he wasn't so desperate and frightened. His father was still there, a looming threat ready to strike at any moment. He was outside of Peter's field of vision, but that only made him all the more terrifying. Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, trying to ask Sylar for help but he wasn't sure the sound made sense. It came out more as a plaintive bleat of attempted verbalization.

XXX

Sylar was awake as he was going to get, anxious as hell. _Oh, God. Did I hit him too hard? Was it the food? The champagne? Does he have an infection? An allergy?_ That last noise tore at him. It was not a good sound; that was all he knew. An old, familiar instinct roused in him. As quickly as he could – which given the length of his legs meant considerable speed – Sylar went to Peter's bedside. Something besides floor, some semi-hard object, met his foot when he got close, startling him further. He swore and lost his balance, catching himself on the bed and, since he was in a hurry, he went ahead and sat on the mattress beside Peter, uncaring for once where they touched. "Pete!" he reached out for the younger man's shoulder, shaking him for a response. _Goddamnit, where's the lamp?!_ He didn't know, his shadow partially blocking the light from illuminating Peter. _What's going on?_


	55. Unpacked Cargo

Day 13 (December 23), Night

The hand on Peter's shoulder surprised the crap out of him, like it came out of another dimension. It was still Sylar, though – the voice and the silhouette matched the nightmare. He was to Peter's left and Peter grabbed at his arm, fingers latching on above the elbow. Just like that, he had an ability – he could fly. Or something, because he was able to sit up, muscles finally obeying his desires. "Sylar!" he coughed out, hanging onto the guy and looking around wildly for a moment. Arthur was gone. It was dark, dim … safe maybe? Peter hugged Sylar to him without thinking, heart pounding and breath coming fast with a near-sob of relief. "I don wanna go back there," he slurred into Sylar's shirt, still seeing him as the guy who had saved him from being sent back to that hell of privation.

XXX

Sylar jumped at being grabbed but Peter's tone now sounded conscious. He found himself dragged forward until his arms were full of a half-naked Peter. That stunned him some more. The contact was wonderful and he reacted to it almost instantly, holding Peter to him with arms around his warm, slightly sweaty shoulders. "It's okay. We won't go back there," he promised_. __I have__ no idea what you're talking about. It must have been a dream. He's mentioned them before._ While the younger man calmed, so did Sylar. He barely resisted the urge to make some purr or hum, maybe a moan of contentment at holding and being held. It was platonic and wonderful. Though he supposed he was twisted for deriving so much pleasure from Peter's upset, he didn't pay that much attention. His cheek was pressed against Peter's face, his nostrils filled with that familiar sibling smell of Peter and his hair products and that was totally relaxing. He rubbed Peter's back and shoulders, brisk but slow, strangely enjoying the opportunity to give comfort. While not unheard of, it wasn't a role he often got to play.

XXX

Moments passed. The sense of the dream faded fast, replaced by the reality that the guy he was holding was not the fictional 'it's okay if he pretends to be Nathan' guy who had saved him from something (except apparently from having a bad dream). All those times Sylar had twitched and moaned in his sleep and Peter had ignored him paraded by his mind's eye, leaving him with a sense of guilt that he hadn't done for Sylar what Sylar, the horrible killer, had the sense of common decency to do for him. Peter backed up, putting four or five inches between their bodies and leaning his forehead on Sylar's upper chest, reluctant to pull away quite yet.

XXX

He sighed. Peter had separated them; cooler air rushing between where they'd been warm just seconds before, but placed his head against Sylar's chest. Sylar wished he'd removed his shirt for sleeping, too, just to feel the touch of another's skin. He could almost feel it regardless. It was intimate because of Peter's need right now. He wound up blissfully cradling the man's head and neck to him. "It's okay," he whispered again, desiring not to break this fragile moment with any interfering communication.

XXX

Peter had the strangest feelings going on. He wanted the comfort, but definitely didn't want it from this particular person. Sylar smelt like sleep. It was a weirdly powerful association for Peter – not sleep and Sylar, but rather sleep and comfort … trust … and intimacy. When he was with someone and they smelled like this, it was almost universally a good association. But this was Sylar. Sylar who had … done all the things Sylar had done, which Peter didn't even want to think about in his current position of accepting support from him. Sylar who had been making passes at him. _What the hell was he doing checking me out while I was asleep, anyway?_

Peter pulled back further, bringing his head up and giving Sylar a couple prods to let him know he was done with the holding. "I'm fine." Peter cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his lap, left hand feeling over the brace as he wondered why it was hurting. "It was just a weird dream. You can go on." He directed his eyes away and to the side, ducking his face. His hair fell across it, screening him off with the most flimsy of walls. The corners of his eyes were wet. He resisted the urge to wipe them, feeling that he must look ridiculously weak and not wanting to make it any worse.

XXX

The empath fed him a few lines of obvious bullshit, even in the dark and tired, Sylar knew that. Somehow. He let Peter have some space, but not all of it – he left an arm around Peter's shoulders, barely rubbing there. He ignored the dialogue, too (though it answered the safety-and-health question). "You okay? You were…calling me." _So it must have been a weird dream. He called_ ME_, not Nathan! Was it…was it another on__e of his prophetic dreams? Or the same one?_ Part of him wondered if he was in danger if it was a prophetic dream, another part pondered the likelihood of Peter lying all along about what this all-important dream was about. _I'm too tired for this. _Sylar had the natural urge to climb in bed with Peter to ensure the nightmares stayed away.

XXX

"I-" _I was not calling for _**you**_. Well, okay, it was sort of you, but not _you _you._ "It was a dream, that's all. You were in it."

XXX

_A nightmare, you mean. If I was in it…But that doesn't explain him calling for me._

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment, canting his head a bit to look at Sylar's hand on his shoulder, where it was rubbing slightly across bare skin. This was way off the normal social script for this sort of thing. The most he'd expect from a relative stranger like Sylar was along the lines of 'Hey dude, you're having a bad dream. Wake up!' along with maybe a nudge or a shake, then them keeping their distance, because you just didn't go getting all cozy like this with someone you didn't know very well. Peter knew that was the script and while he might go around breaking it all the time himself, that didn't mean he didn't recognize how strange it was to have Sylar acting like this. _Sylar, the guy who misses being able to kill people with the raw power of his mind, or som__ething like that._

Another thing setting off mild warning bells was the tingling Sylar's hand imparted where it touched him and the positive _yearning_ Peter felt about that. It was like a craving or some unmet need and he didn't know what to think about it at all. _I've felt that before here. Is it … an ability thing? Is he doing something to me? Or am I just that hard up, that even someone like Sylar makes me horny? I don't … I don't _feel _horny. That's not it. (Thank God.) Maybe it's just something about Mat__t's world here._

He leaned back and shuffled to the side a couple inches, politely dislodging Sylar's arm in the process. "I'm fine. Really. I didn't mean to wake you up." And at that, Peter gave Sylar an assessing look. He had woke Sylar, right? He hadn't been out there for other reasons, had he?

XXX

"You didn't. Was it that same dream again, the one you've been telling me about?" _That would explain him calling for me. (Wish his dumb girlfriend wasn't in the picture. But it was a dream and she isn't here__)._ Peter moving away only made room for Sylar to pretzel comfortably beside and before him, hands in his lap. He was curious now and this was his chance to pin Peter down on the specifics of the dream. So much for not talking about abilities, it happened to be one of Sylar's favorite subjects when the conversation didn't veer onto his modus operandi. Besides, with his headache raging and being disturbed from lonely sleep, talking with Peter and being near him sounded much better. "I thought you said you didn't have any powers." Even in the near-dark, his eyes narrowed a little, not that Peter could see him very well. _How are you still having future-dreams? He has Matt's power anyway, or so he says. It just…none of this makes a lot of sense._

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar's use of the space he'd opened up – Sylar was ensconcing himself firmly by sitting cross-legged on the bed like he'd been invited. Peter felt confused by the whole thing. Sylar was being comforting and friendly, more than friendly in fact, and yet it was _Sylar_. It reminded Peter of that long, companionable conversation they'd had while walking around the city – a conversation that had eventually gotten under Peter's skin exactly because Sylar was being so chummy with it. At what point, precisely, had he decided Peter was a great friend? Would that be before or after he'd decided to 'crucify' Peter in Times Square?

But getting on Sylar's case about the overly-buddy-buddy talk had only ended up with a stupid confrontation with a sword. Now, in bed, half-dressed, sleepy, and still rattled by a nightmare bad enough to leave him calling out for help wasn't the best time to have another throw-down about the reasons behind Sylar's oh-so-conditional kindness. Peter surrendered instead and did so by flopping back on the bed, scooting over a couple more inches in the process because he didn't want to be that close to the guy. He tugged up the covers to mid-abdomen.

"I don't have any powers," he huffed, reaching up to rub at his face and wipe away the damn tear tracks, hopefully with some level of discretion. _I'm sleepy. It's normal to wipe eyes when you're sleepy. _"It's not the same dream, not the ability dream, future-dream, whatever. It's just … one I've had before. Different versions of it."

XXX

"What were you trying to avoid, in the dream?" Sylar probed at the more painful part. _That much wasn't about his girlfriend. It was about him._

XXX

"Avoid?" Peter eyed Sylar. In the dimness and lying down, all he was getting was a shadow. Creepily, he was reminded of the almost unrelieved darkness of the cargo container. "Turn on the light, would you?" He gestured at the nightstand. There had been a little art deco style lamp there, he recalled. It would help.

XXX

Sylar had little desire to illuminate anything, not with his headache raging on. But it was a signal that Peter wanted to talk, so he complied, shielding and shutting his eyes at first.

XXX

Peter rubbed his eyes again in the light, letting them adjust. "I was trying to avoid being ..." He shrugged, frowning as he realized no short and simple explanation would cut it. He'd never told Nathan; he didn't think Sylar knew. Nothing would explain why he found it frightening without giving the context. He put a hand over his eyes briefly before putting it aside and staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't that hard to talk about because he tried not to feel anything about it.

"After I blew up over New York … eventually I found a way to heal Nathan. On my way out of the hospital, they jumped me. Wiped my memories – all of them, didn't even know my name." He swallowed. He hadn't even had a false identity to cling to and a 'normal' life to go about, however horrible Sylar's situation, had been. "And they …" another tense swallow and he looked away now, "handcuffed me to the inside of an empty cargo container. Shut the door. Left me there." He finally hazarded a glance at Sylar. "It was, uh, couple weeks, in February, on the North Atlantic. I didn't know I had abilities. I didn't understand why I wouldn't die. Or … well, why I wouldn't stay dead." He looked down, fussing with the covers. "The, uh, dream … they were putting me back in there." He shook his head. "It's just a bad dream."

XXX

Retinas eventually adjusting, though not as much as he would have liked, Sylar gazed down at Peter, listening intently. Nathan didn't know much about this and Sylar had been…in Mexico. _Ugh_. His eyes widened. _You- he had his memory wiped, too? Completely?_ A pang of understanding, sympathy even, at having shared such a horrible trauma, shuddered through him. Peter's experience with it was decidedly worse and Sylar could picture that torture all too easily. _Not just a bad dream - a bad memory._ He had no idea what to say to express his feelings of understanding – nightmares, no memories, answers or knowledge; dealing with abandonment and torture… Peter hardly had to hint how much it affected him because Sylar already knew, had already lived it himself. Sadly, he knew why things like that happened, even to Peter, but…He felt strangely close (or closer) to Peter in bonding over 'what they did to me' stories, possibly the most violating one, too. Uncertain how to comfort, he tried to follow the empath's lead and focus on the here and now, "Why was I in the dream?"

XXX

"My father was there. He was trying to push me inside, drain my powers first, though, so I'd never get out. You were using telekinesis to keep him from being able to push me in." Peter's voice dropped to very quiet, not quite a whisper. "I was …" _begging,_ "asking you to help me … more than what you were doing."

XXX

"That's a good reason," Sylar concluded lamely, equally quiet for a moment. He was glad to be of use and comfort, glad Peter had someone to get help from. Arthur Petrelli was kind of scary like that, and the threat of that kind of imprisonment…well. Thoughts became words as he mused aloud, a little introverted and slow, "Weird how… they can drain even the memory of your powers." Matt, Rene, Arthur and that Damien guy were all suspect. "You'd think you'd remember at least some of that. But nothing's really…safe," he sighed and looked up at Peter from where his eye line had fallen away. "When I…'woke up' I was buried alive, in some grave. After that they…the cop….threatened to, um….put me back there and started 'interrogating' me after he rubbed my face in a few things…He thought he could force a confession," he let out a dry breath that lacked humor, _yeah right_. "I wound up literally running from the dogs. Getting shot and tazed doesn't really make a difference, neither would dogs mauling me…powers going haywire…" he shook his head.

"Yours sounds a lot worse." _He didn't have to become someone else and deal with that whole nightmare though. _Attempting to lighten the mood a little, he flashed a micro-grin, "For once." _If he can survive that without a peep…_For someone as emotionally volatile and needy as Peter, that Peter – an admittedly tough SOB – could handle it better than Sylar had demanded some respect. It also meant Sylar had to up his own game and quit whining even if the effects of the mindfuck were still present, much more a reality than a memory.

XXX

Peter gave a faint smile. _It's not a contest,_ he thought, but didn't argue it. Sylar's demeanor was enough to show he knew. Peter had still half-expected mockery. Sarcastically he mused, _I suppose it's nice to know my torture and betrayal by my family is up to snuff_. "Want to know what's really weird? I was stuck in that container for the worst part of three weeks, chained to the wall the whole time." He blew air out, retucking the blanket around himself and reaching up to rub his cheek with the back of his left hand. "A few hours after I got out, I was tied to a chair and managed to phase out of the ropes. The whole fucking time I could have ..." He shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. Escape had been in his grasp the entire trip. "I suppose I just didn't have the right trigger." He swallowed, grimacing and looking away. He hadn't been able to use the majority of his powers until someone showed him kindness: _Caitlyn._

XXX

"Heh." Powers, control, was funny like that sometimes. Sylar's abilities were far more…instinctive. They seemed to appear when he needed to defend himself mostly, other times they were like an extension of his emotions or…reactions to a name.

XXX

"So," he said a little louder and more strongly, directing himself away from that bleeding wound in his soul, "tell me about when you 'woke up'. What were you waking up from?" He turned his eyes intently on Sylar for a moment, before shifting his attention away to pick at the brace on his hand instead of skewering the guy with his gaze.

XXX

Sylar went still, now paranoid about their proximity, Peter's nightmare and tendency to hit things. Being thrown back into defense mode was that much more jarring after, apparently, relaxing. It was strange he didn't notice it, the relaxing. He was only slightly relieved when Peter looked away. "Uh…" he was about to say some vague line like 'nothing you want to hear' but what came out was, "Being someone else, I think. I don't know." _Fuck, don't hit me. I didn't mean…You asked…_Sylar involuntarily leaned away a little, fighting down the urge to squirm. "I-I found the Carnival after that." _Ran right into Samuel._ He cleared his throat, the awkwardness only now dawning on him. Peter was…at least half-naked, cuddled into his blankets not six inches away and something told him that should be weird, though he didn't know why it should be weird. (_Maybe because he's gay?_) _He sure smells good…_

XXX

Sylar's tension was palpable. For a moment, Peter couldn't place the cause, then Sylar answered and all was clear. _Oh. Nathan._ Peter exhaled slowly, having tensed up only a few seconds after Sylar did. "It's okay," Peter said softly, maybe unnecessarily because Sylar's reaction was pretty subdued. Peter petted the blanket a few times. "I think I understand." But he asked no more questions in that direction, not wanting to disturb whatever peace they had going at the moment.

XXX

_What does that mean?_ While it sounded straightforward, it also sounded too kind and forgiving for the topic. It sounded too good to be true. Sylar still had no reply to it so he moved on from the confusion. "What happened after that – the phasing and the chair?" Sylar tried to bring the focus back to Peter. He knew there was a lot even Nathan was missing from that part of Peter's life. While that might have been okay for Nathan, not caring and all, the gap wasn't acceptable for Sylar's mental notes. Peter hadn't been chatty about it either, quite short with his answers. The younger man had disappeared – to Scotland? Ireland? – and then shown up ready to release the virus with a madman. Something had happened along the way.

XXX

Peter's thoughts went to the events after the chair – they were kind of a mess, since his most frequent thought about that period in his life was trying not to think of it. He squirmed visibly, nose wrinkling slightly in either discomfort or disgust. He looked away to the side silently, saying nothing at all and trying to fight down the overwhelming urge to cry.

Finally, he said roughly, "I'd rather be locked in that container again than what happened after." He'd fallen in love like it was the first time, and then lost her forever. It had hardened him inside, though not the kind of hardness that bespoke of strength. He struggled with himself, torn between telling Sylar to leave and let him be alone for that cry, or keeping the guy there precisely to keep himself from breaking down. He realized he was breathing too fast and had tensed again. Peter relaxed himself purposefully, reaching up to touch at his eyes and brow, then forehead. _Let it go. Let it go. It was a long time ago. I don't have to deal with it now._

XXX

_Uh-oh_, Sylar thought. _That bad? Crap. I'm supposed to be calming him down, not winding him up again. _He reached out and patted Peter's leg in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "Do you think you can sleep again?" he inserted into the wounded silence, trying to distract once more.

XXX

Peter jumped solidly at the touch, head snapping around with a momentarily murderous expression that faded fast to a mix of sullen and confused as he realized that a soothing pat was something he shouldn't freak out about. He moved his leg away, scooting a few inches further towards the other side of the bed to avoid that happening again. So Sylar was going to leave. Peter was both relieved and disappointed. "Yeah," he said weakly, lying back down and facing away, thoughts going back to the desperate feeling of loss and betrayal he'd experienced in the dream as his father was pushing him into the container. _Maybe I should just … let myself feel it. If he's leaving ..._

XXX

Wordlessly, Sylar leaned forward, flicking off the lamp to consume the room in near-total darkness. That done, he rose and lumbered to turn out the bathroom light. He wasn't happy about Peter's wary twitchiness. Something was better than nothing and he supposed he couldn't ask for much more.

XXX

Peter curled up on his side, pulling the covers up to his armpits and slowly letting go of the restraints he'd put on himself, beginning to permit himself to wallow in depression and regret. He sniffed slightly, thinking he should wait until Sylar was well settled elsewhere before getting some tissues in case he did break down and cry. The bathroom light clicked off, plunging all in darkness. Peter stared at the slightly lighter areas visible of the windows, waiting for Sylar to go off to his bedroom and give him some privacy. In a true, living city, the night sky would be much lighter from all the streetlamps and nightlife illumination. Here it was almost nothing and with the storm clouds outside, not even the moon was out to relieve the blackness.

He heard Sylar pad back into the area, but literally thought nothing of it. Then the mattress dipped and Peter tensed all over for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. _What the hell? _Frozen in place, he waited. Unmistakably, Sylar settled down on the far side of the bed, the one he'd been sitting on earlier and that Peter's repeated scootings had left empty. Peter cleared his throat, sniffed loudly, and shifted his limbs around where he was to make his presence absolutely clear. The social cue went ignored.

XXX

"Night, Peter."

XXX

He didn't answer. _Do I get up and move? Get up and leave? Get up and kick him out? Or just get up and get a drink__ and decide what I want to do? _Peter breathed out slowly, tension draining away as Sylar did nothing else – lying on the bed seemed like the extent of his invasion. Peter felt tired. And sleepy. He'd been tense too much, sleeping fitfully before out of fear of Sylar and now the man was right here in bed with him. Perversely, it made him much less scary. _How does he know I won't smother him in his sleep? Maybe I'm the scary one. He trusts me? _Another wave of relaxation flowed through him. Lids drooped. Peter snuggled into his pillow.

_What would it mean anyway if I got up and made a scene?_ Peter mused sleepily. He stuck his right foot out behind him so that if Sylar did try to get on his side of the bed, hopefully he'd feel him first. _Focus, Peter! Him in his__ bedroom, him here, hardly matters. Wait … no, really focus … I'm in Parkman's basement. Or at least I hope I'm there. We're not even here in bed together. This is all … symbolic or something. Like, metaphorical. Maybe … maybe we're just sharing memories a__nd feeling close, so we seem close here. Share much more and we'll be fucking. Ha. Hmmm …_ Peter's thoughts spiraled off into deep slumber faster than he would have thought possible, sore muscles and emotional exhaustion leading to soft snores in record time.

XXX

Day 14, December 24, morning

Sylar was slow to wake up. He was alone, he could tell. Of course he was alone. Why he had to realize that after so many years alone puzzled him. His head hurt before he'd even rolled over to face the lit window, but he did anyway, looking around at the strange apartment. Understanding came to him when he saw a pair of jeans and boxer-briefs, both black, that were not his. Sylar blinked at that. _Peter. Is walking around in just a shirt?_ He couldn't help but snort at that, _I t__hink you forgot something, Pete._ That was definitely a new feeling, turning to see another inhabitant's clothes, indicating Peter had slept with him. Just slept. Sylar was still dressed, nothing out of place so no funny business had gone on. He could still smell Peter on the sheets. He grinned a little. Despite his aching head, he'd slept…well, that had probably been the best night's sleep he'd ever had. Not a nightmare in sight. _Company makes all the difference. We should get rained in more often._

Peering out into the living room and what little he could see of the kitchen, he was alone in the apartment. _Maybe he went out for breakfast. Didn't he say he liked that diner? _He tossed around the idea that he'd been abandoned, the proximity proving too much for the Petrelli. The nurse probably wasn't coming back for a while. He didn't like those thoughts. Morning wood grew uncomfortable in his jeans and thus he was motivated to the made him dizzy, made his head burn and pound but he made it to the in hand, he idly stood, leaned against the counter for support, easily stroking himself, eyes closed. He was quiet, as usual, only exhaled breaths and soft sighs breaking the silence as his stroking turned to pulling and tugging on his increasingly rigid organ. Sylar panted as he got into it, fairly content even as his skull pained him with every beat of his heart, and as such his imagination supplied fantasies of being used. It was pretty mindless, instinctive. He pumped himself faster, rougher. It didn't take long for that to carry him over. His eyes opened as he eagerly spilled into the sink, quickly washing away the evidence. He only allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the aftermath of pulsing hormones below his headache.

He then considered his options with the shower/bath dilemma. Growling to himself, he activated the bath faucet. _Damned un-masculine, girly, flowery bullshit… _As he let the tub fill up, he had the foresight to grab shampoo or what passed for it – the former resident was apparently pre-pubescent, if his hair products were anything to go by – a bottle of bright green Pert was it. Sylar was increasingly grateful for Peter's absence. There was no way he'd ever live down the bath or the shampoo. With a frustrated sigh, he stripped and got into the sufficiently filled tub, shutting off the water. Oh, that felt good. The surrounding heat made for a powerful muscle relaxer. _Stupid shampoo will be perfect for Peter, I bet. Something kids his age use._ Sylar purposefully ignored that thought, why he'd projected such an age difference between him and Peter. The rest of his bath was uneventful, shampooing successfully if grudgingly, until he realized he'd forgotten a towel. _Remember the shampoo but not the towel?_ So he unplugged the tub and heaved himself out to snag one from the far wall, scrubbing himself dry and wrapping it around himself in short order.

XXX

Peter was feeling pretty good as the elevator brought him back to the top floor. He attributed it to the workout more than anything else, though if pressed, he would have agreed he'd slept uncommonly well. It had been awfully strange to wake up next to Sylar, the sort of thing that should have been the stuff of nightmares but had instead, when he woke, struck him with how mundane it was. Sylar was just a guy: human. Just as Peter had been in the middle of the night, upset about a past he couldn't change. That Sylar had honored that and given it respect and empathy was something Peter was still chewing over in his mind.

The elevator doors opened. Had he been thinking when he'd slipped stealthily out of bed that morning, he would have taken more than shoes, socks, and shirt. As it was, workout complete, he wanted a shower. Any apartment in the building would have served, but this one was where he'd left his pants and underwear. Although he'd done the workout shirtless (not unusual for him), he wanted out of the now-true-to-their-name sweat pants. He turned the doorknob quietly, so that in case Sylar was still asleep he wouldn't wake him.

He could hear noises from the bathroom and see the bed was empty, so Peter stopped trying to be quiet and strode in directly. As he walked across the living area towards what he supposed was the open-plan master bedroom, he glanced to his right at motion and light in the open bathroom doorway: Sylar, in a towel, and only a towel. Peter stumbled on his own feet.

XXX

Movement flashed across his vision. There was no sound accompanying it and the shape was human sized. Sylar jolted hard. Suddenly there was someone here with him and he wasn't dressed or prepared. He exhaled harshly when he saw it was just Peter. Because who else would it be? Despite the rough start, he was happy of the companionship once more, the apartment felt more comfortable, snug and alive with him here. He didn't care why Peter had come back, just that he had returned. The domestic aspect of it disgusted him with himself. Working at calming himself, his headache sharp once more, heart rate elevated (probably with more than one cause), he saw something weird going on with Peter's feet as he left Sylar's field of vision. Frowning, he walked into the hall, partly to be out of the bathroom and to see what Peter was up to. He was hovering at a distance now his wandering anchor had returned. _Was he spying on me? Why would he try to sneak up on me? He wasn't headed in my direction…He's _dressed _- sweat pants. _"Where were you?" he demanded, paraphrasing several questions at once: why'd you leave? What were you doing? Are you (we) okay? Did you eat?

XXX

Peter got his balance again, having nearly, but not quite, fell into the bed. A quick glance back showed nothing he could blame his clumsiness on. A quick glance at Sylar reminded him of the actual reason. He focused on Sylar's face and the question. "I was downstairs," he said before taking a moment to consider that Sylar had no right to his whereabouts. He squashed the knee-jerk defiance that reared its head. Sylar … had attachment issues and if he was Peter's patient, it was probably unwise (or at least unkind) to aggravate those. "I was working out, getting some exercise. Are you done with the shower?" He moved over to where his pants and underwear lay, gathering them up with care not to lose the contents of his pockets across the floor. Not that he really had much need of his wallet here, but the utility tool was useful. "If you're not, I can go across the hall." _I probably should have suggested that first._

XXX

"Oh." That made perfect sense, in fact, Sylar knew he should have thought of it. _Damn concussion._ _Peter even mentioned he works out so he doesn't have nightmares. So he's…not happy about…last night. I guess I should feel lucky he didn't use me for his punching bag this morning._ He was disappointed, though. "Yeah, I'll- um…" he hastened back to the bathroom, bundling up his clothes and snagging a hairbrush. _I'll just change…in the guest room._

XXX

Peter made his way into the bathroom, locking the door. Not because he was afraid of assault – and that was an odd, refreshing feeling that he mused over for a moment – but simply because he'd begun to wonder if Sylar might wander in to join him much like he had in the bed. _Attachment issues. Might be something else going on there? Co-dependent? Or maybe just dependent, because I don't know that I'm … Co-dependent means I'm dependent on him, too, right? I don't think I am. Other than the obvious, that we're here together, but that's just human nature. But is there something concussion-related going on? Head injuries cause …_ can _cause personality shifts. Is that part of the problem? Or issue? Not a huge problem, really. I … well, not happy about him being in my bed. But if I can get him back to his apartment, I can go off to mine. Hm. First day I was here, he wanted me to move in across the hall to him. Maybe it's not a concussion thing. Why the fuck does some serial killer want me living next door to him? Maybe it's a Nathan thing? _Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't know what to do about that. It took a lot of the blame away from Sylar and he was uncomfortable doing that. It was Sylar's responsibility to act like **Sylar**, not Nathan. It was something he wanted to address, but right now was not the best time for it.

After a quick shower without shampoo (after he was done, he found it next to the tub, not that it was a brand he would have used anyway), he dried off, rinsed his mouth, and dressed in the bathroom, exiting fully clothed.

XXX

Sylar heard the lock click as he sat on the guest bed and got dressed from there, taking it slow, pouting a little. _Really, Peter? I slept with you __last__ night! You're unharmed and you're still…?_ That was frustrating. He ran the brush through his hair with more force than necessary after toweling it but the treatment couldn't make it stay out of his face, not without some gel. He was pretty sure it was a fluffy mess with that stupid shampoo. With no sound but water in the pipes and no immediate, accessible company, he got nervy and fussy, so he turned to making the beds just because. Leaning over wasn't a treat. _Worried about my hair and clothes, haven't shaved. Worried about your appearance when it doesn't matter – Peter doesn't care. Much._

Peter didn't linger in the shower. That didn't sooth his nerves any because Peter would come back out and say…what? What was Peter going to do? Probably demand that they go home, separate. Or…was Peter still in nurse-mode? Even if he wasn't, Sylar had stated he didn't need assistance (yet here Peter was, having offered - forced it on him, rather) and he wanted something of a snack. _Maybe he'll join me before he leaves._

XXX

Sylar was in the kitchen when Peter came out, which reminded Peter that he was kind of hungry. Or a lot hungry, maybe, which turned his thoughts to the goal of getting Sylar to eat more. _Isn't he to the point yet where he can manage that himself? It's not like I'm being all that successful, anyway. Maybe if I just make sure he has food and keep him on a schedule that would be enough? Getting kind of tired of hand-holding._ Especially if Sylar was getting in bed with him, but Peter wasn't thinking about his motivations. That action of Sylar's had caused a subtle shift in Peter's behavior, making him more prone to holding Sylar at metaphorical arm's length.

"Can you pour me a glass?" Peter asked to Sylar already having the milk out.

XXX

"Hmm? Yeah, as soon as I can find the….glasses…" he murmured, mostly to himself. _Does he really need to ask?_ That was a bit weird since Sylar had already assumed it would be 'milk for two.' Peter's presence assured and increased Sylar's social anxiety and his head did not appreciate it. He had to be conscious of a lot more now, how he looked, how he sounded, what he said…The usual. It was stressful. If it kept up (either the stress or the headache; both seemed likely to) he was going to bury his head in the freezer. His companion indicated the correct cabinet and he got their drinks poured. Milk wasn't a meal, though. "Did you have breakfast yet?" _Probably should have asked that first._

XXX

"No. Thought we'd eat here," Peter said kind of brusquely. Mostly, his tone was due to distraction as he moved on to open the fridge. After a moment of consideration, he fished out the eggs and cottage cheese. _Getting tired of eggs, too. One of these days I ought to do pancakes or biscuits … hm, I could pick up one of those tubes of biscuits at the store next time I'm there. Or pre-mixed pancake batter like they have in restaurants. Do they sell pre-mixed pancake batter in grocery stores? Hm, not that it matters – I could just steal it from the restaurants. Heh._

He searched for a pan, finding a very nice, Teflon-coated one perfect for his needs. "I need a little butter or something, margarine maybe." Much as he didn't like margarine, he figured it was okay to use a little to grease the pan. He'd been told too many times that it was unhealthy, even if he wasn't sure what the bad part was about it. He had yet to clue in to the fact that he didn't need it at all when using a non-stick skillet. "If you'll find that, I'll get the eggs going." Five eggs and a healthy dollop of cottage cheese, along with some salt and pepper, were whisked together left-handedly. He was definitely getting better at that.

XXX

Sylar twitched a curious brow at the man's demanding intro. Peter got around to more-or-less asking for butter. _Oh, I bet you do want butter. Butter-fiend. Butterfingers. Ha. I wish._ He moved to the fridge and located margarine in fairly short order, passing it over. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what that product was for. A frown peeked over Peter's shoulder to see him coating the pan with the stuff. "What d-….?" He cut himself off, shaking his head. _He is so weird. It__'__s nice to know Nathan didn't really underst__an__d his…ways. He practically raised him._ After watching the apparently senseless butter-play – the cottage cheese sending him over the relative cliff of sanity - he occupied his mind (and, secondarily, his hands) with locating utensils. "Why did you lock the door?"

XXX

"What door?" Peter asked as he turned on the stove, letting it warm up.

XXX

"The door to the bathroom." _You've been locking other doors I don't know about?_

XXX

"Why do you care if I lock the bathroom door while I'm in there?" Peter asked, glancing briefly at Sylar out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he'd looked directly at the other man since entering the kitchen, and to call the momentary look 'direct' was a stretch.

XXX

Peter's eyes would light on an affronted expression. "It's just a question. We slept together and no one got 'smothered' so why lock the door?" _You get to ask random questions about me all the time so play fair, Petrelli. Why so fussy about it?_

XXX

Peter blew out air. "We need to talk about boundaries, Sylar." Peter poured the egg mix into the pan, setting aside the bowl and getting an appropriate spatula from an implement jar next to the stove top. Thus armed, he turned to face the man he was talking to since it would be a little while before he needed to stir anything. He crossed his arms loosely, spatula poking upward like a weapon, and looked Sylar right in the eye. "Don't get in bed with me unless I invite you. If I, or you, want to lock the bathroom door or whatever, that's fine. Unless you think I'm dying in there – fell on my toothbrush somehow or slipped in the shower and hit my head – stay out."

He looked down, chewing his lip briefly as the spatula dipped to a less erect and confrontational angle. In a much lower tone, he said, "If I'm having a nightmare and you want to wake me, that's okay." In a tone of light chiding, he added, "And if we're in the same apartment together, or likely to be, you know, shut the bathroom door, okay?" He smiled and gave a slight roll of his eyes because _**damn**_, Sylar had looked good. The bruises were largely faded and he had no idea how much the 'wet and fresh out of the shower' thing totally did it for Peter.

XXX

Sylar mimicked Peter's body language unintentionally, his face dismissive. _Oh, we do, do we? Slipped on your toothbrush how…?_ "Peter," he addressed the other man slowly at first, but uncooperative and rather sarcastic overall, "not everything needs to turn into a discussion. God, I forgot how much you like to talk about crap." He shook his head lightly, remembering scores of times when Peter had tried to draw him, Nathan, into emotional minefield talks. Nathan had wanted none of it even if he'd appreciated the thought behind it. Peter just didn't understand the difference in their worlds where emotional subjectivity and 'do-what-you-want'-ness didn't really factor in.

"And I'll shut the door when and if I want to, not before." _You most definitely can't make me. _"There's nothing there you haven't seen before – you're a nurse." _My nurse, at that. A gay one, too._ "Unless you see something you like…?" Sylar lilted seductively, amused and smirking about it; because Peter had to be referring to seeing him in nothing but a towel. The empath's expression gave him a little hope.


	56. Passing Out

_Day 14, morning, December 24_

Peter snorted immediately at Sylar's insinuation that Peter was interested in him. He most certainly wasn't – appreciating the obvious was a long way from actually wanting to be with someone. He gave Sylar a glare accompanied by a rather aggressive look down his body before turning back to the stove. Peter stirred the eggs.

XXX

"You didn't answer my question. Why did you lock the door?"

XXX

Peter sighed, a bit more dramatically than necessary. _Can't the guy take a hint? Answer: No, probably not. Time to be blunt, then._ "Because I didn't want you in there, Sylar," he said, finishing up with this round of fiddling with the food. He put the spatula down and turned to face his companion. "If I wait until you've barged in with me, then you're already in there. You got in my bed last night and-" Peter made an exasperated chuffing. "I was too upset and sleepy and whatever to kick you out like I should have. You shouldn't have been there!" he said with emphasis.

XXX

_You don't know that. How is that even a comparison? I hate the keep-away game. Shouldn't have- Since when shouldn't… _Sylar's frown was extensive. He realized Nathan must have...must have what? He was thinking from the brother perspective and Peter wasn't his brother. That was shocking on several levels, horrifying, depressing and just plain hurtful to come back to himself in a sense. He was reminded of the differences between himself and Nathan – the reasons why he'd liked being Nathan in the first place. It felt like a roller-coaster drop into Hell, except with less fun. The upheaval in his upper stomach smelt of guilt – Peter wasn't his anything and he hadn't asked or invited him. Sylar didn't like the feeling or the implications one bit so he pushed it aside and tried to crush it. He was being wrongly accused here, no surprise.

XXX

Peter was getting worked up, agitated by the contradiction of his feelings. Angry now, he spat out his accusation, "You saw a moment of weakness and took advantage of it. We're not sleeping together tonight; we're not even sleeping in the same apartment. Mine's right across the street. That way, you can leave whatever door you want open, run around naked if that makes you happy. But if you want me around, you're going to have to act right."

It was a bizarre rant, given Peter's own tendency to wander his apartment in the nude and his gratefulness for Sylar's sympathy the night before. The heat in his words was in direct proportion to the unwanted and unasked for warmth of his feelings. He shouldn't, and wouldn't, feel that way about Sylar. Peter had slept well and woke up full of energy and life, which was now being vented at the other man. He turned and went back to messing with the eggs, a scowl in place as he suspected he'd be eating them alone at this rate.

XXX

Eventually, Sylar was going to have to answer but this blame didn't belong to him – it was Nathan's. _What was I thinking? Crawling in bed with _him. "What?!" '_Taken advantage'? How was I supposed to know? _Sylar's mouth went tight and linear, his face a confused, angry, defensive mess. "You are one to talk about running around naked," he growled, dredging up that hypocrisy with ease. "And you can enjoy your nightmares uninterrupted from now on, Petrelli." _Just like me._

Peter had turned away, dismissing him and ordering him around like it was nothing – like it was all his fault and Peter had no share in it. Sylar advanced quickly, gripping Peter's arm and yanking him around to face him. He was probably standing too close but he refused to be ignored. Unfortunately, he had no words to specify his indignation, frustration, anger; his glare faltered as he struggled to come up with meaningful dialogue. Mostly he was stunned and hurt, the attack seemed to come from nowhere, the paranoia unfounded.

XXX

Peter freaked out when Sylar grabbed him. In that second of terror, he thought he'd pushed it too far; was about to get slammed into the stove and beaten, maybe killed; there were knives and painful things in the kitchen; and how it had been a mistake to ever take the serial killer on as a patient. He dropped the spatula – it was too flimsy as a weapon if they were seriously throwing down, and grabbed blindly for the handle on the skillet … which wasn't where he'd hoped it was. He was left grabbing at empty air and with his broken right hand, anyway. Even if he'd connected, he wouldn't have much strength in a swing using that hand. Sylar had his left.

That realization made – that he was ill-suited to defend himself - another was close on the heels of it – that Sylar was just staring at him. Peter stared back, heart going 90 miles an hour, breathing fast, teeth slightly bared. For a moment, they were still, just looking, as Peter watched emotions playing across Sylar's face. Another realization – Sylar's emotions … maybe Peter didn't need to be concerned about the guy trying to kill him?

XXX

After a few long seconds, Sylar finally blurted, "I am not a child." _So do not fucking treat me like one. _"How is any of that taking advantage? I didn't take anything you didn't want to give or you'd have said something." _Right? I hope…? _"You're seriously going to try to punish me for that?" _This is hopeless then._ "Seriously?" _And out of all the other moments of weakness? _"No, you're right. I saw a moment of weakness and took advantage. Lying in wait for my chance, waiting for you to…what, _snore_?" Sylar snorted in contempt at that.

XXX

Relief washed over Peter subtly as he still stood in Sylar's grip. _Okay … we're not fighting._ "Neither am I, Sylar. We're both _adults_, with adult needs. There's no punishment; I'm not your parent and I'm not your jailer. But that doesn't mean there aren't consequences. You piss me off? I'm going to do things because I'm pissed off. You get in bed with me like that and I feel threatened, so I'm going to do things to protect myself. I don't feel _safe_ with you." He jerked his arm away from Sylar's grip. "Now included. Get your hands off me," he said, voice dropping to a low, threatening growl.

XXX

Sylar could only frown more. Weren't consequences synonymous with punishment? At least, that was an awfully parental word to use. "But why would you f-" Sylar shot back before it hit him like a thunderbolt. _Sexually threatened. Because I got in bed with him? Oh_. That seemed like a rational conclusion to draw, even for no-boundaries Peter Petrelli, which was why it hadn't occurred to him before now. If Peter had slid in bed with him, Sylar knew he'd assume…_Oh._ He blinked and dumbly allowed Peter to free himself. That felt strange. He felt bereft. Of course he had no right to touch Peter (_in any way_, his mind added). Apparently that included even comfort. "I…didn't…" he fumbled, stepping back in confusion. _But he didn't say anything…He didn't protest what I said about him wanting it so why…?_

He'd at least learned what a shut door meant growing up. He wasn't that socially incompetent. When Mom shut the door, he was not ever to enter. The symbolism wasn't hard to miss. He'd never liked that, not having access to her should he ever need or desire it but such was life. Sylar tried not to see the similarities between Peter's locked door and the last time Mom had shut the door on him. It freaked him out regardless_. Not a punishment, though?_ With some haste, he seated himself at the table, leaving the kitchen to Peter because he suddenly feared what shut doors and barred access might mean, or worse, what it might lead to.

XXX

Peter's breathing slowed, ramping down from the combat-high he'd had going there for a few seconds. He watched warily as Sylar retreated to the table, not sure what the guy was going to do. Peter blinked when he realized that what Sylar was doing was complete capitulation, totally backing down, with Sylar slouching at the table meekly, still and quiet and making himself small and inoffensive. _I've seen that before. When he was afraid I was going to deck him._ Peter let his eyes drop and turned back to the stove, picking up the spatula and turning the eggs. They were a little browned on the opposite side, but not burned. He kept an ear tuned to Sylar, but as he'd expected there was not a peep of sound.

_I'm not going to take this._ Peter didn't try to put his finger on what about the situation he found intolerable, but he definitely wasn't going to let it continue. He snapped off the stove, noisily set aside the skillet, and strode back to the table. He couldn't take up the stance he wanted with both hands on the table and leaning his weight against it, so he compromised by holding the back of the chair on his side of the table. "No, Sylar, you _didn't_. You didn't do anything bad to me. You _surprised_ me and surprises, from _you_, don't go over real well with me. You surprised me by being kind; you surprised me by getting in bed with me. The second, with the first … makes me wonder if helping me with the nightmare was just an excuse to push my boundaries a little and see what I'd let you get away with when I was upset. Well, now you know, which is why we're not going to be sleeping in the same apartment anymore." Peter waited for a response, his attention completely and intently fixed on Sylar.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother straightening up when Peter stalked over, but he did stare back at him just so Peter would know he wasn't cowed. The first half of Peter's explanation was…most welcome, relieving. He'd done something right. Peter even sounded like he appreciated it. It was only part of something right – never a whole. The empath wasn't pleased with his methods or maybe he wasn't thrilled with Sylar's motivation, but either way, there was still something wrong with it and he didn't know how to fix it for next time. _Oh, come on!_ He railed about not sleeping in the same apartment. _Punishment to fit the crime, Petrelli; Jesus! He was already upset; I didn't do that. _His face showed his resentment plain as day. _I just wanted to hear you breath__e__. That's not a bad thing. I know you'd want the same thing if you were me. There's no clocks here, weird bed, no pajamas – its not my apartment; __it's__ weird. _But he said none of that. "We've been sleeping in the same apartment for weeks now," he ground out, reasoning, hinting, "It's too quiet." It was such a tiny thing yet here it was going to be taken away regardless. It seemed cruel.

XXX

Peter teetered on the cusp of an angry, argumentative retort before an image came to mind of Sylar, curled on the chairs and dozing while Peter played the piano. It was enough noise and much of it off-key at that, to keep anyone awake, yet the thing that had woke Sylar at the end was the long, still silence after Peter had stopped. He blinked as the light bulb went off over his head, now thinking of all those continually ticking, clicking, and whirring clocks in Sylar's apartment. "Okay," he said weakly, straightening from the confrontational posture he'd had before. "Okay … then … you_ were_ wanting to hear me snore?" He tried to avoid sounding like that was as bizarre as it seemed, but his expression was clearly taken aback. "That's … you were serious then? Oh." Peter's eyes darted around the room a little randomly as he breathed out, taking his hands off the chair and letting them hang at his sides.

XXX

His companion eased off but Sylar was still uncomfortable, now for new reasons_. I sound like a freak when you say it that way, Petrelli._ "Sure," he replied, "Snoring, breathing, sound…" He couldn't read Peter or the direction things were going. _Do I push or… Blow it off and say it's meaningless, never mind? Is he reconsidering? Probably not but at least it's…out there. He just thinks I'm a freak now_. "Not that I think you snore that much – you didn't last night, just…" his voice tapered off. _I behaved myself. I don't know what I'm going to do if he won't stay._ "So what does that mean?" Sylar looked up as he rubbed at his orbital socket to try to alleviate his headache. It was sapping his patience and control; soon he was going to be irritable and needy. Needier. What irked him was that a headache, a little head injury, was going to get the best of him in front of Peter. Sylar wasn't fond of the painkillers but he clearly saw their purpose this morning – he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken some. He wanted to roll back into bed, alone or not, and lie there, miserable in the dark, for the rest of the day.

XXX

Still very thrown by the turn of the conversation, Peter said, "I … um, I think it means I'll need to think about that. Maybe we could … um, work something out." _A metronome maybe? We could look for clocks here … Or I could stay, after I already said I wouldn't … It'd be stupid to pretend I was locked into that. It wasn't like a promise or anything._ He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit awkward, then went to fetch the two glasses of milk Sylar had poured earlier. He pushed one partly across the table to Sylar as a show that the argument or confrontation or whatever had ended.

XXX

Peter was not ruling out sleeping in the same flat again. Awesome. Doubt (and possibly guilt) were fantastic footholds. A sealed-shut answer would have meant he was screwed. Sylar slowly reached across for the halfway proffered glass, sipping at it, quite satisfied with himself. Except for his headache.

XXX

"It's not something that's on my list of things I won't do – you know, being in the same room with someone. Not that I'd really … Yeah, we've slept in the same apartment, but I was in a _chair_. It's way different in a bed," Peter confessed nervously. "I don't, you know, I don't necessarily mind my own business in a bed." He eyed Sylar uneasily for a moment, uncomfortable in the knowledge that he'd woke up mostly on Sylar's side of the bed, his foot wedged under the other man's leg, disturbingly close to being back to back with him. _Who knows what I might have been doing if he hadn't been on top of the covers?_ And that was the real issue – Peter was about as concerned about what _he_ would do as he was about Sylar. Already, last night he'd declined to make a fuss when he really felt he should have. He didn't like the position he was in here – not at all.

XXX

The chair was a good piece of information. If necessary, one of them could sleep on another, separate apparatus but it wasn't ideal. Sylar smugly eyed his companion right back as he confessed to 'not minding his own business'. His discomfort was cute, acting like he'd done something completely sinful just in getting a night's sleep. Sylar's lips twitched at a smirk, his imagination going wild. _Oh, if only_. And that, too, was useful information. Nathan certainly remembered being cuddled and welcomed into bed with his little brother after a nightmare or traumatic event. "Okay."

XXX

Fidgeting, Peter went back for plates and forks, bringing them in a stack to the table for Sylar to distribute while Peter went back for the eggs. He divvied them up before sitting, toying with his fork rather than digging in.

XXX

After a glance, Sylar separated the utensils with a muffled groan of protest as his brain felt like it was sliding and sloshing into the front of his skull. Then awkwardness reigned as neither of them went for the food. Between his head and his stomach, Sylar felt like he was being split in two – the scent of the doubtlessly wholesome eggs wasn't helping. He fiddled with his glass instead. It was too much to resist, "So how did you sleep, Peter?" he murmured in a low voice.

XXX

Sylar's near-purr earned him a brief glare, followed by a pointed look at Sylar's food. Peter barely kept himself from snapping a retaliatory order for the man to eat. He leaned away in his chair instead, distancing himself. Though hungry, Peter had more pressing things to consider than feeding his face. Sylar looked and sounded way too happy about things. _Why shouldn't he be happy? Maybe he's getting something he wants – noisy sleep, apparently._ Peter still felt vaguely used, like his discomfort with the whole arrangement was being mocked somehow; that tone of voice and the smugness didn't sit well. He liked the guy better when he was meek. _Groveling would be nice._

Peter shook his head at that uncharacteristically dark thought and cast about for something else to think about. Sylar was still not eating, ostensibly waiting for Peter to answer him. "Fine," he said shortly. "You?"

XXX

The empath's less-than-thrilled response garnered a sigh. "Good." It was Sylar's turn to pick at his food. "Really good, actually. Nothing weird." Sylar kept his head down, clarifying that last part. It was quite a new experience sleeping in the same bed with another human being.

XXX

Somewhat mollified, Peter drew closer to the table to eat, picking up his fork with his right hand. One finger rubbed across the slick strangeness of the band-aid between cast and the neighboring digit. He waggled that finger back and forth a few times. The blister still hurt. A lot of things hurt – not so much after the rest and workout, but … It occurred to him he'd never found those painkillers he'd been looking for the night before. A suspicious glance across the table at his companion's still-full plate had him thinking about how chronic pain caused nausea which manifested in decreased appetite.

Peter sighed and rubbed his face with his left hand, feeling across the sore spot in his left brow and the lingering sensitive areas on his face that didn't hurt unless he probed at them as he was doing now. He had other parts that pained him more frequently – his hand and the small of his back and groin. But they were manageable – basically if he didn't use them, they didn't hurt. He could still think and be responsible for his own self-care. Head injuries like Sylar's … not so much. Peter's reason for putting up with the jerk was to look after elements of Sylar's well-being that Sylar couldn't be trusted to do on his own.

"Have you seen any painkillers around here?" he asked, looking up with a lack of enthusiasm as his role here as a nurse or at least health care aide came back to him. "How's your stomach? Or your head?"

XXX

_Crap. Was I supposed to be looking for some?_ Sylar's head came up, meeting Peter's eyes with a bit of a shocked expression. He shook his head, "No." Somehow Peter's clear lack of interest, despite the questions, made him feel like the jerk, reminding him that, yes, he was the jerk here. "They're both going to kill me before you do. Champagne and ice cream are in the fridge for when that happens, happy birthday and Merry Christmas." He snorted and chuckled a little, recalling a similar breakfast setting. "When I was in Mexico, my babysitter there was some girl, Candice – she was an illusionist. A real shame I didn't get that power, but she made me eggs, too." He nibbled a clump of egg.

XXX

Peter gave a single 'ha' laugh at Sylar's remark about his head and gut hurting him, but sobered fast as Sylar went on. _I didn't come here to kill you! _And that Sylar thought he might celebrate anyone's death? It left Peter staring as Sylar looked down at his plate and went on to talk about Mexico. Peter set his fork aside, appetite flagging and wondering why he felt a sense of betrayal that Sylar thought that of him. After all, it wasn't like Peter didn't have reason to feel that way, or that he hadn't within the last couple months, or that he didn't want Sylar to suffer for what he'd done. Plus, Peter hadn't made a secret of any of that. Ultimately, though, it seemed more likely that Sylar was speaking of how he thought Peter felt, based on how Sylar would feel were their positions reversed. That was sad and irritating. _I'm not_ **you**.

"I'm going to look for the pills." He sighed as he stood up, walking off sedately to the kitchen to go systematically through the cupboards, looking for medication. He had lots of experience with locating people's meds. They were either in the kitchen, the bathroom, or nightstand. If not in those three prime areas, then it could be random, but Peter figured 9 out of 10 were in one of those spots.

XXX

_Oh my God. Just keep your mouth shut already!_ Frustration lanced through him at his failure to interact 'right' as Peter so aptly put it. He felt bad enough already at having scared and taken advantage of the guy (all in the name of comfort or communication), and Peter felt he had to stay and take care of him when he obviously didn't want to – here Sylar was not eating the prepared breakfast he was certain tasted good… "I'm sure your eggs are better," he placated in hindsight, in case Peter was taking offense at that.

XXX

"What were you … Um, why didn't you get her power?" he asked as he nosed around. The question he ended up going with wasn't much better than the one he'd almost asked, 'what were you doing in Mexico?', but he had a hunch Sylar would answer the second one easier than the first.

XXX

Having occupied himself in the now-lonely living room, Sylar had just finished sipping at his milk when he heard a question that truly surprised him. "You're – You-" _want to know about me killing someone?_ "Uh…" he floundered for a moment to deal with the shock. His track record of the day for dialogue wasn't doing him any favors. "I guess you can't…absorb powers when you…don't have any yourself. Obvious now, I know." It would have been much the same as shape-shifting but…a year earlier. "I had the Shanti virus," Sylar clarified.

XXX

_Wait, does that mean he killed her anyway? Damn it!_ Peter had actually been hoping for some evidence that Sylar was able to be with someone, especially someone taking care of him, without ill effect. That the guy had killed even his caretakers was so offensive as to be ridiculous. He shook his head in dismay and exasperation, glad he was out of Sylar's line of sight for the moment. Not finding the painkillers, though he'd found vitamins, Peter crossed the living room for the bathroom. "What were you doing with the Shanti virus?" _Whatever that is – maybe threatening to infect everyone if you didn't get what you wanted?_

XXX

"The Company injected me with it to keep me harmless or something like that." Sylar stressed, "It's really difficult to be harmless with them around." How many had he killed without his powers? Maya's brother, the car owner, Candice, Maya…A significant number anyway.

XXX

"Yeah?" he called out from the bathroom, relieved that 'had the Shanti virus' meant Sylar had been sick rather than physically possessed whatever it was with intent to distribute. That the Company had an injectable ability-neutralizing agent wasn't surprising. Homeland Security had gotten those neutralizing rigs from somewhere, after all. Peter's continuing search turned up a bottle of aspirin right off. It wasn't the painkiller he favored, but it would do. "The Company had some really screwed up ideas of how to handle people," he offered as he left the bathroom, for the moment putting off his various questions about this Shanti virus in favor of dealing with Sylar's current distress.

Peter returned to stand next to the table, thumbing open the bottle, left-handed, with ease. "Do you think you're going to be able to eat much? If you can get some food down, I think you should take a double dose. If you can't, just the standard." 'The standard' for what Peter was doling out to Sylar was still double what the bottle recommended for pain management, but recommended doses were calibrated to a smaller person than Sylar was, and were selected for treating run of the mill headaches. Peter didn't know what Sylar's head felt like, but he was assuming it was something more along the line of 'migraine'.

XXX

As much as he didn't favor medication, painkillers being like a cop out for 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' (as much as he feared being called a wuss for opting out of pin), Sylar knew he needed the pills. He was losing his calm, Peter was already pissy and threatening – it was only a matter of time until he said or did something that would tank the situation. After he set the situation on fire and broke it to splinters. Rock and a hard place decisions and what's more, he had to trust Peter and hope he would care for him to avoid disaster. "I…I'd love to eat; I'm probably hungry, I just don't know that it's going to happen." Dead serious, he stared grimly up at his companion, "You're probably going to need to drug the hell out of me today, whether I eat or not."

XXX

Peter sighed a little, eyeing Sylar and trying to get a feel for what the man was implying. Was he in a lot of pain? Or was he saying that Peter ought to knock him out somehow because he was going to be an asshole otherwise? Or both? He counted out four times the regular dose. "Well, eat as much as you can, at least. If you don't, this is going to make you even sicker to your stomach." He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. "I can make you something else – toast, there was some yoghurt, I'm sure there's stuff in the other apartments – if you think you'd eat more of something else. Like if eggs are a bad choice? Too greasy or heavy or something?"

XXX

[Sylar merely nodded, taking the pill from Peter. _I know._ Making another meal seemed like overkill. "That's not…I don't think that will be necessary. I like your eggs; its just my stomach."

XXX

Looking at Sylar was quickly turning into an examination, as Peter's eyes widened back to normal and a little past it. His brows drew together in his 'I'm concentrating' face. Sylar looked peaked. His body language was off – posture more defeated, slumped and drawn at the same time; motions overly deliberate with none of the casualness that should have been there; eyes tracking a little too slowly. "Do you mind if I take your pulse?" he asked, beginning the motion towards Sylar's left hand with his own. It wasn't that he had any real concern for Sylar's heart rate. Peter wanted the opportunity to feel his skin for other symptoms. Taking a pulse was more socially acceptable than randomly holding someone's hand or the more maternal forehead touch.

XXX

"No, sure." Sylar proffered the hand, his left because he knew that much without it being indicated. He had to pull his jacket and shirt cuff back a little to expose his wrist, holding them there while he watched Peter work. _Did he see something?_

XXX

Peter found the pulse point immediately, turning his wrist out of habit to glance at his useless, nonfunctioning watch. He made a tiny grunt of displeasure and rolled his eyes a bit before putting his focus back on his patient. He didn't need an exact reading to tell the heart rate was a bit too fast, that Sylar was warm but not too warm, and not clammy. After a dozen or so seconds, Peter curled his hand over the back of Sylar's, rubbing a little. He directed quietly, "Hold still," and pinched up the skin for a few seconds before letting it go. It didn't relax flat as fast as it should have.

He pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Sylar drinking much of anything. _Still had a full champagne glass after dinner, not even sure he opened his soda at lunch, so … yesterday morning?_ "You're dehydrated. You need to drink – constantly – until you start peeing clear. I'll get you some water in case you can hold that down better than the milk. We're not going out today. We'll just take it easy here."

XXX

Sylar smiled about the watch not working. _Should have let me fix it. People never know how much they need a clock until they don't have one. _He didn't move, watching his companion to see what the fuss was, beginning to feel some doubt about his symptoms with the light of Peter's examination shining on him. The petting on his hand was wonderful, calming, something he needed at that moment. The touch did its purpose but something in his gut spiraled out of control anyway. _I didn't think of that. I haven't really had to pee. Isn't there more water in water than milk? I had some water, just not enough._ Relief and gratitude flooded him like a head-to-toe wave. "Okay," he croaked. Peter was going to be bored as hell with no puzzle or piano in the room, assuming he stuck around at all. _He said 'we'…_ "I'm sorry. I think I saw some magazines by the couch." Sylar pointed, definitely trying to keep Peter here in spite of everything. Not wanting to be trouble collided with wanting the attention, treating his symptoms versus amplifying them. Now he was split between the two.

Sylar scrubbed at his forehead before hefting his fork, holding his breath so he wouldn't smell the food and brought it to his mouth. It still tasted, obviously, his stomach still rebelled but he forced it down. _Beaten by eggs._

XXX

Peter stalked off to get Sylar's bottle of water from the refrigerator. It had seemed reasonable to keep it from the night before because it was nearly full. So was Peter's, but he'd finished off his champagne, and in any case, he wasn't suffering from a condition for which one of the prime treatments was to have the person drink lots of fluids. He brought it over and set it next to Sylar's plate, then took a seat on his side of the table. Peter looked at his so-far untouched eggs. They'd cooled a lot, but just as he was still hungry, he was also not ready to eat them. He picked up his fork and stabbed them anyway.

_Never done long-term treatment of a concussion. What was it the teacher said in class? They needed constant supervision and assistance with self-care, might have otherwise unexplained personality or behavioral shifts, will sleep a lot, push fluids on them, keep out of bright light and the reach of children? Something like that._ He put his forkful of breakfast into his mouth. _I've been treating him like a hospice patient, letting him dictate a lot of his care, because a sense of control is important. But that's not what he is. He's more like an ambulatory trauma patient who doesn't know what's good for him. Leaving him in control is stupid. _Peter ate a few more bites, silently, not wanting to set a bad example by trashing his food like he felt perversely inclined to do.

XXX

Sylar immediately took a few sips of the water when it arrived. His caretaker did not interact further, focused on his own food. Sylar assumed the silence was due to his failure to thrive and slumped to continue the trick of at least getting food past his nose and into his mouth. He considered nausea: _why does the body even have that function? It's going to do the opposite thing its supposed to do – keep me alive. How can you go hungry when you have food? Does this happen to everybody or just me? Did he hit me in a certain spot of the head?_He knew it wasn't on purpose if that was the case and Peter seemed intent on clarifying that nausea was a symptom of concussion. It still bothered him that his own body was attacking him and there seemed little he could do about it except force-feed himself breakfast.

XXX

"Can you at least get down one more big drink of water?" Peter watched as Sylar seemed to take the minimum amount he could get away with. It impressed on Peter that the guy was trying to be cooperative. It just wasn't enough. Getting persistent – begging, pleading, pressuring him – was not only undignified, but it hardly ever worked – not with hospice patients and certainly not with Sylar.

XXX

Sylar nodded. _You sound like my grade school teachers._ But he took a big gulp. The water wasn't hard on his stomach, the food was. _So why am I dehydrated?_ They'd been…talking a lot while eating he supposed. Peter was a good distraction from anything and everything. Ironic, then that the self-proclaimed healer-helper was getting in the way of his own goal.

XXX

Peter cleared away their dishes as Sylar went to retire. He piped up, "Hey, if you're going to sleep, do it out here where I can keep an eye on you." He gestured at the bed they'd shared the night before, which in the avant-garde, open floor plan of the penthouse suite, was open to the living room unless the wall screen was pulled out. Peter had left the screen tucked away the night before out of stubbornness. Now it was convenient in allowing him to keep Sylar where he could see him. "You'll be able to hear me better, too," he added, hoping that sweetened the deal for the other man.

XXX

That caught Sylar's limited attention. He didn't bother making much of an expression – he didn't want to waste the energy and Peter wasn't watching anyway. _I guess I was thinking I'd be banished to the guest room. After all the fuss he made about never-ever sleeping together or in the same suite and spying on him while he slept…_The last request, offer, demand hooked him. He didn't answer but shuffled into the bedroom, stripping out of his coat to situate himself in Peter's side of the bed. That way he'd be able to smell and hear Peter and think...more perverted, intimately impossible things.

XXX

Dishes were dealt with; the kitchen was cleaned. Peter poured a half glass of champagne and collected up the magazines Sylar had mentioned and a coffee table book on Western European art that he had not. He drew a big, leather-clad, tilting chair over near the bed and rudely put his feet up on the dark wooden footboard of the bed, putting the foot stool that had come with the chair next to him as a make-shift end table for his drink and resting place for his reading materials. He was being sloppy and low class. He didn't think Sylar would mind. Or notice.

XXX

True enough, though Sylar heard Peter settling in (quite close it sounded), he was already drifting off. A brief shift to snuggle himself deeper in the comforter with the illusion of genuine care, despite his pained body, he was virtually content.

XXX

He paged through magazines that would have been better off blank-paged, devoid of interesting content as they were. He had one about food and one about fashion, full of women's clothing, accessories, and make-up. His eyes would have glazed over in the real world just as fast as they did here. The art book was more entertaining, but it had almost nothing new in it. Peter had seen most of the works himself, in person, on various family trips to Europe. _Which is not surprising, because we're not really here. This is all from my memory._ He set aside the book and finished off his drink, looking at the slumbering man in front of him. _I need to focus!_

_Okay, focusing. My problem here is that Sylar is fucked up and he's not getting better. A few days ago, he was okay during the day, getting up to work on the puzzle and being engaged most of the time. Now … Yesterday he slept almost all day; today looks the same. Worse, maybe. He shouldn't be getting **worse!** He should be getting **better! **That's why I thought he'd be okay to come here. But how the hell do I get him back to his apartment, short of carrying him? On the ice. In the cold. With him being conscious and contrary enough to fight with me over it. That won't work._

_There's got to be another way. What am I doing here? Waiting for him to die?_ He put his feet down and leaned forward, brow furrowed. _I've got to __**do**__ something! I could … go to the hospital and get IV fluids. Maybe there's some medical books there I could jump-start my memory with on how to treat a concussion. I could bring back a wheelchair in case I need to get him back to his apartment in case maybe his whole problem is being too far away from his clocks._ He shot a glance at the window. He'd looked out earlier that morning when he went down to exercise. The ground was covered with a sheet of ice from the night's precipitation and when he'd looked, light flurries were coming down. He could see more white through the windows now. He stood and walked over, looking out at the lowering clouds and the continuing snow, falling heavier than it had been. _It's only going to get worse. I'm going to get fucking snowed in here with a guy who might need medical care, badly, and … and maybe this means he's dying or something in the real world. Fuck. Doesn't matter – he's dying __**here**__._

Resolved on a mission, Peter moved into action. He searched the nearby apartments for thermal underwear and thicker socks, finding a heavily insulated coat that went down to mid-thigh. The selling point for it was the wrap-around throat-guard and the drawstring on the front of the hood. Although his own jacket was fine for crossing the street from one building to another, he had no idea how long he'd be out. A bigger challenge than the weather was going to be finding the damn place – he'd been there once as part of a looping route. It almost certainly wasn't going to be a 'walk ten or fifteen blocks and then come back' sort of thing. There was also his still-hurting psoas muscle. In his workout, it had been easy to select exercises that didn't exacerbate it. He wouldn't have that luxury sliding around on ice. Such barriers had never stopped him before; they wouldn't now.

He found a yellow legal pad and left a note: 'Sylar – I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter' _That looks sappy as hell._ He held the pen poised to strike through the last sentence, but decided against it. It was what mattered most to Sylar – that had become clear. On the off-chance he woke alone, he needed to know he wasn't abandoned. Peter set the pad on the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, then walked off down the hall quickly, having thought of something he'd seen while searching for adequate winter clothing. He returned with an old-looking, wooden desk clock – all Peter knew about it was that it made a ticking noise._Maybe that will help?_ He set it on top of the note and left.


	57. Bedside Manner

Day 14, December 24, Late afternoon/early evening

His sleep was disturbed several times and his dreams were very strange. Sylar kept looking for his anchor as he wandered an abandoned building but something else was chasing him. The thing chasing him was going to maim him and tease him with hope and the promise of death before it bled him out. And if he escaped it, he knew the chances of finding his anchor were slim and he'd be left roaming, alone, always looking over his shoulder, until he breathed his last. Either way, he was going to die alone. Clocks followed him throughout the dream, floating in mid-air. Sometimes the ticking relaxed him with its lively, hollow presence and petrified him with its meaning and time-threatening like a countdown. The passage of time was annoying even while he slept. Eventually their hands reached out to claw at him. 'Sleep when you're dead!' his mother's voice harked.

When he did finally wake, it was to a more peaceful atmosphere. It was darker outside than it had been earlier and he mumbled for his brotherly companion on instinct – he knew he was around here somewhere, "Peter?" Sylar opened his eyes and glanced around until he spotted Peter beside him. "Hey." He smiled, then noticed Peter's clothes were different, a fitted gray t-shirt and black sweat pants. Worriedly, he asked, "Why did you change?" _Did he do something? What happened? How long have I been out?_

XXX

"I went out for a while. I had to go to the hospital to get stuff for you." Peter gestured to the bag of rehydration solution hanging from the headboard above Sylar's head, the thin, clear tube running down to the man's arm and taped in place. "My clothes got wet so I had to change." His voice sounded tired, even to himself.

XXX

His eyes tracked to the bag of medical-looking fluids. Curare was colorless, too. Sylar hadn't been paying attention when the glycemerine came into play. He started badly. _I knew it!_ A low, desperate whine escaped him as he clawed the needle from his elbow, throwing it away as he made to sit up, gasping with fight-or-flight instinct. His body was sluggish and uncoordinated, definitely dehydrated, moving his head and neck was agonizing now. "What the hell is that, Peter?! What did you do?!" _What did I do? I'll die soon enough, just leave me alone and I'll die – you don't need to hurry me along! I don't have any powers! This is what I get for sleeping around you._

XXX

"Whoa, whoa! Sylar, no!" Peter started up, hands reaching out to thwart Sylar's thrashing, but he was way too slow and that wasn't because of his physical condition. It was simply the effect of Sylar's own panic and haste. Peter stopped moving, hands still out but pulling them closer to himself as he eased back a little. He gave the inside of Sylar's elbow a quick glance – it wasn't bleeding badly, but the entire shunt had been jerked out. Next his eyes went to the disconnected tube, off in the middle of the bed, on the other side of Sylar from where Peter was. It was probably dripping, but no big deal. Then his eyes flicked to the bag – still hanging there and the valve to turn off the flow was over Sylar's head. He wasn't about to reach for it. He looked at Sylar – eye contact.

"Sylar, you didn't even wake up when I put that in. You were _unconscious_." He spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, trying to role model being calm and sane. Peter dipped his head, pulling his hands all the way in, and then on second thought, extending his right to rest on Sylar's blanket-covered shin. "I'm not going to let you die. And if I have to fight you over that, then I will," he said with determination.

XXX

The nurse backed off, adding another layer of confusion onto an already thick mixture. Sylar's eyes widened at being touched.

XXX

"There is nothing in that bag except a basic IV rehydration solution – sterile water, salt, sugar, some electrolytes – no drugs," he ended, guessing at one of the causes of Sylar's agitation. Peter knew if their positions were reversed, he'd be wildly paranoid. "I promise you. My word of honor – I'm not trying to hurt you." He gave Sylar's leg a slight squeeze before his hand left the man as Peter leaned back to his previous resting position in his chair. He gave Sylar time to calm down and respond.

XXX

_No drugs? Word of…._Indecision reigned. Sylar was at Peter's mercy. It boiled down to whether or not the solution contained drugs (and what else, if anything, Peter was going to do while he slept – a needle in his arm was somewhat violating). If it did, he'd die or wake up somewhere; his situation couldn't get much worse. If the solution was clean…He twitched when Peter released him, blinking and tracking the other man's movements. "Sounds to good to be true," he muttered before threatening with more volume, "Don't you dare stick me with anything else. I will make you regret it." It didn't quite strike him that all Peter need do was stand and he could do whatever the heck he liked, but his objection had been voiced. "Shouldn't have bothered with this." _Either let me die or heal on my own time._ Slowly, Sylar made himself comfortable, partially upright, eyes primarily on his companion. With a wave of a shaking arm, gesturing between Peter and the IV, he snipped, "Fine, have your fun," then tried not to think of glycemerine.

XXX

Peter made a small noise, like a swallowed 'huh' or maybe a grunt, before levering himself up out of his chair. That had gone easier than it could have. He waved at the IV and tube, asking, "Can you reach up and clamp that tube for me? It's going to wet the bed if you don't."

XXX

Looking up, Sylar fumbled his way up the tube, pinching it in one hand and twisting the dreaded tab with the other. The whole operation took a several minutes.

XXX

He shuffled around the chair in the slim space between it and the wall. Outside, snow continued to fall, though not terribly heavily. He went to the wheelchair he'd parked just inside the door, searching through the stuff piled on it for another syringe, catheter, adhesive patch, and other stuff. Equipment assembled, he considered his options: climbing on the bed to get to Sylar's left antecubital, trying to lean over him for the same, doing his right distal, or trying the right antecubital again. Much as he didn't like dropping a line in the same location twice, it remained the best choice for the same reasons he'd picked it to start with – the small of his back and his groin muscles were killing him from slipping on the ice, which precluded getting on the bed as a working location; he didn't think Sylar would tolerate him leaning across him (and neither would his back); and he suspected the IV would remain in place longer if it wasn't on the hand.

XXX

Sylar watched his companion, immediately noting the wheelchair. "Oh, c'mon…." he protested that.

XXX

He returned to Sylar's side, laying his things out on top of the legal pad on the night stand. "I take it you've had IVs before," he said to make conversation. Nathan had, at least. Peter tried not to think on that. Much as habit and good medical hygiene dictated he wear gloves, one of Peter's hands was in a brace; and the whole glove thing seemed a bit pointless in fantasy-land. Bare-handed, he reached to cup Sylar's elbow with one hand and turn it with the other, examining the bloody spot where the original IV had been. To explain himself, he said, "I'm looking to make sure you cleared the whole mechanism, cannula included. Looks like it." He put his fingers in a V shape and pushed lightly on either side of the spot to be sure. Then he put a clean cotton ball over the injection site, holding it for a few moments. He looked up at his patient while making sure the site clotted. "Hey, I can't let you die here. I'd be all alone then. For _years_. Might not be anyone coming for me. They certainly haven't yet. We gotta look out for each other."

XXX

"Mmm," was the affirmation. _How could something be left behind? _fired through his brain but Sylar didn't bother to chase it down for an answer. _Let Peter do his thi__ng._ He didn't know what to say to the rest of what Peter said. _Why wouldn't anyone be coming for Pete? Who else is around?_

XXX

Peter put aside the cotton ball and swabbed the area down, then carefully applied a tourniquet around Sylar's bicep. "Hand me that tube over there, will you?"

Peter detached the old catheter and set it aside with the rest of his trash, checked the end of the tubing, let it flush a little, and attached a new connector. A quick glance at Sylar's arm showed him the tourniquet was doing its job. Thus prepared, he picked up the syringe and looked to Sylar. "Okay. I'm about ready. You good?"

XXX

Sylar met his eyes and gave a single upwards nod. He glanced only once at his arm – and the damned needle. How he hated the pincushion, guinea pig, piece-of-meat feeling. There were violations and justified paranoias that lingered in him from the past – even Peter was an offender. "There'd better not be any drugs in there, Peter," he reiterated, mostly to assuage his fears of hallucinations, spinal taps and waking up as someone else. _I must be stupid to trust him. I don't trust him. I just don't have a choice._ The needle slid in and he waited for any kind of adverse effect, scanning Peter's handsome face. Part of him wanted to ask if Peter got off on this and why he'd bothered with the uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous trip to the hospital but he knew what the answers would be – the same as they always were.

XXX

"I'm extra-sure you needed this from how you woke up so fast once I got the drip going on you," Peter said as he carefully and securely taped everything in place. He was mostly watching what he was doing, expression intent, with only the occasional glance at Sylar's face. Now that he was done, though, he looked at him more. "I've heard they use IV fluids as a hangover cure in some parts. I'm hoping it will be a big help to you."

XXX

After some moments passed and the idea of harm-free assistance began to sink in, he spoke, eyebrows furrowed with some emotion, "How did….how did you find your way?" _If there's no drugs then he…did that for me?_ "It's snowing; what…" _was worth that? And why'd you do it? Am I really that messed up? I sure feel like it. He must be… Crap._

XXX

Peter gave a laugh that was mid-way between ironic and humorless. "Yeah, and underneath that snow is a layer of_ ice_." He reached up and turned the valve on the tubing, letting the solution flow again. Peter began to gather up the plethora of wrappers and trash that were collecting on the nightstand. He waved generally at the window. "I left this morning, but you might notice it's dark out. I got lost trying to get there. On the way back, I was using that wheelchair as a walker," he said with a snort. "I didn't know if you'd need it or not, but I know _I_ did, for carrying stuff and keeping my balance."

Things gathered, Peter squeezed between the chair and wall as he took it to the trash in the kitchen.

XXX

"Could you grab my book? It's out there, somewhere," Sylar pointed hopefully to the living room/kitchen. "Then you should rest." It sounded like Peter needed it more than ever.

XXX

Peter grumbled about Sylar's direction for him to rest, but it was merely stubbornness. He needed the rest. Reflecting on that, he got the painkillers, took several with a swig of water from his bottle out of the fridge, then replaced his bottle and got out Sylar's. Pills and bottle in one hand, he found the book and picked it up with his right, putting the apple he'd found with it between forearm and his body. Thus loaded, he returned to the bed and recluttered the night stand, only this time with things they wanted. He looked at the book before handing it over, face brightening at the subject of baseball. "Oh, hey. That's cool. You like baseball?" Realizing he'd forgotten something he needed, Peter went back to fetch another bag of saline so he wouldn't have to get up for it later.

XXX

"Thank you," Sylar murmured, grateful for more than just the book as he took it. The apple was still good, still looked good, too. Fruit would be hydrating. _He's sure pampering me. And he hasn't forced me to do much of anything – hasn't so much as asked for it either._ As screwed up as he was, he would almost prefer for there to be a motive behind Peter's kindness; at least that way he knew what to look for and how to handle it. Genuine nurturing perplexed him, left him off-balance yet touched, assuming he could recognize it.

"Y- um, it's…sports," he replied. He was pleased Peter had noticed and brought it up – that had been the whole point of reading it. As useful as Nathan was (dead, of course), Sylar wanted his own knowledge on the topic, memories of books instead of a tainted sleaze bag.

XXX

Peter settled into his chair mostly because that's where it happened to be; he didn't give any thought to choosing to sit elsewhere – further away, or using the bed in the next room. He'd been using it before to keep an eye on his unconscious patient. Now maybe that wasn't needed. Once seated, looking forward at a wakeful Sylar, it occurred to Peter they were a bit close, but moving the chair was tedious and a glance at the bag over Sylar's head told him he might as well stick around to change it in a half hour or so. He hadn't cranked the flow to full bore this time like he had when Sylar was passed out. Out of interest and to cover for his presence at the bedside, Peter asked, "Can you tell me what you're reading? Like, right now?"

XXX

Sylar was gleeful that Peter sat again – so close! It was nice, even that much proximity, warming him more than the blankets. It was like little sparks of life, tingles, making him feel human and decent. "Uuhm…." He hedged, leafing through the book to find his place, "That's a good ques- Ah! Batter/Pitcher Matchups," he then gazed at Peter. When the other man looked interested – of course he was, Peter liked baseball – Sylar thought to elaborate, eyes traveling back to the pages. "It talks about…randomization and….pitchers throwing or not throwing to big hitters. It's mostly numbers and technical stuff," he admitted even though that's what drew him to it. He looked to Peter again for a response, if any was coming.

XXX

"But … yeah, what I meant was could you actually read it?" Peter feared that maybe that was too awkward, too intrusive, maybe rude. Or juvenile, as his emotions turned to worry. _Is he going to think I'm like a kid asking for a bedtime story? Or ..._

XXX

_He wants me to…? Like…?_ "Sure, get comfortable. It'll bore you, though," Sylar warned, flashing a grin anyway. He was still nauseous, his head still hurt, but he felt a bit stronger and more aware. When he took a break, he'd drink, eat a snack, take some more pills and see if Peter would take more, too. Sylar propped the book on his stomach and read from '_The Book'_. "In discussing strategies of intentional walks, we tend to focus on the 'yes/no' question: should the pitcher walk the hitter, or pitch normally to him?"

XXX

He was relieved that Sylar didn't make a big deal out of the request and began reading. Peter settled back in the chair, listening and watching. Oddly, his memory flashed back to reading the stock pages with Charles Deveaux. It was weird how much he missed that guy. Out of all his patients and all the people he'd lost (Nathan and Caitlyn excluded – they were special cases), Charles was the one he missed most. More than Simone or his dad or different patients he'd lost. He'd felt like there was so much more there that they should have, could have talked about. Plus, the guy had … he'd treated Peter with _respect._ His empathy had worked back then and he knew how Charles felt about him. It was how Peter imagined family members should feel for each other. Not the way … He swallowed and worked his way back in the chair, letting his lids droop as he listened with decreasing attention to what Sylar was saying. When his body urged him to turn to his side and pull his feet in to curl up, Peter refused. He blinked his eyes fully open and rubbed them, getting to his feet.

"I'm going to change the IV bag. It's still got a little in it, but I might as well switch it now." He didn't want to admit he was doing it now out of concern he'd fall asleep and not do it at all. Peter shuffled next to Sylar, putting his hand on the wall to lean in carefully. Spiking the new bag took only a moment. He paused to review his patient, whose color was remarkably better, eyes tracking well, and looking much more alert. His ability to read, by itself, was a heartening sign of his mental function.

Peter smiled a little, so glad the trip had been worth it. On the way to the hospital, he'd thought of little other than getting there and what he'd need to get. On the way back, he'd started to entertain doubts. What if Sylar was fine and he was overreacting? What if Sylar was dead and he'd fucked up by waiting too long? What if Sylar resented his interference and would have rather died? What if Sylar woke up hateful and acting like Peter's efforts were nothing special, just like he doubted the sincerity of everything else Peter was doing for him? Respect – he wanted a little respect – not a casual assumption that Peter was here to kill him.

XXX

Sylar paused in his reading to watch Peter's hands as he messed with changing the IV bags. He was much more at ease with Peter being around, even as the man stood over him, angelic bangs of mercy hanging down in his tired face. Softly, he urged, "Lie down, Peter. You need to rest." _Lie down next to me and we'll sleep again._ He adopted his most innocent expression but he was sure he looked as rough if not worse than Peter. His mouth was a bit dry from reading, unused to the activity. Sylar stretched out an arm to reach water bottle and pills, downing more of one and a few of the other before resuming his position.

XXX

Peter's smile strengthened. He suspected Sylar had no idea how (non-sexually) seductive that was to him, especially coupled with the look on the man's face. Or maybe he did know, since after all, it sounded like he was trying to talk Peter into bed with him. "No, I think I'll just sit here for a little while longer." Which Peter knew was ridiculous even as he said it. What he meant was that he was going to sleep in the chair. He just didn't want to say that.

XXX

_So stubborn. Insisting that I don't kill myself but it__'__s okay for you to kill yourself, all in the line of duty. Whatever, Peter. __You'll come around._ "Eh-heh," Sylar sounded dubiously, "Then go get a blanket." This time he tried a more commanding tone, demanding smarts and self-care from and for Peter.

XXX

Peter made a disagreeable sound, but went to fetch it anyway. If he were going to sleep in the chair, then he would need every comfort he could get to be able to truly rest. He stood in front of the guest room bed, tugging at the blanket. _I could just sleep here. I'm sleepy. I'm here. Sylar will be alright … right? Yeah, he'll b__e fine._ Peter's eyes swept over the bed, then he shut them, swaying slightly in place. He hurt. He was tired. But those weren't the real factors making his decision - it was that he didn't want to be alone. _What if Sylar needs something? I ought to be ther__e. _It was a complete lie to himself and he knew it, trying to shove off responsibility on the other man. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket off the bed. _Well, he __**might**__ need something. And what if I need something? No, that sounds dirty. Maybe I just__ want to be close to someone like last night? __There's nothing wrong with that, is there? But that's why I need to be in the chair, not the bed. It's okay if I'm in the chair. (Right?)_ He returned, blanket in hand, still lost in thought even as he went about doing something his conscience was half-heartedly arguing about.

Peter settled into the chair, tired and sleepy, letting his defenses down and giving up the fight with himself. He squirmed under the blanket, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd fallen more than once on his trip, bruising his knee, hip, and elbow, but the main problem was how much it had strained and worsened the muscles that had been pulled when Sylar fell on Peter's upraised knee. "Could you keep reading?" he asked hopefully, since that had taken his mind off his ills earlier.

XXX

His wonderings were answered when his companion returned. Peter's voice brought him right back to when the younger man was a child – lonely, eager and cute by anyone's standards, otherwise irresistible. Nathan had dealt with the majority of Peter's emotional neediness growing up, at least giving the illusion of 'shoulder to cry on.' He was very fond of the kid who wouldn't grow up. Sylar took all that in, having no words to describe it. It was wonderful to be desired, as company or for a task. His lips twitched towards a grin as he watched Peter seat himself, blanket in hand. "Yeah," he replied, feeling warm on the inside. He didn't quite know how to categorize 'reading to Peter' – teacher/student, parent/child…? It wasn't important. "The primary motivation for modern bullpen strategy, at least, how a team's best reliever is used, is the save rule…"

XXX

Peter sighed, thinking it was kind of unfair that Sylar wasn't sleepy, even if that made perfect sense – the guy had slept all day and at the moment, the worst symptoms of his concussion were probably fading fast. Sylar might be feeling better than he had since the fight! Peter, not so much. He made a small, unintentional noise of discomfort, eyes opening again at that embarrassing sound as he began another round of shifting to find the right position. _I want the footrest. That's what I want._ He looked at the edge of the bed, right there, so inviting, able to elevate his feet and stretch out just like the footrest would allow, but without having to get up and get the damn thing. And even more, Sylar's leg was on it. Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd woke up next to the guy, one foot touching him, or as close to touching him as he could get. _He wouldn't mind, would he? (Of course he wouldn't mind. He wants me.) Is it bad, what I want? (I should have stayed in the guest room.) I told him that I didn't mind my own … Don't think real well when I'm tired. Just want … It's not wrong, is it__? I put my feet on the end of the bed this morning while he was in it. That wasn't wrong? I don't know._

He put his feet, both of them, on the edge of the bed next to Sylar's leg. Peter didn't look at Sylar's expression – once his feet were in position, he shut his eyes and curled to the side, tugging up the blanket and tucking himself in to sleep. And oh yeah, that was almost exactly what he wanted. Almost. He pushed his feet to the side a little until one of them was right up against Sylar's leg (though separated by sock and blanket and sheet and Sylar's jeans). _Ah, that's perfect._ Sleep stole over him.

XXX

Sylar glanced up when Peter made a noise but there was nothing wrong beyond the fact that Peter was in a chair when he didn't have to be. He went back to reading aloud, ignoring Peter's antics with whatever he was up to, "If a reliever has a saves clause, he'd love to get in those three-run games, if only to make padding his saves that much easier. As well, relievers themselves may prefer a defined role that is based on the inning, rather than the leverage of the situation."

Moments later a pair of sock-clad feet were beside his leg, resting on the bed. _O-oh_, Sylar clued in, pleased by the passive-aggressive development, _so you still want a piece of it_. _Why not take the whole thing when it__'__s offered?_ He paused to smirk at Peter's snoozing form before reading some more, "Relievers can appreciate the fact that there may be a situation in the seventh or eighth inning that can be a turning point for the game, but their conditioning prepares them only for the ninth inning, or perhaps two outs in the eighth inning." Another motion had Peter's feet against his leg. _Hmmm_, Sylar thought, flying high on the contact. That was no accident. He was desirable enough for that. He continued his oration until he heard those sleep-breaths from Peter, which didn't take long. The poor guy was out with good cause.

Sylar took some time to watch the nurse's sleeping form and think about their weird day. _He really did the whole k__night-in-shining-armor thing. For _me_. I can trust him to….what? Take care of me in a near-death situation that he caused? He won't pull his punches but he'd do the rest of that for me. He could have gone out and got poison; he could have left and not come __back and he….I guess he doesn't want me dead. He just wants to kill me. _He knew there was a difference in motive and meaning to 'kill and inflict pain' and 'want you dead and gone.' Actually, Peter's behavior, his actions showed his particular affliction was the less deadly of the two. If Sylar was going to die it would be by accident at Peter's hands.

Sylar slid himself down so his head could rest on the pillow, careful not to overly-disturb Peter's feet – not that the empath wouldn't come right back. He absorbed the text silently now, for some hours as his brain insisted on staying awake, his body somewhat nervy, desiring activity. Peter lying there so innocently was a temptation for activity. Laying the book aside, he tried closing his eyes to see if sleep would come and it did.

Another uncomfortable urgency woke him. _This had better not become a habit,_ he groused to himself, throwing off the blankets only to be entangled in the IV tube. _Owch! Fuck._ Sylar waited until reason struck him, sitting there getting cold and more awake as he stared at the IV solution like it was to blame. _I'm stuck? Something has to give here_. The bag was long since empty. _Isn't there a thing where you can take the tube off and leave the needle? Will Peter be pissed if I ditch__ the needle? He'll have to stick me again…_Fumbling with the bag told him that there was a wire involved with the headboard. _Christ, this is ridiculous_, he growled audibly as he struggled with the restricting apparatus. Eventually he got the wire loose, taking the bag, tubes, needle and all with him – over the bed because Peter was blocking the way - for a wobbly, dark dash to the bathroom for blinding and urination. Thus relieved, he came back and saw Peter curled up with his feet sticking out of the blanket. _Huh, usually that's my problem for being tall._ He had sympathy for that and he approached with caution. At worst, he'd be accused of molestation, but it was for a good cause. Sylar lifted Peter's feet, watching his face as he did, lifting the bed's blankets to slide the man's feet under.

XXX

Peter stirred some. Hands were on his ankles, moving them. He sucked in a shallow breath, gripping the arm of the chair to dispel the fleeting sensation of falling that came from being sleepy and having his feet lifted. Even the very slight change of balance point triggered it. He blinked, looking muzzily at Sylar, registering the man's identity and for some strange reason coding him as 'safe'. Peter's lids fluttered down again as he let Sylar do whatever it was he was doing.

XXX

"It's okay, just…" Sylar began but Peter didn't seem aware anymore. Sylar crawled back onto the bed, tossing the still-connected IV junk aside to sleep. The empath's feet snugged against him and they slept again.

XXX

_Day 15, December 25, Christmas Day, Morning_

Peter's foot flexed before he woke, pressing into Sylar's thigh enough to establish his location. Contact. Life. Presence. It soothed Peter before he was even conscious. "Hmmm," he hummed as he became aware of himself, blinking his eyes open. _Chair. What am I doing in a chair? Oh, yeah, I remember … Sylar?_ He turned to look at the head of the bed.

"Hey, how'd you-" Sylar began.

Peter's foot flexed again involuntarily before he snatched it back guiltily. His knee hurt incredibly at the motion, provoking a gasped, "Oh, fu- I mean, _ow_."

XXX

"Ah. Told you so, should have slept in bed," Sylar smirked, _With me_.

XXX

Peter rolled painfully from his curled-up, side-lying position to his back, having difficulty believing how stiff and pained his knee was from what he wouldn't have thought was a high-stress position. His back and hips made their own input to the discomfort-o-meter. Gruffly, he asked, "Did I lay like that all night, with my legs stuck out like that? Feels like I hyperextended the damn thing!" He sat up (another mild agony in itself) and put both hands on either side of his right knee. He'd fallen on it the day before so it was a little swollen and more than a little bruised, but the problem was mainly the protesting tendons. He rubbed gingerly.

Ignoring Sylar's last comment, Peter answered the first, abbreviated one, his voice still rough. "I slept okay. How about you?" It felt weird to be exchanging bedroom pleasantries with Sylar, but what else was there to do? Irritation surged around in him that Sylar kept inching up the intimacy level between them way more than Peter was comfortable with. And yet it was hard to blame Sylar – he hadn't necessarily been mentally competent and a long-range plan seemed definitely beyond his abilities. It was more … circumstances, but Peter still found it annoying. Especially given how much he now wished he'd just said to hell with it and shared the bed. Or been strong enough to have slept in the guest room.

XXX

"I slept well," Sylar nodded, pleased with the results and with the exchange.

XXX

Snarling more at his own weakness of resolve than the pain of getting up, Peter levered himself to his feet and stumbled forward to look at the disconnected IV bag on the headboard. It was a little askew. It took him a moment to realize there was supposed to be two of them there and another moment to figure out the other was right in front of his feet on the floor. _Damn, I need coffee_. "Did you disconnect that?" he said as his eyes traced the intact tubing up to Sylar's arm.

XXX

Geez, Peter looked rough. Maybe it was his turn for a day of bed rest. Sylar couldn't remember if the other man had gotten any (aside from the other night) since the fight or…since he got here. He didn't care for the accusation, after all, he'd left the damn needle in! "No, it just jumped off by itself last night. You pumped me full of fluids, I had to go!"

XXX

"How are you feeling?" Peter said, voice softening from earlier. He took Sylar's elbow and forearm with a couple checking glances to his face. "Hang on and I'll ..." He ran his hand across the skin, then down to the back of Sylar's hand so he could pinch it up to check turgor as he had the day before. Satisfied with what he saw, he concluded, "I'll take that out."

XXX

The wind blew out of his sails at that. "Better. I think the IV helped," Sylar admitted. Peter grabbed him very familiarly, no question or consent. Medical exam be damned, even this light contact was going to bring a blush to his face – he was definitely feeling warm everywhere else. Waking up with someone who took care of him and talked to him was indescribable. "Okay." That pinch was almost sexy. Sylar licked his lips and ogled his otherwise-focused nurse as he removed the needle.

The other man's distraction continued as he rubbernecked about for something before instructing Sylar to place his thumb on the bleed. Sylar made a bit of a face; it seemed kind of trivial since he wasn't going to bleed out, vein versus artery, but he supposed it needed to clot so he obeyed. _He's not going to put another one in? _Sylar was very aware of how much trust he'd given Peter lately, medically and as a caretaker, and Peter had failed to confirm the worst of his fears. He knew he was going to act like a pathetic puppy from now on, following the guy around, getting on his nerves, inevitably being kicked away – but worrying about his ultimate safety was off his plate for now. If he fell, maybe, just maybe Peter would pick him up. He wanted to kick himself on instinct just for daring to hope.

Squirming to sit up more, feeling vulnerable enough as it was, he caught Peter's arm with his clean hand before he could turn away, "Should- You should rest." Now that Sylar felt he was out of imminent danger, he conceded that he was worried about Peter's health now. He had to at least look out for the younger man since he was doing a rather crappy job of it himself and Sylar didn't want him dying either. Still flushed, heart rate elevated, he used the expression that had gotten a reaction before, open, pleading, intent; adding in a low voice, "I know a few things that could help." _Like orgasm. Orgasm is great for joint pain and anything else you've got. We even have a bed._

XXX

Peter's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his breath came faster at that look, especially coming on the heels of cooperation, what might be gratitude, and a sign of care. It really stopped him in his tracks. His face showed his unthinking curiosity about things beyond just the 'things' Sylar might be able to help with. "Like what?"

XXX

That darling idiot bought it. That was cute; it gave him a rush. "Sex. Massage. Shower. Stretching," Sylar shrugged.

XXX

_That was a stupid question. Just idiotic. And I fell right into it. _Peter shut his eyes for a long beat, opening them with a slight roll of his head and a definite pull away from Sylar's contact. "No," he articulated clearly and firmly. _Massage sounds nice,_ his mind traitorously informed him. "I just got up," he went on in a surly tone, giving up on trying to make it clear to Sylar he wasn't interested. (Which probably wouldn't have been very convincing anyway, what with the suckered-in expression Peter had just had on his face.) "I don't need to rest," he complained as he shuffled around the side of the chair, using it copiously for balance. On the other side, he surveyed the room, unsure of where he wanted to go. Wistfully, he said, "A bath or a hot tub sure would be nice, though." _Followed by a massage. That would be extra nice._ He growled at the turn of his thoughts. _Remember the part about being crucified? And Nathan being dead? Yeah? Good. Don't forget it with him, no matter how innocent he can work himself up to looking._

_There's a tub here, though. Don't really want to make breakfast feeling like __this._ "I'm going to take a long soak."

XXX

As expected, the answer was a shutdown, but it wasn't as bad as it had been in the past – far more…civil? "A bath is good," Sylar agreed, calling after Peter, "You know we could do all four in there!" There was no answer. _He's gonna make me rest and I just woke up._

XXX

Peter hobbled over in that direction. _Lock the door or not? What did we decide yesterday? I don't think we decided anything, but he went off to the table and sat himself down and didn't argue__ anymore._ Peter shut the door, hesitated, and didn't lock it. _He'd better not come in here, or else I'll hit him in the face with the damn toilet brush,_ Peter thought irritably, setting up the water to run as hot as he could stand. _Or I could throw water o__n him. __I'll bet he wouldn't like that – wet washcloth to the face. Yeah, that would suck._ Peter continued his not-very-mean-spirited grousing until he was submerged in hot water, slowly loosening the knots in his muscles. Considering who he was complaining about, his retaliatory plans were mild.

XXX

Peter was gone and Sylar was left trying not to picture that 'long soak' with little success. Wet, smooth skin, sweat, relaxation…in the nude…Sylar sighed mournfully. He definitely wanted something, wanted more – all this teasing and taste-testing was giving him a bad case of idle hands. As a brain-picking murderer and watchmaker with more curiosity than he knew what to do with mixed with too much brains and unanswered questions and no social interaction or physical contact made for a very insane, lonely, motivated background. He wanted to touch, to talk and he wasn't getting it nor was he likely to.

Then there was the freaking niceness from Peter, who had been talking to him for a minute there. Sylar had gratitude and no way to express it. Gifts weren't viable at the moment since he was somewhat house-bound; Peter's birthday and Christmas seemingly forgotten. It was a distressing combination. _How long is 'a long soak'?_ Breakfast would be a good start but he didn't know what Peter wanted or even what he could make on his own. _Toast?_ But first he had to pee and Peter was in the only bathroom (he knew he wasn't allowed in, especially if the guy was naked – more was the pity) so he wandered down the hall to the next suite and used the bathroom there. Adjusting his hair and disparaging his growing beard, he returned to the kitchen to find bread but no toaster. _Fuck. Typical. Time to get creative._ A grilled piece of bread would have a similar toasting affect. He found a pan and heated it, getting out some butter and coating both sides of several slices. Sylar poured milk for two and got his book from the bedroom, waiting for one-handed Peter to start breakfast.


	58. Breakfast of Champions

_Day 15, December 25, morning_

Peter emerged from the bathroom in a much better mood, feeling much better, too. He was hungry, having been too worn out the day before (and honestly, worried about Sylar) to get himself dinner. Sylar was now at the table, reading and looking well, so Peter left him there undisturbed as he moved over to the stove to see what the deal was with the opened loaf of bread and the butter next to it. "Oh, you found the butter. Good. Not real keen on margarine anyway."

XXX

Sylar glanced up mostly to see if Peter was dressed – he was; that was too bad. He rolled his eyes about the butter v. margarine affair. As Peter followed his heart (otherwise ignoring him), Sylar went back to his book rather than stare at Peter's back.

XXX

Peter turned up the heat on the stove. "I'm guessing you want toast? What happened, did you get started over here and get distracted or something?" he asked as he wandered over to score one of the glasses of milk, downing half of it in a single, lengthy gulp. The taste was really appealing. Sylar probably wasn't the only one a little dehydrated. With a quick glance to make sure the bread was doing okay in the pan, he got down a bowl and a box of cereal, one of those granola types with bits of nuts and fruit in it. Peter set them both on the table and returned to the stove in time to flip the bread.

XXX

_Want toast?_ Having been buried in his book and forgotten his plans, Sylar was curious why Peter would jump to that assumption. His eyes narrowed when Peter made a crack about his mental state. _Getting distracted. Ha! Did you walk out naked and I missed it? Just hit my head? Sudden onset of amnesia? Then no, I didn't get distracted._ Sylar was quite assured his mind was (usually) a steel trap. It was his key to survival and sanity. "No," he practically growled, "Cold toast sucks so I got it ready and waited for you so you could deal with the stove." Peter did him one better in passive-aggressively waving his other preferred breakfast in his face before walking off. Sylar stared at the cereal box, wounded despite himself, his gesture being thrown in his face. _Does he think I can't cook? I'm not even doing the cooking. I prepared it. Was I supposed to know he wanted cereal? Did I miss something? I haven't cooked for him yet – he didn't want to eat with me. So that's how its going to be. _In a grumpy/hurt tone, he explained because he had to, "Two of those are for you, Petrelli. Like I can eat three pieces of toast."

XXX

"Three pieces of toast wouldn't even be a full-sized breakfast for you, Sylar. Hey, go get the pills from next to the bed, will you? And if you could get that chair out from next to it, that would help." It had been difficult enough to maneuver it over there one-handedly.

XXX

Mouth a moue of a pout, Sylar sighed, snapping his book shut, and rising. _Menial chores now? Because I didn't do a good job with the food? He's the one who stuck his tongue all over my butter! _He returned with desired objects, clunking the chair down, snagging some pills.

XXX

"What do you want to do today? I'd rather stay in this building, unless there's something you need really bad from your apartment." That was Peter's way of saying, 'Sliding around on the ice sucked so badly yesterday that I'm having trouble convincing myself to do something as trivial as merely cross the street to get my toothbrush.' "Oh," he added with a sudden thought, "I found that clock in one of the other rooms. Thought it might help you sleep." _So maybe I won't have to sleep in the chair next time._ He finished up with the bread and brought it to the table, rebelliously putting all three slices on Sylar's plate, while fetching the rest of the milk for his cereal.

XXX

"I'd want to do completely nasty things repeatedly on a mattress. Otherwise I need to do something or I'll tear you, the apartment or that very nice clock apart just for fun." He had noticed the gesture and it fit so well with Sylar's own apartment that he'd been calmed without being particularly aware of the source. Now it was his turn for cabin fever. "I have a book, though. The clock was…It helped a lot. That and hearing you breathe." In for a penny, while he was being grateful and saying what he wanted he might as well throw that out there for reinforcement, assuming Peter was interested in it. Sylar blankly eyed the pile of toast with confusion.

XXX

Peter laughed. "Completely nasty things, huh? You go find your own bed to do that in," he said lightly, leaning some of his weight on the table as he settled into his chair. He read Sylar's other comments as a 'thank you' of sorts for the clock and staying in the room with him. That was nice and cheered Peter up enough to banter. "But something I'd like to do is repeat that mini-mental exam on you so I can see how much the IV fluids improved things. Something's sure made you perky this morning," Peter said, chuckling at Sylar's second (or was it third?) sexual innuendo/invitation of the morning. Most of Peter's apprehension about the threat Sylar might pose to him was gone. He poured cereal and then milk into his bowl. In a more sober tone, but his eyes still smiling, Peter said very genuinely, "I'm really glad to hear you're feeling good."

XXX

The lot of that caught Sylar's attention, his eyes locked onto Peter. _As opposed to 'our' bed? 'Your' bed? Not that I need a bed at all…_When his thoughts, questions, whatever they were went unanswered, he let it drop. "Perky's a word for it," he murmured. It wasn't the ideal word to describe his mood. Peter probably just liked that he was less needy. Yeah right. "You can make me feel even better, Petrelli. Doing completely nasty things and eating toast," Sylar intoned but he was too late on the breakfast front.

XXX

Peter snorted, not giving the invitation any more of a response than that, then took a few bites of cereal. He would have preferred it with sugar, but not enough to go look for it. He definitely preferred it softer, so he stirred it into the milk and said, "Maybe we could find an electric razor or two? Or I could probably use a blade now, or even a safety razor if I had to." Peter wiggled the free fingers on his right hand, miming the act of shaving for a few strokes. He'd latched onto the electric razor before because he hadn't been sure he could manipulate anything else reliably with his right hand. Now he felt more confident he could handle it. He eye-balled Sylar's vigorously growing scruff. "Get one for you, too, unless you're going for the mountain man look."

XXX

Embarrassment flashed through him when Peter struck one of his more obvious, long-held insecurities. Dressing nicely (like a nerd, even in the middle of a New York summer) came in handy sometimes, covering him from neck to toes. That way no one but he and mom knew he was hairier than a fur rug, and not an attractive, expensive one, either. There was no other way to tame it so he let it be. Only after he'd bloodied his hands had he allowed his beard some leeway. That served a purpose, too. The stubble, his attire and his body language of assumed power gained him notice. It worked wonders for sex appeal, go figure – he'd been clean-shaven his whole life. _/'Your skin is so soft; like a baby.'/_

'Mountain man' didn't sound complimentary and that wasn't a look he was going for. Voice short, Sylar snapped in the 'what's it to you?' tone, "Yes, I'd like one." After a brief glaring look to make sure Peter wasn't trying to make that a punch line, he bit into some of his own dry, grilled toast._That's crappy toast._ The butter had been made into a crust but it offered little flavor – it was basically cooked plain bread. _No wonder he wants cereal. _Sylar went to the kitchen to retrieve the butter and knife mostly because he refused to allow his breakfast to suck more than it had to, not when he could fix it. Applying the butter, he tested it. Much better. The grilling was a different texture but toast was still toast. Then Sylar wondered if his 'mountain man' look was keeping him from getting laid; he sent a sideways, curious glance over towards Peter. What the hell, "The beard not doing it for you?"

XXX

Peter did a double-take – first at Sylar, then at his 'beard', then at Sylar again. On a lark, he humored the man. More thoughtfully, he gave serious consideration to how facial hair contributed to Sylar's appearance. His eyes scanned over Sylar's various rather handsome and attractive features, considering his beautiful eyes, shapely bone structure, perfect lips, and intimidating brows. It seemed a crime that such an angelic face had been granted to such a demonic man. Peter looked at his hair, in a bit of disarray and frizzed, probably due to bad hair product. Even so, it framed his face nicely. The picture Sylar made was a lot dark despite his pale skin, with a well-defined face that didn't benefit from being obscured by facial hair. Even clean-shaven, Sylar virtually exuded menace most of the time. More hair did not reduce the perception of threat. Peter made up his mind. "No, doesn't do it for me." He took another bite, looking Sylar over again while thinking about the man's repeated overtures to him this morning.

XXX

Sylar tilted his head to the side at being inspected. That he had not been expecting. Then Peter continued looking him over, several times…Sylar stared back after it reached (and passed) the point of awkwardness and discomfort. The longer it went on, the more uncertain he became because after that much time, the answer was sure to be a negative one. Finally Peter answered but it seemed a simple answer to the stated question; the nurse didn't expand to include the face. _So something else_ does _do it for you._ Sylar smirked; he was allowed to.

XXX

"Your beard or lack of a beard isn't why you aren't getting laid. There's two big reasons," Peter said, waving the hand without the spoon in a general way, "one is everything you are, or at least that I think you are. You seem mean and you're difficult for me to predict, along with everything that's happened," Peter swallowed and his voice roughened, his face tilting down a little as he continued, "before." His lips thinned and he looked to the side, biting his lip briefly before looking back, trying to push aside his anger. He was trying to explain himself so Sylar would stop it with the passes, so the man would understand why he wasn't getting anywhere.

XXX

There was a barely-noticeable hitch in Sylar's breakfast motions at that. _There goes that theory._ Stupidly, he was surprised his motive had been sussed out (at all and so quickly, too), but it had been an obvious one. _How many times has he figured it out? He's not dumb; smarter than he looks; smarter than he lets on. Not just another pretty face._ Once that was dealt with, he focused on Peter. _I seem 'mean'? (That's so schoolyard! 'Mean') I seem mean? Gee, I can't imagine why...Was no one ever mean to you, pretty Peter, is that it? More like he thinks no one should be mean to him – ha! He's a hero, a good guy, martyr on a mission, handle with care._ Sylar held back (though it was a near thing) from rolling his eyes.

XXX

"The other reason is that you're sick, you're injured. I don't do my patients. At all. Especially ones that are mentally … compromised." He gave Sylar a look like he must think the worst of Peter to think he'd take advantage of the situation. "You want to have more of a chance with me? Eat." He gestured at the toast. "Drink. Get better. Focus on _that_."

Peter shook his head, feeling around the edges of his rage about the other reason – Sylar struck him as an asshole and that was on top of him being a murderer. He pressed his lips together so firmly it was a grimace before serving himself another bite of cereal and forcing himself to eat it. With a huffy breath, he reached over for the painkillers, getting out the usual number he gave Sylar and taking them.

XXX

_Didn't stop you from sleeping with me,_ Sylar plotted a response, thinking Peter was finished. He wasn't finished: 'you're insane but something might happen when you get better?' And less important, 'quit bugging me.' "You're a moron. You can't even stick to your own rules. Why would you expect me to?" Sylar threw out bluntly, boiling inside yet calmly taking a bite of toast. '_Setting the example' I believe its called. Ask my parents; they did a fantastic job as you can see. Results: the insanity everyone likes so much. They think I like being that way._

XXX

"A moron?" Peter sputtered a little at how absurd that was. _Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to,_ ran through his mind from Petrelli Verbal Defense Training 101, but he ignored it. "What rule are you talking about?"

XXX

"Rule Number One was not calling me crazy. What do you think 'mentally compromised' means? I'm not stupid, I have a huge headache because my brain was bashed around. And I asked about fucking before we fought," Sylar was marginally sure about that last point. "Do you think I can't make decisions or have an opinion like this?" He was insulted which made him angry and the insults only grew the more he spoke, the more he thought. "If I'm not much of a patient then you aren't much of a nurse, _Dr._ Petrelli." One of the last things Sylar remembered was Matt telling him to abandon all hope; 'that ship sailed…You really are insane.' It was a touchy subject coming from a household where his thoughts and emotions were called into question just for existing. It was a label he'd had to endure without knowing if it was true; /'The man is a deranged sociopath.' 'You're a psychopath.' 'Unrestrained lunatic.' 'Serial killer.' 'You're a monster…like me.' 'You're damned.'/

XXX

Peter snorted in disdain and answered hotly, "I think 'mentally compromised' means you have a fucking concussion bad enough that you can't look out for your own best interests. It doesn't matter when you asked. We're right now, right here," he stabbed a finger down at the tabletop in emphasis, "and you were unconscious yesterday afternoon. It doesn't matter how bad you want to do it, I'm not interested until you're well!" Peter glared at him, steaming a bit. "And ..." he faltered, realizing what he'd said sounded like he'd be all over Sylar once the guy recovered, which was far from the truth, "and probably not even then. No, not even then. At all. Definitely." Shaking his head in exasperation, he dug into his cereal, muttering, "Fuck it." _Just shut up and stop arguing with him, Peter!_

XXX

_Uh, apparently it does matter when I asked._ Sylar inhaled for a sigh. _He mentioned that before, being unconscious. I was just sleeping._ Then he blinked when Peter slipped up – he knew it would happen eventually. The whole 'keep asking the same question' routine worked for a reason (even though it was kind of an interrogation-slash-torture tactic). His eyebrows went up in glee as he smiled broadly. As expected, Peter tried to back out and deny; that had him chuckling, leaning forward and smirking next, "You wanna try that again, Peter? I didn't really feel the conviction there." Sylar felt validated, being right and somewhat desired was an incredible, rare feeling. It was kind of…fluttery. Someone would care if he died, would do things to prevent it; someone had a preference about his looks and gave a damn about his health; someone might want to touch him. That was a big deal and it was serious motivation to get better. In fact, he resolved to make a miraculously quick recovery.

He snorted openly in amusement when Peter swore, taking a drink before sarcastically mollifying, "Whatever you need to tell yourself." The denial stung but it wasn't lethal, it came with the package. "Too bad Hiro isn't around to see this," he said in a low voice, focused on not looking too eager while his insides were jumping, and forcing down the toast.

XXX

"What's that about Hiro?" Peter asked suspiciously, still scowling and trying mightily to ignore Sylar's idiotic gloating about a simple slip of the tongue. He hunched around his bowl of cereal like he was trying to defend it.

XXX

Sylar went still. "He…said something that…it's been a thorn in my side for some years now. You'd be proving him wrong." Another pause before he decided to admit, quietly, "For me, that's a good thing." Just maybe that type of thing mattered to Peter but it was a long shot. Sylar was always wondering if he'd survived the 'die alone' part since nearly every one of his deaths was without friend or companion except the person killing him (which he didn't think counted). It was the not-knowing that spiked his anxiety.

XXX

Peter didn't know what Sylar was talking about, but at least the smirking had ended quickly. Too quickly, Peter suspected. He shot Sylar several suspicious glances, but the man seemed to be applying himself to his breakfast. Peter did the same, slowly relaxing his posture. Sylar wasn't going to take his cereal, so there was no point in circling his arms around it like a barrier. No, Sylar was the one who tended to eat his food like that, and although he wasn't as hyper-vigilant about it as he'd been at first, he still ate like a prisoner.

"Just as long as you eat, drink, and get better," he said in a low voice. And if it served to motivate Sylar in taking care of himself – whatever – Peter added, "Nobody's going to be getting any action if you're dead."

Peter felt around his feelings again, but this time different ones than the rage. He had no love for Sylar and barely anything that qualified as friendly. What he had was an admission that Sylar was here, he was human, and he had some traits that Peter could see could be likeable, if the jerk decided to play them that way. The deal-killers were Sylar's past, Nathan (a separate deal-killer from all the other murders), his unwillingness to help Emma, lack of understanding about the world they were trapped in, and that he took too much joy and pride in hurting, scaring, and being superior to Peter. Peter relaxed a little further because put that way, he didn't think Sylar had a snowball's chance in hell of making it with him. Some of them were issues the man couldn't change and the rest seemed so core to his personality that it seemed unlikely he would change them, assuming he was capable of it.

Cereal finished, Peter leaned back in the chair and stretched a little, the chair back being just the right height for him to pop his spine in a place or two. He made a tiny, happy noise and settled back.

"Let's get started on the MME. What's the date today?" That was the first time it had occurred to Peter that it was Christmas Day by Sylar's reckoning in here. He tried not to think about what the holiday would be like the next time he had to deal with it for real. Spending it snowed in with Sylar was actually better than the alternative of merely being alone.

XXX

Sylar had since been playing with his food to fool Peter into thinking he was still eating. He'd consumed a piece and a half of toast (he thought that was significant). _The what?_ "The…twenty-fourth?" _I didn't do anything special for his birthday and now Christmas is going to go by._ This had not been a shining example of his…hosting skills. It worried him because he could do much better and he didn't want Peter thinking he didn't care about the man's birthday or holidays. Sylar himself didn't much care for his own birthday or the holiday but it was an excuse to do things in a boring, eventless world and he wanted to make use of it. A crappy welcome he was giving his companion; here he was housebound, sickly and holding Peter back. It was like performance evaluation was coming around and he was asleep on the job.

XXX

Peter asked, "What's the full date, month and year?"

XXX

A frown rose to his face unbidden as he fretted over his near failures. _Oh, who cares about that, Peter?_ He looked at his nurse with some confusion, hastily trying to answer the question so he could get back to his plans, "Um…the twenty-fourth of December…2,000…12."

XXX

"What's the season?" He smiled wanly at this one, because the snowstorm made that pretty obvious.

XXX

The smile halted him. His head inched to the side. Sylar glanced straight ahead, out the window to double check; his lips twitching at a grin, "Winter, obviously." _Christmas – winter, that's really easy, Peter._

XXX

"What day of the week is it?"

XXX

Sylar shrugged from his sudden slouch, muttering, "I don't know," as he fiddled with his cup.

XXX

Peter wondered if Sylar was throwing the test deliberately, although he couldn't fathom why. Sylar had been seeming pretty well put together earlier, but asking someone to focus on something outside their usual train of thought was an effort – an effort the test was designed to evaluate. "What town, county, and state are we in, to the best of your knowledge?"

XXX

"New York. Queens, Brooklyn…Manhattan? New York." Now he gave Peter an expression that questioned the empath's sanity.

XXX

_Okay, so that one's easy for him – location good, time bad. I wouldn't have guessed that._ "What's the address of the building we're in?"

XXX

This was a more honest non-answer. Living for three years in the same place had blinded him to those details – he had no need for addresses. "I really don't know. It's…the one across the street, to the right. P-something. Nice building."

XXX

_Well, I don't know where we are either, so there's that._"What floor are we on?"

XXX

"The top." That was a pure educated guess.

XXX

Peter didn't know whether to count that as correct or not, but decided to go with it as such. "I'm going to list three objects. You're supposed to remember them and recite them back to me later in the test, when I ask you to. They are orange, chair, nickel." Peter made sure he had Sylar's attention for that part. "Can you repeat them to me right now?"

XXX

Another look told Peter he was wasting his time, but he parroted it back to make the man happy.

XXX

"I'm going to spell a word forwards and I want you to spell it back to me backwards. The word is 'world'. W-O-R-L-D. Spell it back to me in reverse order."

XXX

Sylar focused on 'seeing' the word in his head, to see the letters. Maybe sounding it out or something. "D, L, R," 'World' like 'word.' "O, W."

XXX

Peter pointed at the table they were sitting at. "What's this called?" Then he tugged at his shirt. "And what's this?"

XXX

"Table." He smirked, looking over the clothing. _That's the thing you'll take off for me later._ "Shirt." _Bye-bye, shirt._

XXX

Peter didn't care for that smirk, but he didn't comment on it. "Can you repeat the three words I told you to memorize earlier?"

XXX

He started with the easiest, "Chair, nickel…." Sylar cast around the room, looking for the last word. It was fruity and colorful…He spotted it on the couch's pillow, "Lime."

XXX

"I need you to repeat the following, exactly: 'No ifs, ands, or buts.'

XXX

An eyebrow arched at that. It seemed random or maybe Peter was just having a laugh. Or worse, laying out conditions for something, getting him to 'agree'…His eyes narrowed and he leaned back, straightening. "I can, but I'm not going to. Sally sells seashells by the seashore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood," he rattled off. Social skills and communication – crap; linguistics and verbal retention – excellent. Tongue twisters posed little difficulty. "There's another one about Peter but I don't know that one." Nathan did, though. No way a nursery rhyme about his little brother was going to get by him. "/Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?/" _Guess I do know it._ He was already leaned away from Peter so he settled for inspecting the tabletop to avoid eye contact.

XXX

Peter raised his brows slightly. _He doesn't know it, so he recites it to me?_ He waited a beat for an explanation, but Sylar studied the surface of the table instead, looking guilty and insecure. Peter exhaled and looked over in the direction of the bed, thinking about the next part of the test. It required a pad of paper, which was conveniently in the room, inconveniently far from where he was sitting. _Oh well, part of it is the ability to follow directions._ "Could you go get that pad of paper for me? It's on the night stand, under the clock. There's a pen next to it."

XXX

Sylar waited for a moment, watching his partner. _Why does he need paper? Paper airplane? No, he wants a pen. Can't he get- He got an IV in a snowstorm and nearly broke his hips. _That decided him and he stood without hurry. When he got there and picked up the pad, he saw there was something already written on it which shocked him. No people here; there were no left-over notes, no farewell, no notice from previous occupants. Sylar stood there to read it, personal, unimportant or whatever, it was of interest. _Peter must have…Yeah, that's his handwriting: 'Sylar – I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. –Peter.' _The sick part was that he wanted to keep the note. He could feel his masculinity slipping away. The note was…so help him, _sweet_. Working that over in his head, he trudged back, more focused on the pad then on where he was going. He had to course-correct when he nearly ran into the back of Peter's chair. He took the liberty of stripping the top note before handing the pad to the other man as he sat.

XXX

"Thank you," Peter said, accepting the pad. He hesitated before writing the standard direction, 'Close your eyes.' Under normal circumstances, an EMT or nurse was administering the test, a trusted individual who was being voluntarily allowed to provide medical services. One had nothing to fear in closing one's eyes in front of them. Sylar … might not feel that way about Peter. _I could ask him to lift his plate or count him going to get the pad as following an order. But … I'd also like to know if he trusts me that much._ He wrote the standard command and passed the pad to Sylar.

XXX

He took it and read it. A blink at the page, then a glance at Peter. _This is his idea of a kinky game? I suppose I'll hear him get up and he can't reach me…_Sylar settled back in his own chair and shut his eyes. Only then did he wonder what the point of that action was. God, he was whipped and he wasn't even getting any. Yet.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, sitting perfectly still and smiling a little, relieved and pleased. "You can open your eyes."

XXX

Eyes open, Sylar quirked an eyebrow to express his question. It went unanswered as Peter was moving on.

XXX

He passed over the pen. "Please write any complete sentence. Doesn't matter what it is." This one shouldn't be hard, as Sylar had been able to read fine the night before.

XXX

Well, now, that sounded like a trick question. _What is that, Freud? What's that called; it has a name…_"Um…" The only problem was what to write. 'A tourbillion is not a complication,' he wrote as neatly as he could.

XXX

Peter reclaimed the pad and took a glance at the sentence. All he cared about was that it was an intelligible, complete sentence. He did a double-take. _What the hell is a tourbillion?_ With a small shake of his head, he moved on. The test was supposed to be administered without interruptions or distractions, so he'd have to ask about it later. He drew an interlocking pair of pentagrams, focusing carefully to get them regularly shaped. He pushed the paper back over with the pen. "Now copy that picture as you see it, on the same piece of paper."

XXX

He sighed at that one. A couple of house-shaped (or was that home-plate-shaped?) figures, really? Sylar cast him a thanks-so-much look but took the implements. _I should draw something shocking. I would if I could draw better._ Instead he set about copying the picture a little too literally but he assumed Peter wanted perfection. As such, it took him longer than it should have mostly because of that.

XXX

"Thanks." Peter looked at the rendering. It was a little skewed, but it met the basics. He tore out an extra page from the notepad. "Take this piece of paper in your right hand, fold it with both hands, and put it in your lap." Only after he was done did he lift the sheet and extend it for Sylar to take.

XXX

Now Sylar's look was bland disbelief at this latest absurdity. He snatched the paper, matched the ends (with both hands) and pressed the crease, setting it in his lap for all of two seconds before he crumpled it (with both hands) and tossed it against Peter's shoulder where it bounced off. "Ha," he chuckled. That was his idea of a subtle clue that he was through with the test. "It's going to take more than that to keep me entertained. And origami comes with directions. I saw a cool dragon once." There was table football and those strange number-triangle-flap options the girls in high school used to annoy with, too, if they were really that desperate.

"What would entertain me is hearing about what does it for you," Sylar suggested liltingly, canting his head.

XXX

Peter jerked a little about the thrown paper, but didn't overreact. "In a sec," he said to Sylar's suggestion. Peter took up the pen and made a few marks on the paper, running through the questions in his head and tallying. He didn't know how to count some of them, like the building neither he nor Sylar knew the address of, or Sylar's refusal to repeat 'ifs, ands, or buts' but then supplying several tongue twisters in its place. He wrote '24' on the paper and looked up at Sylar.

"What it does for me is give me an idea of how much, if at all, getting the IV helped you. The first time I had you do the MMSE, the day after the fight, you scored just a little better than severely impaired. The second a couple days later, you were a little better still. Now you're at the top end of lightly impaired, which is a pretty big jump. It's just a snapshot diagnostic, but it ..." Peter leaned back and looked upwards for a moment, "it helps me get some of my bias out of evaluating how you're doing, and more importantly, it helps me stay focused on what you need. Like, help and stuff. Instead of me ..." he shrugged, making a little head wiggle of ambivalence, "focusing on things that aren't helpful." _Like beating you up some more, for example._

XXX

_I never would have guessed you're biased. I've been saying that all along._

XXX

"_**You**_ need to eat some more of your toast. You've got more than a piece left there." Peter leaned forward again, pointing at the incriminating evidence still on Sylar's plate. "Come on and help me out here," he tried to cajole. "A piece and a half of toasted bread is not a meal, Sylar. You need to _eat_."

XXX

"I _am_ eating!" Sylar immediately defended. "I know that. I can't eat when you're asking me questions and giving me stupid tests." There was no way he was taking all the blame for this. He'd been good – was being good still – and he'd assisted in making his own admittedly bad breakfast. Peter was glass half-emptying him while Sylar felt that a piece and a half was an accomplishment, even in baby steps. _They always demand change in more volume that you can accommodate. It's not reasonable. _It was little wonder he couldn't meet the necessary quotas.

XXX

Unimpressed by the excuses, Peter pushed. "Come on, man. At least finish your milk." He waited patiently, showing not the least inclination to get up, hurry, or go do anything else. He had nothing more important on his schedule for the day than making sure Sylar got enough food and liquids in him to avoid needing the IV again.

XXX

In a sassy tone, Sylar retorted, "Al-_right_." Peter didn't so much as blink for movement. Realization dawned at that. "You'd better not stare me through it, because that's not going to help get it done," he warned with surety. It was unnerving now the focus was on his eating capacity. Some of his earliest memories were being stared at while he tried to eat at the Gray's dinner table. Adjusting to what he now knew was his 'new family's' way of doing things had been a rough transition, amnesia included. He glared until he was sure his message took before hefting the glass.

XXX

In mild exasperation, Peter asked, "Then what do I have to do here? Tell me. Because I am _not_ looking forward to trying to rig a feeding tube."

XXX

Sylar stopped drinking to lick away whatever milk mustache he undoubtedly had, given that he already had a dark mustache of his own. "Are you threatening me?" He didn't know what a feeding tube was, but it sounded like medical equipment penetrated him somehow, somewhere and he didn't like the sound of that. It sounded completely uncalled for. Panic began and he started planning a quick exit strategy. _His whole body's hurt; I only have to watch out for my head._ "I thought you wanted to play nice."

XXX

"Playing nice only counts if you're alive," Peter snapped. When the threat didn't get the desired result, he switched gears to a different sort of threat. "I got some Zofran while I was out. It helps with nausea, but most of what I picked up was injective. On the plus side, it should help the queasiness right away. Do you want me to go get it?" Peter hooked his thumb in the direction of the wheelchair and the bags of medical supplies on it.

XXX

What annoyed him was that his first question was 'Do you think I need it?' After that came 'Why didn't you offer it before?' That was suspicious. _Of course it's injective. I can't trust that. Is that really a question if I want it or not?_ Sylar pointed a finger in Peter's face, "You do that and I'm leaving. If you want me to eat, shut the fuck up and go play with something. Take a nap if you're cranky, I don't care. Keep this up and I'll starve out of spite. Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this? I can see why you got sued."

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together in a thin line as his face fell, along with his gaze. Equal parts angry, stricken, and shamed (no, probably not equal – he felt angry more than anything else), he pushed himself up from the table silently and took the milk and cereal box back to their places in fridge and cabinet, returning just as quietly and impassively to take the bowl and spoon to the sink. As he came back by the table, he swiped the pen and pad of paper, taking them with him as he went to the bed and straightened the covers a little so he could lie on top of them. He stole the pillows from the side Sylar had slept on, making enough of a mound to prop him up a little. He helped himself into bed by scooting and tugging at his pant leg to help swing his left leg onto the mattress. At no time did he look at Sylar; the apartment could have been empty other than Peter.

XXX

_Finally_. Sylar breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't wanted to leave or fight. Now he could breathe without his every move being watched. He initially thought Peter wouldn't get annoying. Boy, was that a stupid idea; failure to think through the younger man's history_._ _I guess I'm just surprised he threatened me that way, medically; all that trust me, you have my word crap. Make up your mind._ Peter was miffed big time, he knew, but didn't care. He'd deal with it later, assuming he had to at all. Finally, his mind was able to blank and focus on his food, the little self-care he could manage on his own.

XXX

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he looked at the scribbles on the pad and tried not to think about what Sylar had said – any of it. _What the hell is a tour-billion and why isn't it complicated?_ He looked at where he'd written '24' and drew the face of a clock around it, putting tiny numbers from one to twenty-four on it like the military clock Nathan used to have in his office. _Wonder where that thing went? I haven't seen it in years. _By convenience and intention, the notepad he held in front of him was directly between him and Sylar, blocking line of sight.

Depending on how one looked at it, Peter was either sulking, coping, or copping out. Sylar had managed to hit enough buttons in that one outburst that Peter completely disengaged – there was the implication he was a kid (needing to play with something), he was unfriendly (cranky), that his pushy attempts to help had Sylar threatening to self-harm (not that Peter took that seriously, but it was still there), and of course the capper being a general slur to his ability to help people. If his leg and lower back hadn't hurt so bad, Peter would have left the apartment entirely. Instead, he lay on the bed and tried not to be depressed over how sometimes people didn't want his help, or to be saved, or for him to make a difference. They just didn't want _him_ and they had a right to that. He tried very hard to lose himself in drawing fire consuming the bottom of the page and think of nothing at all.

XXX

Sylar refused himself the right to miss Peter's proximity and attention. He worked on his bland breakfast, eventually downing another piece of cold toast (his total now two and a half). It went down a lot easier with milk and a book. There was definitely something to be said for reading during a meal. When he was alone, he hadn't ever really had a reason to stop reading to eat so it was something of a habit. _Butter. It has nutritional value. So does bread, carbs. Toast is so a meal. From the guy who thinks cheese and crackers is a meal._ Toast just wasn't very filling. Sylar attempted a few bites of the last half of toast but didn't get very far. That avenue exhausted, he turned to Peter who was dutifully doing something and resting (hopefully he'd gotten his threatening mood under control). "We should get more food if we're going to stay here," he addressed his companion. _That should make him happy. Exercise, adventure, following his idea._ He supposed they could move to another suite but aside from new scenery, that would be pointless.

XXX

Peter made no response to the statement other that to think nastily to himself, _For someone who doesn't like being alone, he sure doesn't do much to make people want to be around him._

XXX

Perhaps he was antsy. Sylar's attention lit on the clock Peter had provided – he hadn't gotten a chance to look at the antique properly. He walked there and picked it up for examination. Even at arm's length, he could hear it ticking warmly. It had a voice, even if it was 'out of tune'. It was a normal sized desk clock, reddish-brown wood with some lighter carved fan-like accents in the corners. The font was unique, the face was round and the hands were beautiful swirl patterns that looked vaguely leafy or maybe like flames. He smiled on getting to know it. "Beautiful," he commented aloud, stroking it with a thumb. He wondered where Peter had found it.


	59. Christmas Spirit

Day 15, morning, December 25

Peter looked up at the word Sylar had spoken. It sounded like he was complimenting the clock, or maybe in an indirect way complimenting Peter for bringing it here? Because that's what Peter wanted and he felt like a spoiled, ungrateful child for wanting it. He wanted thanks or a good word or some form of approval, and considering his only source here was Sylar, was … well, pretty fucked up. Getting Sylar's approval would be as screwed up as getting his father's. It was a no-win proposition because at least with his dad, there was no way to get appreciation for doing something on your own – only blind obedience was rewarded. _It's probably the same with Sylar. Th__e only thing he'd thank me for doing is sucking up to him._

Peter's eyes fell and went back to his notepad, a sad and sullen expression on his face. _I've been here alone too long. Or at least, alone other than him. I shouldn't care what he thinks. It shoul__dn't matter. He's a murderer and no telling what else. He isn't anyone I should care about! … But he's the only one here._

XXX

Since he'd only been partially trying to get Peter to engage, he wasn't shocked when he didn't get any response. Strangely the snow falling outside was making his high-up world seem dizzy so he took a small step back and sat on the bed. He felt something of Peter's against his back – it was nice, but he didn't do anything about it. Instead, he continued his inspection of the clock, itching to get at its insides.

XXX

For a very long moment, Peter allowed the touch. Easily long enough for Sylar to notice they'd bumped accidentally and course correct. _He's going to get in bed with me again. _He knew it, fatalistically certain that this was Sylar's version of making a play. _For a guy with a concussion, he sure seems able to stay focused on getting laid. But, well, if there's something to get fixated on, that one's pretty damn common._ With a tired huff, Peter gave Sylar a little shove with his knee and then scooted himself away a few inches. He stared sightlessly at the notepad, thinking that stabbing the guy with the pen if he touched him again was way too big an overreaction, regardless of how satisfying it would be. Also, Peter didn't think it would help.

_I was just trying to help you!_ _That's all._ Peter frowned, unhappy about the whining he was doing inside his head. _'You liked the clock?' _he nearly asked, wanting desperately to fish for a compliment. He struggled again with his stupid desire for a kind word. Staring straight forward, Peter decided he had to say something or else he was going to blurt out something ridiculously transparent and embarrassing. Maybe if he asked about something else, it would get his mind out of the insecure rut it had fallen into. He focused on the page. "What's a tour-billion? And why was that the first sentence that came to mind?"

XXX

Sylar had both no knowledge of how much time had passed and the knowledge of every second that passed while he lost himself (almost) inside the clock. The shove came out of nowhere. He heard the noises of Peter moving around behind him, which didn't bode well. Sylar stood abruptly, shakily. All he could picture was Peter's fist swinging towards his head again. He only glanced behind him enough to see that the other man wasn't advancing. He felt confused and a little hurt; after all, he'd only been sitting, hands occupied with a clock, how threatening was that? _I…No__ sitting? No sitting near him, specifically__._ Gingerly, keeping his peripheral on his companion, Sylar replaced the clock on the nightstand and took his time retrieving his book from the table. He wasn't deterred by Peter's behavior, one way or other he'd get a clear answer. If everything harmless was pissing Peter off, well…they might have a problem. _Obviously, that is the case. Every breath I take is an insult to him already._ Sylar returned to the bedroom, going to the same side he'd slept on the night before. _He'll move or not; I'm not making him do anything. _He was daring Peter to shove him again, or find fault in reading together in the same bed.

Laid flat, snug, his head propped on his folded forearm behind his head, as Peter had all the pillows, his book was set on his chest. The position (apart from the pillow shortage) would be perfect to fall asl- Not a moment after he'd settled, Peter spoke. _Huh_. Sylar turned to look upwards at him as Peter was sitting, back against the headboard. "A tourbillion is a rotating cage used in older style watches. It doesn't actually have any purpose, but they used to think it kept more accurate time for being a wristwatch – the motion," his hand made an 'iffy/wavy/unstable' gesture. "Now it's just an expensive show-piece, literally. I don't know why it came to mind. It was either that or 'Peter Petrelli is a male nurse.'" Sylar shrugged.

XXX

"I am not a _male_ nurse; I'm _a _nurse," Peter said huffily, repeating a line that he had had cause to repeat many times. It remained annoying to him that no one doubted his masculinity when he was introduced as a paramedic, even though it took far more training to be a licensed nurse. But Sylar probably meant nothing by it and wasn't trying to rub his nose in how he'd chosen a less-than-virile profession. He set the notepad down and scrunched himself forward by way of apology for being snappish. "Here, take your pillow." In what was probably an attempt to assert conversational dominance and/or balance out surrendering the pillow, Peter added, "Oh, and if the day before yesterday was my birthday, then this is December twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth."

XXX

_You're a male nurse, Peter._ Sylar dismissed the fuss and the thought (Nathan would have made a dig). He was definitely going to have to take a nap now; he had a pillow. "Thanks," he took it and lifted his head to place it when Peter mentioned the date. Sylar paused mid-motion, neck muscles craned upwards as he stared at his bedmate. _So not only did I get it wrong…it__'__s al__so Christmas._ Some part of him immediately felt saddened. Peter was here, alone and hurt, with him. He obviously didn't want to be here. The rest of him was very glad Peter had appeared; it meant he got at least a small connection. "Then we definitely need better food," he announced simply, moving the pillow behind his head. He was mourning his lack of capability to cook which struck him as incredibly Martha Stewart and that was an unsettling thought all its own. Either he wanted to repay Peter or he wanted something to do or, worst of all, he actually cared about the damn holiday. _It's also a sucky Christmas. Too bad I'm not 'well' or it might literally be a sucky Christmas._

When nothing more was said, Sylar considered something he'd been wondering about since Peter appeared. "How do you sleep knowing I'm still alive?" Surely the short walk between bedrooms or apartments, the distance between them in bed or even when Peter slept in a chair must drive him insane. Sylar couldn't imagine letting a murderer live, not one who'd slain a loved one; but maybe that was the problem – the loved one part. Peter's hands weren't clean either; he'd killed Sylar and drugged him, too. Somewhere there was a difference between their morals. _Or maybe I'm not anyone's loved one __so it__'__s…okay?_ Unlike the nurse, Sylar didn't take death as personally anymore, not when there were worse things to actually fear. It might sound like a refrain of 'why haven't you killed me (yet)?' but he was asking it in regards to Peter this time. _Maybe __that has something to do with the nightmares._

XXX

Peter gave him a long, steady look. That was a heavy question and not one that had the same answer now than it would have had Sylar asked it a few days after Peter had arrived here, what with Peter's initial barricades on his door to alert him to what seemed like a highly probable assault. No assault had come – at least none that didn't involve Peter being fully awake and ambulatory. He let the notepad rest on his lap and spoke slowly, almost introspectively as if he thought he were disclosing something very private. "I … trust you. Not to do anything to me." He gave a small nod-tilt, half-shrug. "I'm trusting you to be a decent person about it. We both have to sleep."

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow at that. Peter was saying that outright instead of hinting at it or hoping for it or negotiating for it. _Decent person._ He knew that wasn't the same thing as _being_ a decent person; just acting like one. It was, however, an improvement, the capacity for being decent even if he was faking it. It felt good regardless.

XXX

Peter looked away for a moment, then made another half-shrug. "I know you've got your reasons to kill me. Maybe a lot of them." He glanced at Sylar uneasily, too aware that they were within reach of one another. A lot of violent things could happen fast at this range. His breathing shortened, blood pressure spiking. "But I'm hoping the ones not to outweigh them." His eyes made another cautious sweep of his companion, alert for the slightest untoward movement. Peter's right hand ached and he quit trying to semi-consciously clench it. Realizing how wound up he was getting, he took a deeper breath, trying to relax. "It's just the two of us here. You've been alone for a long time. I know I'm a pain in the ass, but … I just tell myself I'm worth more to you alive than dead." He swallowed tensely. "And I hope you not getting to fuck me doesn't have anything to do with that – with my lifespan here."

XXX

That was not the answer to the question he'd asked, 'how do you sleep knowing I'm alive and I killed Nathan?' Sylar then said as much, ignoring all the glances his way, instead focused in the general area of the kitchen, "That's not what I meant." _Yes, you are __a pain in the ass – in mine and Nathan's and /__D__ad's and Ma's.__/ And people call me trouble? He's cute and a do-gooder so he gets a pass?_

Nastily, Sylar immediately weighed the pros and cons of his answer. _Will it increase my odds if I say yes? _Yes to 'sex affects your lifespan'. _(That's threatening. That will work if he enjoys being raped. Which he won't – he'll hate you forever, assuming he lets you live). _So the answer was no. Sylar sighed, admitting grudgingly, "Unfortunately, no. It won't affect your lifespan. Obviously." _I'm worried what my lifespan will be if…that doesn't…happen._He was not in a good place, hadn't been for…a very long time, but events had compounded a lot of damage and he felt he was barely hanging on – sometimes he wasn't managing even that, stuck in a void or free-fall. Desperation described his nearly life-long quest for a connection. Peter hadn't volunteered, he'd just drawn the short-straw.

XXX

_That's not what you meant? What did you mean, then?_ But for the moment, Peter made a slow nod of concession and said, "Good to know. That ... wasn't obvious to me."

XXX

_Hang on. _"What do you mean, 'not getting to fuck you'?" Doubt slithered back in. Peter was obviously barring him from sex because of some non-physical reason, one of those emotional/social/moral things Sylar had so much difficulty with. One of those things he couldn't fix, despite his attempts. In his experience, the physical, the urge or desire to do harm (for revenge, punishment or amusement) always superseded anything else. The confusion came from Peter's insistence on good health and that one halting, unpersuasive answer which had sounded enough like an agreement.

XXX

Peter bristled, getting an annoyed expression on his face. _You don't 'get'__ to fuck me like it's some sort of a prize for good behavior! But … wait, didn't I use that phrase first? Better not say that, then._ He made a frustrated sigh and ditched the option of ignoring Sylar's question and jumping back to the issue of finding out what Sylar had meant to start with. _His question first; mine later._

"I said there were two big reasons." He held up two fingers on his left hand. "One is that I just told you I'm concerned about you murdering me and you're wondering why that has anything to do with us hooking up. The other was that you probably don't remember what the two reasons were." He looked at Sylar intently, almost a glare. "You asked me earlier if the beard didn't do it for me. You want to know what really doesn't do it for me? Not caring about other people!"

XXX

_How many reasons do you have? How many excuses do you need? _Sylar concluded he was being toyed with because he was quite sure Peter was changing his 'requirements' every time the subject came up. _You trust me but you're__ worried I'm going to murder you – which is it? _He frowned at the Peter's pissy appearance and felt anger roil a moment later. _I do so care! I asked you what you wanted!_ He took a deep breath to get over that one, waiting until he was sure he could speak. _I should just shove him down and give him what he wants. (A fuck or a beating? Both?) _His comeback was glib. Peter was offering it up for discussion. "So the beard doesn't do it for you. Then what does do it for you?"

XXX

Peter made a frustrated growl, all the more frustrating because he felt safe enough with the guy to hang out and even let some of defenses down. But Sylar seemed to have a huge freaking blind spot when it came to basic empathy – not the special ability or some fringe benefit of an ability or even just being a good person – no, he seemed to have a problem with one of the basic features of being human. At least in this arena. _Which probably has a lot to do with explaining the murders. And molesting Mister Bear. Poor teddy bear._

"Okay, listen," Peter said, turning to look fully at Sylar. "Let's try a visualization exercise. You know how you keep making these passes at me? Let's imagine that instead of me, you were cooped up here with Matt Parkman, or anyone else who was, you know, your worst enemy. And _Matt _keeps making passes at _you._" Peter smiled lewdly for a moment. Sylar had expressed his disdain and disgust of Matt, so hopefully this would work. "Passes you don't want. He keeps telling you how he can change this nightmare into a wet dream if only you'll … you know." Peter gave Sylar a pointed look. "You tell him you're not interested, but that doesn't seem to matter much to him." He waited a beat, scanning Sylar's face, hoping he understood or at least tried to. "That's where I'm at here, Sylar. And the fact that you don't seem to _get_ that is what makes sex out of the question."

XXX

Sylar turned his head to the pillow to watch his companion lecture (it was that telling tone of voice, which would be cute if it wasn't so damn righteous and annoying); his book was closed, resting on his stomach. The disgusting part was, he had little difficulty picturing that scenario, not that Matt would ever, ever make a pass at him, but the whole 'worst enemy/someone who hates you/someone you hate' doing so, absolutely. Sylar's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed to mildly express his utter revulsion. It made his skin want to crawl away. He bluffed his way through the speech with his patented blank face. He 'got' it all right, more of a 'been there, done that' kind of thing, actually.

Sylar knew the kind of sex Nathan had, he could guess at the kinds the Petrelli parents had (though he didn't enjoy the thought, because gross, those were kind of like his parents); he could make a less accurate guess about Peter's love life, too. _I don't know what kind of sex he thinks I've had, then._ Peter's sex life was probably…"Wait, wait. Are you holding out because you want me to like you before we fuck? Ha!" Sylar barked a laugh. "That's so grade school. Since when do you need to like someone for sex?" _Seriously? When?_ "That has nothing to do with it – you're not my first choice and I'm not yours." _Duh!_ "Liking you or you liking me isn't going to happen; do I really need to explain that to you?" He lifted a hand, palm outwards, rolling his eyes, "Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to, Bleeding Heart Petrelli."

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar, dumbfounded by those statements. He had opened his mouth to say something in the middle of it, but when Sylar laughed, Peter shut up and kept listening, face caught between confused and disbelieving. The individual words Sylar was saying made sense, but strung together, it was like Sylar was spouting gibberish. The certainty with which he was speaking was … well, stunning. Peter had no idea what to say in response, but his mind was slowly wrapping itself around the idea that Sylar was so damaged that perhaps he didn't see any value or use to people having positive feelings for one another. It certainly explained the murders.

XXX

Sylar faced forward again, beginning to pick up his book before aborting the motion, turning back, "Seeing as how you're the only one here and you're you, that does make you my worst enemy." Even though Peter wasn't really in the top five of that list. "If Parkman tried to make moves on me, I'd make him paaa-…" _pay_…Just too late he stopped himself, when most of the word 'pay' left his lips, the drawn-out intonation leaving little doubt as to what he'd said. As soon as he did, he knew he'd screwed himself over and his face showed it. He closed his eyes as defeat, sadness, and mostly self-directed anger passed through him. _I get it. So that's what he's doing. Clever. Unoriginal, but clever that he figured that out so soon. I know he did because he didn't list Nat__han as a reason not to fuck._It was punishment, no matter what Peter tried to call it. Sylar felt like he'd been tricked into making an admission (really, he was just stating something he wished didn't exist but that something was also perfectly obvious). It implied Peter was more in control of Sylar's life than he was comfortable with. He looked away quickly, cracking open his book, hoping they both forgot his slip.

XXX

Peter tilted his head slightly. "I'm not turning you down _as payback_ for killing Nathan. I'm turning you down _because_ you kill people." _Nathan included_. "And because I'm not about to be with someone who doesn't like me. If you can't understand something that basic, then … it's not going to work out." Sylar was getting up. Peter fell silent for the moment, going quiet and watchful as his tension spiked up again and he worried that pissing off a brutal killer wasn't a good life-choice. Not that such had ever stopped Peter in the past – standing up to bullies, lipping off to his father, rejecting Nathan's idiotic plan – yeah, telling off people who were in a position of power over him was something of a bad habit. Calling him a bleeding heart had certainly brought several of those people to mind and the fear/tension from Sylar's sudden activity shifted Peter's demeanor to aggressive.

"Hey, I still have a functioning hand, here," he quipped as Sylar rounded the bed, feeling a perverse need to irritate the dangerous man as much as possible. He waved said appendage at Sylar to gloat. "It's not like I don't have options!" _Shit, what if he breaks my other hand? Well, I suppose I could always rub myself against things._

XXX

He stopped short. Slowly, he turned around to give Peter the look of death – it was very much a warning. It slid into something more manic. _If I cut some things off, you'll still be useful to me, Petrelli. Don't mess with me alone here._ His second idea was to gather up every bottle and tube of lubricant so Peter wouldn't have any. If he were able, he'd be over at Peter's apartment doing just that. The little shit was going out of his way to be a regressive, vindictive, rude asshole. Sylar had to wrestle with and temper his reactions; Peter threw out a challenge and it took the last shreds of his already frayed control not to take a butcher knife to Peter. The plan was clear, his emotions...less so.

_He doesn't know anything, does he__?__ You don't know what I understand! _Part of him still recognized Peter as his brother. The whole subject of 'liking,' it was a joke; it had to be. It could only work one way; everything else was a disaster in the making. His intelligence was assumed, generalized, and degraded. He was a monster so those things were beyond him. Peter was the one being stupid, not grasping the obvious, necessary concept that had always eluded him. The empath came from vastly different standings than anyone else and he used his higher morals to avoid learning that lesson, despite having his face repeatedly shoved in it by father and brother. _He thinks he's better than me, the little prick._

Taking a passage from Nathan's book once more, Sylar took his book and left the apartment without another word, leaving Peter by himself. He knew how much that move could sting. He wanted Peter to worry and wonder where he was, what he was doing; and in his experience, the whole no-response part often served to rattle others even though it seemed like he was calmly taking whatever shit they were trying to dump on him. That was another lesson he'd learned, another bone he'd had to let go of, 'let them think what they want.'

Sylar fumed as he limped down the hallway. He didn't intend to come back. Instead he would find his own holiday feast and perhaps drown his woes. He would piss Peter off by at least trying to enjoy himself. Hopefully it freaked Peter out. His patient was not going to heel. Sylar went down a few floors via the elevator, heaving a deep breath before entering the first apartment he saw. The apartment was still big, being part of the more expensive upper-level floors that supposedly had a view (this one didn't, since it was in the middle of the building). It was a white-and-dull-blue color scheme, complete with amenities but Sylar was focused on the kitchen. The former owner must have been a complete hippy because nothing in the fridge was edible. He moved on to the next apartment; this one had a window and had a yellow-and-green theme. Most of its food was frozen, fried or canned. His head was worse, his body ached, his hip started to throb where he'd been kicked; walking and bending was taking more out of him than it should have.

A third apartment was purple and orange – the female owner had foolishly taken the liberty of adding pink to the décor and it was overkill. But this woman liked real food. At least she had proteins and some carbs as a general order. He wouldn't go without nutrition. Stealing some pre-cut pepperoni slices, he snagged a beer, an apple and M&Ms. As an afterthought; he got a glass of water so he didn't dehydrate because that would interfere with Operation Piss-Off-Petrelli. He settled into the cushy dark leather chair with his finds and his book. Admittedly, his head hurt much worse without Peter, the drugs or the IV. He longed for a television set that worked. Christmas Day, camped out, not exactly hiding; alone again; he tried to avoid thinking about Peter and how they weren't having sex.

The reason why was absurd. _So as soon as I become a non-murderer and kiss his ass, I can get laid. Why do I doubt __it's__ that simple?_ The part about not liking Peter was something of a lie, again, the whole brother thing. That didn't change Peter's past abuses but of course, Peter was going to ignore his own blame. Sylar didn't appreciate being the one to carry the cross alone; he was always the one who had to change. And worse still, he couldn't understand how or why Peter got to make conditions about being liked where Sylar couldn't. _If I had the power to say that, I would. I...don't think anyone would listen. And I'd still be alone because no one would like me. _Selling himself short never got easier, but it was a choice of something versus nothing. Sylar took a vicious bite of apple to make himself feel better.

XXX

Peter waited as time passed after Sylar left, weighing his concern about the menacing look Sylar had given him against his continuing desire to antagonize the guy. They were both stupid and the wisest thing either of them had done was Sylar simply leaving. He looked at the notepad and sighed. _He'll probably be fine, whatever it is he's doing_. He started filling in the edges on the left side of the flames drawn on the paper. _He's probably out looking for food, __or just cooling off. It's not like we were really communicating anyway. I wonder if Sylar's ever really communicated with anyone? Really? No siblings, right? Didn't he say it was just him? I think he did. And his mom. Not many friends from what he said. Fr__om that dream I had, working in a watch shop looked slow and lonely. Nothing like working with a partner all day and a dozen different patients and their families. Or having a brother and a dad, __even if I didn't like him, we talked. Sort of. He talked _at _me, at least and I talked back. Never had a good conversation with him, but even so I had _something._ What if Sylar's problem is he hasn't had that and his only way of dealing with disagreement is …_ Peter looked over at the door _… walking out?_

_Anything __I should do about that? Rehabilitating Sylar is not my job._ His thoughts held up there for a moment, considering that. _But … on the other hand, things would work a lot better here if we worked together better. Or could at least tolerate each other's compan__y. Okay … so how do I make him worthwhile to be around?_ At that, Peter was stumped. _I can't really _make_ him do anything. I'm not a psychologist or whatever, a therapist. I can talk to him … I _was_ talking to him. It didn't work out. But maybe that's what it__ takes? Patience and letting it not work out while he figures out this isn't something he can run from or a problem he can solve by killing someone? Of course, he might be out there looking for a way to solve it by killing me._ Peter mulled that over, thinking about Sylar's body language as he'd left and when he'd become angry at the table this morning. _Nah, he's not going to kill me. No more likely than any other time, that is._

Eventually, Peter gave up doodling and thinking about Sylar. It didn't occur to him to try to chase Sylar down or look for him. Instead, he got up, stretched, and searched the apartment from one end to the other, being neater about it than he had when they'd searched places before. He assumed he was going to sleep here tonight, because his hip hurt badly enough that the prospect of sharing an apartment with Sylar for another night was better than braving the ice between apartment buildings. He felt safe enough here, although as the morning disappeared and afternoon wore on, he started to wonder if he'd have the place to himself after all.

He'd found a cheese slicer in his thorough search, putting it to good use on what was left of the cheese and bread. He wasn't very happy with how soggy the bread was in the middle after microwaving to melt the cheese. Peter spent long minutes considering the oven before putting the next slices in the microwave. Sogginess be damned – he didn't want to set off the fire alarm or whatever bad consequence might happen if he tried to do cheese toast in the oven. He wasn't feeling adventurous at the moment. His biggest adventure of the day was leaving the apartment to search all the other top floor places. He wasn't looking for Sylar or for food, but for a hot tub or some other amenity that might make his back and groin/thigh muscles quit hurting. He didn't find any, which set off a spate of mental cursing about the nature of the world. He returned and took another long, hot bath. At least water heaters worked.

By dinnertime, he was depressed, cranky, and restless. After eating an ice cream sandwich and snagging the rest of the champagne, he made his way to the ground floor where he worked out a tiny amount (arm reps, mostly), played a couple sets of billiards (very badly, but so what?), and played some music (which made him smile, although by that point he was also quite tipsy). Grinning happily to himself for the first time in ages it seemed, he rode the elevator back up when his internal clock judged it be to 'bedtime', humming the 'Ode to Joy' which he'd found mixed in with the hymns in the sheet music in the piano seat. He wasn't sloshed, but he was drunk enough to have relaxed, which had more to do with overcoming the pain than any dulling quality of the alcohol. He rapped twice at the apartment door, not expecting it to be locked and not waiting more than a second or two between knocking and trying the knob.

No one was there. Not just 'no one answered', but 'no one was in the apartment'. Peter stood in the middle of the living room after searching the place, smile gone. A lack of Sylar was worrying. For the first time today, he began to seriously consider what sort of trouble Sylar might get himself into. He put the rest of the champagne in the fridge and got a tall glass of water as he tried to clear his head. A bread sandwich followed.

_He's not so messed up that he can't take care of himself for hours or even maybe days. He might be fine. Or he might not be. He was unconscious yesterday, which isn't a good sign. What's the most likely place he would go, __if he wasn't here? His apartment. Shit. What if he fell? That stuff is really slick under the ice and he might be impaired enough to try it. What if he hit his head? He might die. Totally healthy people die from that shit every now and then; people who alr__eady have a head injury are way worse off._

He picked up what was left of his bread, retrieved the heavy coat he'd used on the previous day's expedition, and put it on in the elevator. He stood outside of the front doors, feet just touching the snow. You didn't have to be an Eagle Scout to see that there weren't any tracks. Peter's from the day before had been filled in overnight, but it hadn't snowed much today. Peter had had plenty of time alone in the penthouse apartment today to stare out the window. There'd been a few flurries in the morning, but nothing after Sylar left. _There's probably a back door, too._ A few moments later, he looked in the stairwells just to be sure, but no sign of Sylar anywhere. It relaxed him. _He's probably just holed up in anot__her apartment. He can sleep whole days away without a problem. Hopefully that's what he's been doing. I still want to check in on him, though._

He took the elevator up, one floor at a time, looking down hallways. No open doors, no sign of Sylar. He tried yelling down one. Besides being undignified, it made his jaw ache._ I don't want to limp down every hallway and check every single apartment in the building. My leg's already killing me. What else worked to call him out? Beating on the street with that metal__ pipe. Could I do that here? What would I use? A cue stick? No, not solid enough. What else is around here that makes a lot of noise? A whistle? No, let's stick with something I can beat out a steady pattern with. What about that kid's baseball bat? Didn't__ I kick that under the bed? It'll be rough getting on my knees for it, but I'll bet I could make a racket with it._

A half hour later, he was most of the way through visiting each floor, beating the closed doors of the elevator with the baseball bat. He wasn't whaling on them or swinging all that hard. His first choice of hitting the floor was too muffled by the carpet, but if he hit the metal doors right in the join in the middle, they reverberated really nicely – a noise that carried without sounding like he was trying to bash anything down.

XXX

Sylar spent the rest of the day, reading, sipping and dozing in and out of consciousness. It was quiet and he didn't know if that was a good thing or not. He mostly worked over his dilemma. He could 'like' Peter and open himself up to humiliation and rejection; he could play the man's game. Or he could stick to his guns and give Peter a life-lesson on how the world worked for non-Petrellis; he could make Peter play his game (and in doing so, probably not get laid). But goddamnit, that last sass about masturbating really got to him because there was nothing he could (productively) do about it. _Jealous of the guy's right hand? Why should I care what he does with his dick? It's not like I'm interested in it for its ow__n sake. _It was evening when he was jarred out of his fugue by a low, echoing, metallic sound, rhythmic in nature. _What the hell? Did he find a drum set or something? (I thought he preferred beating my face in for stress relief?)_The sound grew closer and it was coming from the direction of the elevator. He was curious enough about the source of the noise that he slowly rose and stuck his head out, hanging onto the doorjamb to check the hall.

XXX

Seeing movement, Peter stopped immediately and leaned the bat against the wall before turning back. Hands up in front of his chest for a few seconds, palms out in an indication of harmlessness, he limped down the hall towards his only other companion. "Hey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I needed to check on you before I turned in. How do you feel?"

XXX

_Shit._ He'd been found, lured right out by the simplest trick in the book. Discovery interfered with his childish solution of revenging himself on Peter for that masturbation comment, even though he wanted to be around the man and was happy someone had looked for him. There Peter stood, looking a little too mafia for his comfort. Sylar braced himself, ready to disappear into the room again and slam the door in Peter's face and look for escape or weapon while the man battered the door down. But Peter set the bat aside and made to approach. _Disturbing me? You almost…With a bat? You're not sorry! _"Do you answer all your house calls with a bat?" he groused, pissy at being disturbed and startled with a show of force via blunt instrument. "I'm alright." _The room service here sucks_, he thought by way of being lonely.

XXX

Peter gave a tilt of his head and mild shrug, dropping his hands and coming closer. He gave Sylar a quick once-over to double-check his words, seeing nothing amiss.

XXX

_He came back to check on me? Or did he come back for me? Do I want to go with him? Does he want me to? Hang on…_Sylar draped himself alluringly in the doorway, purring in a deep voice, "Is that really what you came to check on? My… health?" God, he flushed warm at the very idea – Peter showing up, worried, possibly interested, at his door. He raked a glance over his companion. He was tired, hurt (because beer just wasn't cutting it as a headache painkiller), and overly-desirous of human contact.

XXX

"Well, uh … yeah." Peter stopped there, eyes doing another circuit of Sylar's body language. His brain only now put together what this could look like to Sylar – hunting him down at bedtime for some vague, possibly spurious reason. _Er … what do I do about this? _He stood there uncertain and more than a little put-off that Sylar could construe the most innocent of motives as lewd.

XXX

"Is this the part where I invite you up for a nightcap? I've got beer." Peter began to respond and it looked like rejection. Frustrated, lonely, angry, Sylar slid out of the doorway. He moved quickly until he stood utterly in Peter's space, toe-to-toe, which slotted their groins perfectly, he laid hold on the man's shoulder before he could escape. "Where's your Christmas spirit, Petrelli?" he rasped manipulatively, desperately, positioning his face nearer to Peter's, flying high on the thrill of closeness and (from what he detected) sensuality between them that was probably the result of the beer. It probably dulled his survival instincts because this was a good way to get hit again. He ceased his advance there, trying to gaze through and into Peter. It was completely cliché, the apartment building suddenly took on a familiar hotel-hall feel, the sleepover, post-date aspect was huge.

XXX

Peter stiffened, straightened, and wished like hell he was taller than Sylar. In an interesting development, his right hand did not hurt; he wasn't trying to clench it. Nothing triggered inside of him to fight or flee, so he stood his ground exactly where he was and met Sylar's gaze steadily, lifting his chin enough to make their faces parallel. It would be very easy to kiss. Sylar's thumb rubbed tantalizingly across his shoulder while Peter tried to ignore how deep the guy's eyes were – really tough to do while staring him down and feeling his breath puff lightly against his face. "I've been taking you at your word, Sylar. Now take me at mine: _**no**_."


	60. Not So Private Time

Day 15, December, Evening

Immediately, Sylar was both impressed, proud, and disappointed when Peter held his own. He was close enough to smell the booze on Peter's breath. _Perfect, we're both buzzed._ His body was aching for something; he just couldn't name it. Or he didn't want to. Hence nearly standing in Peter's shoes. The man's head pulled back to gain height and at first glance it looked like he was going to…_kiss_. Sylar nearly took that as an offer then and there, hesitating to be sure, but he didn't break eye contact since that seemed to be what Peter was demanding and he wasn't going to back down from a staring contest. He was so close; his hand literally on a man who wasn't moving away, fighting, or emoting disgust. This was a test of his self-control and of Peter's resolve. But, Christ, if temptation wasn't screaming at him right now. Mind in overdrive to rationalize a way around a direct negative, he appealed with a lilt that was a hinting question, "So…no on the nightcap."

XXX

_He's going to take no for an answer_. Peter was sure of it now and that eased a tension inside of him. He relaxed a little, happier, breathing deepening. "No."

XXX

Sylar didn't move away. _(He said no). I heard him. I heard him and I want to ignore him. (But he said he trusts me! You know this isn't going to work). But it will feel good…He wants it or he'd move away!_ His jaw clenched. He glanced at Peter's mouth then away with some shame. Entertaining fantasies was only going to hurt in him in the long run. He didn't want to _kiss Peter_ after all; that would be weird; he just wanted…This wasn't going to be an arrangement that allowed kissing anyway. There was no attraction and his due was retribution, not reward. His hand slid from the man's shoulder to the wall, which he used to push off from, putting a few inches between them, loath to give any more space; his pride prevented it. Backing off just wasn't his thing, not when his prey stood still and looked him in the eye, so assured and defiant. That challenge alone ate away at him but he had to leave it…untouched.

XXX

Sylar was still standing there, breathing on him, looking at him, looking at his _lips_ for Christ's sake, respecting his wishes, and looking so damned desirous of him that Peter felt a flash of goose-bumps and a warming across his face that he knew was a blush. He was feeling other things, too, as an awareness of an increased weightiness at his groin impinged on him. _Fuck. I'm wearing sweats! They don't conceal shit. Don't look down. Don't look down, Sylar. Don't look down._ Peter moved away all of a single step, blinking a few times and glancing past Sylar at the open door to the apartment, trying to mentally will Sylar to go away without any last 'scoping out' that might reveal Peter was tenting his pants like an oversexed teenager. It was just biology, Peter knew, but it was also awkward as hell and he didn't look forward to trying to convince Sylar that a boner did not mean he wanted him.

XXX

Sylar consoled himself as he turned and entered his temporary apartment, _I have new information. _

Peter didn't follow him in as Sylar went to the couch to gather his book and pepperoni. He took a pair of beers in case Peter changed his mind. The nurse was gone, unsurprisingly. Turning the reason for the disappearance over in his mind, he hobbled close to the wall down the empty hallway to the elevator, which was returning to his floor. He took Peter's search and discovery as some kind of invitation and didn't give it another thought. Moving so much and standing felt good after lying down most of the day (especially to relieve any aroused jitters) and it felt homicidal to his headache. Opening the door was a slight hassle – food, beer cans, and book – but he made it, no thanks to Peter. _He couldn't leave the door op- _And then he saw why.

XXX

Relieved beyond measure when Sylar went back into his apartment without incident or southward glances, Peter strode off down the hallway. _Good. Fine. That takes care of that. He's okay. I'm okay. He'll sleep down here. I'll sleep up there. _It was settled. The elevator doors shut behind Peter and he slumped against the wall, leaning the bat in the corner so he could rub at the unwanted half-staff erection that wasn't nearly so obvious as Peter had feared. But as to what had caused it … _oh yeah_ … Sylar wanting him had tripped over from 'scary' to 'sexy' in a heartbeat when Peter figured out the guy wasn't going to push it. And how long had it been since Peter had jerked off, anyway? Assuming nocturnal emissions didn't count, he hadn't since he'd gotten inside of Sylar's head, which even if subjective, it still felt like more than two weeks. And he hadn't since Thanksgiving, or rather, the day before at the very least. He couldn't remember the last time before that, as the days and weeks had run together with a blur of extra shifts at work, swapping powers, running around with Noah, staying up at night with the police scanner for company, and running out at odd hours to investigate any close-by reports. For an otherwise healthy adult male, that was a long freaking time. He had a metric shit-ton of unreleased, repressed sexual urges and somehow Sylar, someone he didn't think he'd fuck in a million years, had tapped into that.

Well, there was one sure solution to _that_. He walked into the apartment, dropped the bat over the arms of the wheelchair near the door, and headed for the bathroom. _If part of the problem is how long it's been, I can fix that._ He snagged a washcloth from the bathroom and walked back into the living area, loosening the drawstring enough to push his pants down some. He freed his now fully-erect cock, stroking it left-handedly as he stood there, mind divided between the image of Sylar's lusting eyes boring into his own, handsome face inches away, and the need to get some lotion – he'd seen some around here somewhere when he'd searched the place, but at the moment he couldn't quite focus enough to- The door opened. _Oh fuck._

XXX

Sylar freaked so hard he stood motionless, his eyes feeling like they were about to pop from his skull he was doing 'deer in the headlights' so well. _That was his dick. What- He was-? Oh my God…_When the bathroom door slammed after Peter fled the room, Sylar gracelessly shoved his things onto the table and collapsed in a chair. _Oh my God…Breathe. That's not…um…Wow._

Accidental (or even purposeful) nudity was against the Gray Household Commandments. Not so for nudist Peter Petrelli. He felt dirty just by being in the same room as…_that_. Sylar rubbed his forehead against the table, lifting it and dropping it lightly several times against the cold surface, pawing at his hair when he thought, _I am so fucked up. _Why did he get the feeling he'd caught a relative in a compromising position?_He's…He's never gonna come out of there, he'll flush himself down the drain or barricade himself in the sink. _Part of him desperately wanted to unlive that moment, a smaller part was curious and it wasn't getting much air time.

XXX

Safely hidden in the bathroom, Peter tied off his sweatpants. In the face of fear and shame, his erection was fading fast. Shakily, he reached over and locked the door as quietly as possible, then put the toilet lid down and sat on top of it._ Oh my fucking God, he saw that. HE SAW THAT! I am __**never**__ going to live that down. 'Oh, yeah, Petrelli, you're not interested in me, huh? Then what were you doing right after all I did was stand too close to you, hm?'_ Peter could hear it now. _Why the fuck didn't he knock?! What the hell, Sylar? Rude much? I know this is all your head and you think you're king of everything, but what the fucking hell? Knock next time, Goddamnit!_

_Did I say something that indicated I wanted him back up here? Did I invite him? No! I didn't say shit. He left for his own fucking apartment. And I said … well, I don't think I said anything. I just went down to see if he was alive and okay, but … I said no to a nightcap. That doesn't mean he's got a free pass to come back up here and barge in while I'm … Jesus fucking Christ! _Angrily, Peter threw the washcloth in the dirty clothes hamper.

XXX

_He's fucked up. He's so fucked up. Why would he do that? Just go waltzing around with his…Why would he do that to me? Why can't he do things in private like a normal person?! Goddamnit! What am I supposed to do now? There is no right response for this, none. (Why was he erect?) Maybe he just does that at night…Unlikely…He hasn't done that before that I know of. (It couldn't have been…OhmyGod….)_ He wanted out. He wanted to curl up into a ball and stay there. Suddenly the whole 'seduce Peter' thing was very serious. The guy had been about to jerk off on something he'd done. On purpose.

_(You really should have thought that through, Mr. Confidence). I did! I just didn't think he'd respond at all and so…quickly. I thought…I'd have more time. (Congratulations, it worked. Get pretty because it's only a matter of time__.__) Shut up, let me think…Is he gonna blame me? I didn't do that on purpose, how could I know? Its not like there's a blinking light above his door when he's…(I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to! It was an accident!) Man up! It's __just a little dick. (It wasn't _that_ little…) _Sylar made a muffled moan of distress into the table. He seriously considered leaving, shutting the door loudly on his way out to give the guy some (apparently much needed) privacy. But that was cowardly and it undermined his words of 'interest'; he was so stuck. What he could do was make plenty of noise – (_Should I make sounds like I'm…? _He couldn't work himself up to it) – in the kitchen. He closed cupboards noisily, opened and shut the fridge (to place the beers and pepperoni inside – there was no way he was snacking now). Noticing the bat, given their recent….encounter, Sylar hid the weapon behind the couch for his own safety. When he sat at the table again, he tried to turn pages loudly.

XXX

A succession of noises outside told Peter two things – Sylar was still there (_dammit_) and Sylar was noisily announcing that he was otherwise occupied and wasn't going to confront Peter. Because honestly, the worst thing Sylar could have done out there was stay dead silent, making Peter wonder what he'd have to deal with if he came out. If he could have stayed in the bathroom until Sylar left, he gladly would have, but that might take all night. Instead, he took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and into the guest room, which conveniently didn't require him to go out where he was guaranteed to be seen. He didn't look to see if Sylar happened to catch sight of him anyway, as he would if he were standing where he could see down the hall. Peter kept his head ducked and shut the guest room door behind him. A sigh of relief. He took off shoes and socks, then climbed in bed. He huddled alone, cold, bothered, and hyper alert until the stresses of the day combined with the warming of the blankets to send him into sleep.

XXX

Sylar didn't know what else to do other than go to bed. He didn't know whether to expect Peter or not, for all he knew they guy was sleeping in the tub tonight. The bathroom door opened but from the sounds of things, Peter went to the guest bed and stayed there. Sylar had stopped reading and had since been zoning out while he waited for Peter to fall asleep. Maybe he was working himself up to fulfill his crazy need to sleep near Peter or maybe he was planning his elaborate suicide, death-by-hero. There was no sound or sight of the younger man – Sylar wondered if he was waiting for him in turn. Forty-five minutes of agonized internalization later, he removed his shoes, snagged a pillow (Peter was a pillow-hog), and padded into the guest room. The only light came from the kitchen and hall, which he stood in, but Peter didn't move. Placing his book on the nightstand, he lifted the covers slowly and lowered himself into the same bed, facing Peter. With the door somewhat cracked open, he could see fluffy, dark eyelashes peaceful against the man's cheek, that crooked mouth slack and drooling in sleep, making him look even younger and in need of protection. It killed any wayward perversions he might have had with a tired, ugly churn in his gut. Sylar tensed when Peter shifted away to make room for him and failed to wake as he replaced the covers around them both. Eventually he relaxed to the sound of the other's breathing.

XXX

Peter's left leg hurt. _Ow._ He didn't fully wake, though. He shifted, stretching his leg, rolling forward on his right side until he was touching someone, his leg over someone else's. Fingers snagged on cloth and he tried to toy with it. It seemed hard to do for some reason, like his fingers weren't cooperating._ Oh … dream. Yeah, dream._ He let himself fade back into stupor, ignoring the other incongruous datum about having his leg on somebody. But his subconscious didn't ignore that, industriously spinning a fantasy where he was fucking someone … or trying to … or going to. He wasn't real sure what he was doing or going to do because the dream was still coalescing in his mind with different phantasmal images trying to match themselves to the sensations he was getting. Groggily, he thought about reaching down with his hand, but that seemed like too much effort. He was getting plenty of contact already anyway.

XXX

Something was pressing on him as Sylar slept. Initially it didn't register as a non-dream contact but it grew closer, more insistent, more rhythmic. Sylar woke with his hands extended against Peter's stomach and chest, pushing him away. The guy's face was close to his and he started out of sleep and into wakefulness at the sight, much to the complaint of his skull. "Whummm…?" he protested, stunned into silence when he realized what had been poking and rubbing him. Once again it was Peter's dick, hard and heat-seeking like a missile. Sleepily, he declined, "Nno." _No. Nope. No thanks. I gave at the office._ Sylar pushed, hoping Peter would take the hint, awake or otherwise. When neither happened, Sylar retreated….and clacked his head against the bedside table. "Ow! Oww…" he whined, rubbing his already traumatized head. The whole event was entirely unexpected. Sleeping with someone was strange and clearly perilous. _I just want to sleep; can't it wait? I'll…figure something out…Later._ He stood up because he wasn't getting any more sleep in a warm, erection-filled, occupied bed. Rubbing his face, he didn't look at Peter, who was awake after all that, instead he shuffled out to the couch where he couldn't be joined or prodded further. He curled up there, headache also aware enough to give him grief, attempting sleep again, alone this time, but he was jumpy and worried now.

XXX

Peter stared. He blinked. It was dark, but not _that _dark that he didn't know what had just happened or who that really was. Besides, the world wasn't exactly overflowing with candidates to be in bed with him. _What the fuck is he doing here? A nightmare? Am I having a nightmare? Am I just thinking I'm awake and I'm not?_ His fingers hooked into the sheets as Sylar stood up and casually moseyed his way out of the bedroom like he hadn't just been in bed with Peter. Like he hadn't very obviously _put_ himself in bed with Peter. Peter was left speechless by the violation. _I shut the door, right? I thought I shut the door! What the hell is he doing in here? I was … I was … with him … what was I doing? I was dreaming of sex. What did I do? How far … did I … _He did a quick check of himself, but aside from what he suspected was a bit of precome, he was pretty sure he hadn't finished the job. _What the hell is he doing in bed with me?!_

Anger suffused through him, shaking away the last dregs of drowsiness. Peter wanted to fight, now. _I'm not safe. That asshole thinks he can barge into my room and get in bed with me and … and … I've told him I don't mind my own business! I'm not a platonic bed partner. What the fuck was he thinking? Asshole! _He walked out into the hall, moving slowly out of caution, as he didn't know where Sylar had gone. He stared at the rumpled master bed in the dawn light, but it was empty. _There!_ Sylar was on the couch, curled awkwardly in the corner, flashing Peter's mind back to the frightened huddle Sylar had adopted on his own couch shortly after Peter had forced his way into the guy's apartment to take care of him. It took a lot of the heat out of his temper. _What if … he was asleep, too, and … and he's not in the mood and … his concussion … and he has that hang-up about sleep sounds or whatever and he didn't come in there to trick me into fucking him?_

More of the anger faded. Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. He walked to the master bed, grabbing the last pillow on it and pulling off the top blanket. Wadding it up a bit, he walked over to Sylar, whose face looked particularly wan and pale given the lighting and his ever-darkening beard. Peter offered the pillow and blanket. He felt like he should apologize for molesting the guy, but he also felt like Sylar should apologize for … whatever you called what he'd done. Because Peter felt sort of violated by that, like he'd woke up to find Sylar had made Peter rub his dick on him. But it was complicated and he was still confused. Voice tight, "We're going to talk about this in the morning," was all he trusted himself to say.

XXX

Sylar's eyes opened when he felt the other's presence. He tensed, ready for hell to break loose, but didn't move other than to track Peter's approach with his lidded eyes. The relief was palpable when he saw the man held bedding, accepting it carefully when it was offered. "Okay, thanks, Mom," he said without malice. He put the pillow in place and relaxed under the blanket as Peter left. _Wonder why he did that…_It was a possibility that Peter was chasing him, maybe to finish off or accuse him but instead he was made comfortable and was going to get a postponed lecture. _Don't think it's necessary but whatever,_ he thought as he snuggled in.

XXX

Peter went back to the guest room, locking the door this time. _Didn't I tell him something about shutting a door? Didn't we have this argument just a day or two ago? But his head is fucked up. Did he remember it? Maybe, maybe not. Does he sleepwalk? I don't know. Was I having a nightmare earlier and don't remember it and he came in like he did before and that's how he got in here?_ He climbed back in bed, letting worried questions prowl around in his head for the next hour or so. There was no way he was going back to sleep.

Eventually, he got up quietly, put on his socks and shoes, and left the apartment with as little disturbance as possible.

Peter scouted through other apartments until he found a box of pancake mix. He shaved and showered while he was out. They were both quick affairs. The shower got his brace wet because he'd still been so unsettled as to have forgotten about his need to wrap it. He remembered once he was wet; it was too late. He found a toothbrush to label as his own and used it. Feeling more presentable (if he was going to have a throw-down with Sylar about boundaries, he wanted to feel like a human being for it), he gathered up the pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup, returning to their joint apartment. He knocked and made a point to wait until he heard some form of welcome from within.

XXX

_Day 16, December 26_

Sylar started. He was warm but the couch wasn't ideal for sleeping. "Hu- huh?" he croaked at first, then solidified his voice louder. _What's going on? Why the fuck is he knocking? He knows what I'm doing. _Opening his eyes the bare minimum, he saw Peter coming into the apartment, carrying things. He scowled and pulled the blanket over his head, signaling his unreadiness.

XXX

Peter put his things down in the kitchen, then leaned on the counter while he took his brace off. He was slow and careful, but still hissed a little on the final removal. It was swollen – that was unavoidable – but it wasn't discolored, which was the main thing he was checking for. Well, it was dirty. He retrieved a clean dishtowel to scrub at the faint lines of soiling that marked his skin around the edges of the brace. He'd had it on continuously for most of a week now. Setting the wet brace aside, he wiggled the fingers he felt were safe to wiggle and then went about one-handedly preparing to cook, assembling ingredients and equipment to make sure he had everything before he got started.

XXX

"Ooh…" A few moments later Sylar complained at the noise and the hovering presence that prevented rest of any kind. Since Peter wasn't pestering him, he peeled the blanket back, breaking an arm out to cool off a little, too. He watched Peter as he moved about the kitchen, thinking about last night and the possible threat of the impending discussion. He absorbed himself in observing the other man's motions, being pleasantly lazy. _So…I saw his dick, didn't see it real well, though…I think he got hard after…the hallway. _While his memory may have been selective with the concussion, he remembered that quite clearly. _He's not freaking out. Yet; but __it's__ hard to tell if I'm in trouble._

Shifting to sit up, he felt how dirty his clothes were. He couldn't remember, and didn't want to, how long it had been since he'd changed. If he started to smell…As much as he liked to wear what he'd claimed as his own clothes, there would be more in this apartment building. Peter had changed, hadn't he? The sweat pants now gracing his round backside. _Which I'm not looking at._ Raising his eyes, he quietly asked, "Peter, are there- is-is there more clothes in the room?"

XXX

"Yeah. Don't know if they'll fit you, but yeah. Men's stuff in the master bedroom, women's in the guest." Peter was pretty sure he had everything he needed to make the meal. He reread the instructions to be sure.

XXX

"'Kay. I'm gonna…get some clothes_." I'll keep mine. I should take a bath._ Sylar didn't feel like expending the effort and aggravating his head more. _Sponge bath. I should tease Peter about it._ Instead he went to the dresser in the master bedroom and found the last pair of sweats; they were a ridiculously bright medium blue color but it would do for now. He took those and a white tee-shirt and socks to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet seat and gave himself a lousy sponge bath wipe-down. It ended up riling his headache anyway, leaning down and all. Sylar noticed a pair of Peter's underwear hanging on the towel rack and stared at them for a moment. _He got off anyway, after that? Does getting caught do it for him? That would explain a few things._ Ditching his own undergarments and socks, he dressed in the apartment owner's clothes; they were probably, mostly clean after three years and his skin was now clean. Combing his hair, he reminded himself that they needed a razor of some sort, and toothbrushes because he knew he was an unfit mess and he was extremely unhappy with that. Resigned, he emerged to see about drinks in the kitchen.

XXX

"Hope you like pancakes," Peter said with a glance over his shoulder as Sylar entered the kitchen. Peter turned forward again to watch the progress of the last cake and blinked a few times. _Wait a second … what did I just see?_ His mind's eye played over the visual of Sylar in way too tight of a t-shirt and between it and the sweat pants was a jarring, eye-drawing inch of exposed, darkly-furred stomach. Peter's brain had helpfully taken a snapshot. He pulled his head down a little, forcing himself not to look again. And maybe ogle. It would surely _look _like ogling, especially after last night and he didn't want that. _Did he dress that way so I'd ogle him? No … I don't think so. I think he's just hard up for clothes._

Peter cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off the subject of Sylar's sartorial choices and what might be under them. "So, uh, how do you feel this morning?"

XXX

_Hmm,_pancakes sounded good. It had been a while since he'd made them for himself, probably too much a creature of habit. Sylar moved around Peter and the stove, approaching the fridge for the milk, which he poured into respective glasses. He glanced up from placing the glasses on the table. _Tired. I was sleeping on someone else's wood this morning. 'Not today, honey…' _"I have a headache." He asked to feel out the other man's mood and determine how the inevitable discussion would go, "You?" Another kitchen-to-table trip brought back utensils.

XXX

"Still sore, but laying around most of yesterday was a big help. The muscles are tight and they hurt, but it doesn't have that watery, weak feeling anymore." Peter suspected that was more than Sylar wanted to know, so he stopped there and carried the plate of pancakes over to the table. He still had half the batter left, but he'd already made more cakes than he thought they'd eat. "I want to talk a little about the Zofran," he said, changing the subject back to Sylar. "It's for nausea. They use it standard for patients coming out of anesthesia or going through chemotherapy. It will help you eat more. If it would help me convince you to take it, I'll take some as well. I got injective because when I was at the hospital, I was thinking about your current condition, and not how you'd be in a couple days. It works just the same, but faster."

XXX

They sat but Sylar tensed at the subject. More drugs. "Come on, Peter. I already let you do the IV…" he protested, because that was seriously pushing the boundaries of his trust. He was fine as near as he could tell but there was such thing as slow poisoning and similar obstructions to his wellness. If he wasn't sick now, it would still count against Peter if he'd lied and there was something harmful in the solution. _Good,_ Sylar thought when Peter offered to take the same medicine. "If you do it first….I'll let you." _It's__ in his best interest, too. The last time he drugged me…I woke up as his brother, his real brother._ Peter made a face but went to get the equipment. When he returned, Sylar teased, "You're lucky I'm not squeamish – needles might make me lose my appetite before I can eat." His arm was bare already with the short sleeves of the snug tee-shirt so he had nothing to do but watch as he waited for Peter to load up a pair of syringes, tourniquet and inject himself with one of them. He made sure the plunger depressed. _Isn't he supposed to clean everything before he does that?_ Sylar had hated giving himself even one injection, Mohinder and Claire's compound; Peter handled it like it was nothing. _He did do drugs for fun._

Trust and truth proven, Sylar proffered his left arm on the table, within easy reach. At least Peter at the decency to use a separate syringe. The nurse went about the same process to inject Sylar, under observation. "One of the techs in Level Five came to give me an IV once; she forgot to cap off the other end so it wasn't connected to the tube," he snorted with false humor, "Got blood everywhere. Another one was stupid enough to stick the needle in my hand – she was new; took her ten minutes of rooting and grinding around in my hand before she said it was too swollen and had to get her supervisor. The rest of them mostly poke around a dozen times until they get a vein." Sylar shook his head, "At least you know what you're doing." Peter wasn't real chatty and Sylar hated being dealt with like an animal at a vet or worse, a prisoner in a Nazi camp, so he did the talking, sharing a minor, relevant story. Perhaps he was trying to avoid the 'discussion.' Finished, Sylar turned back to the food, snagging several pancakes covering them with butter that quickly melted before coating them in syrup. He was hungry, his stomach roiling, but the idea of pancakes was one he was going to stomach regardless. "And you can cook," he praised after his first delicious mouthful.

XXX

Peter's mouth dropped open briefly; his expression softened and cleared. "Thank you," he said, obviously moved by the double compliment. It made him feel better about the lack of trust Sylar showed by wanting Peter to take the drug as well. A few seconds passed while he forked over a couple of his own pancakes. "The two things they really hammer on for paramedics is IV skills and intubation, under any and all circumstances. You have good veins. Whoever was working on you wasn't competent. I guess, on a _somewhat_ good note, it's nice to imagine the people on Level Five maybe don't have enough patients to get practiced at it."

XXX

Sylar quirked a brow. _I have good veins? Huh. _"Needles were not the worst thing they put in me there," he clarified, knowing he was lucky it hadn't been a penis or two. Instead it was drugs, wires, tubes and shunts, mainly, maybe the food. On the subject, he held his fork and paused, "Hey, wait, um…does this drug have…side-effects? Do I have to wait to eat or avoid stuff?" It wasn't like he'd ever had anti-nausea medication before, but basic pill instructions he could remember – because Mom didn't read the label directions.

XXX

"No. That's one of the reasons why I picked it – it's mild and has no side effects statistically different from a placebo." Peter held up his own arm, the one he'd injected. "That's why I didn't mind taking it myself. It's safe." Peter knew he was very slightly distorting reality, but they weren't _in_ reality and more importantly, the difference that existed was significant to statisticians only. The messy truth of medicine was that it rarely cured anything directly – it was just better than the alternative. He was sure there was probably some deep meaning in that, but for now, he devoted his attention to the pancakes, skipping the butter and using syrup alone.

XXX

Assuming the nausea left, he'd only have to deal with the massive headache that still plagued him. The hip, thigh and toe pain lingered, but his back was alright so long as he avoided the couch, which seemed likely. As Peter ate, focused on food, Sylar smirked at him. _He really has no idea what I'm capable of, does he? Just…going about his way, eating breakfast like an innocent. But he's not innocent, is he now? _As good a boy as Peter might be, tried to be, thought he was, well, Sylar knew otherwise. Somehow the not-knowing which, angel or demon, he was going to end up with was exciting.

The nausea decreased and he was able to finally eat more as the pancakes tempted him. They were mostly quiet as they ate, either a lingering embarrassment or growing comfort in the other's company, or maybe it was just the process of eating. Funny how that went easier without nausea and Petrelli disturbances.

XXX

Peter kept an eye on how much Sylar ate – not by staring at him, but by simply watching the stack of pancakes. Sylar put away what for a man of his size was acceptable – assuming he wanted to lose weight, but not a lot. It was enough food that Peter didn't argue it. '_Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this?_' drifted through his mind. He tried to ignore it, or at least learn from it. When Sylar made a few of those 'I'm done' motions after finishing his last bite, Peter nodded and stood up, declining to wolf down the last pancake and certainly not trying to force it on his companion. He fetched the bottle of painkillers, taking his own dose before doling out pills for Sylar.

XXX

Sylar took the pills and downed them without fuss. So far Peter hadn't led him wrong as far as medical treatment, which was surprisingly helping him feel better. _Maybe he just doesn't want me whining about being in pain_, that was certainly motive to shut him up. When younger man asked if he was finished; he stood and helped clean up, food and dishes, giving the nurse a pat on the shoulder as he turned away from the sink. Sylar wandered into the living room, trying to kick-start his brain into planning where he should rest and what he should do – what Peter was going to do. _Should I read or sleep? Will he let me sleep? _Either way, Sylar went to the couch and sprawled there.

XXX

Peter looked back after the shoulder pat, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. _That was friendly. What's that mean? Has he … has he ever done something like that before? Touched me, patted, anything?_ Nothing came to mind, aside from a few less-than-platonic-seeming caresses in the course of helping him with his brace or giving him a clumsy physical exam. _Is that because he was in bed with me this morning? Or was he in bed with me because he's feeling friendlier?_ Peter turned back to the sink with a sharp shake of his head. _He wasn't in bed because he felt 'friendly'; he was in bed with me because he was hor- wait, if he was horny, then why did he leave? And stay gone, too? _The question of what Sylar was after circled around in Peter's brain as he rinsed dishes, taking his time at it. When he was done, he tucked the still-damp brace under his arm, snagged the dishtowel, and walked over to the living area where Sylar was reclining.

"Hey. I wasn't in a listening mood a couple hours ago. I think I'm in more of one now. Tell me about this morning. I want to understand."

XXX

That caught him flat-footed. The subject was this morning, not last night. Sylar lifted his head, not liking his position with Peter standing over him. "What about it? I was sleeping," he defended. "It's not like that's abnormal for you." Sylar looked him over, highly doubting that last part. "There's nothing to tell." _What could I have to say? Why do I have to explain myself? I don't know why we have to talk about it._

XXX

_That's not abnormal? What's not abnormal – me sleeping, or me waking up snuggling on him? Or more than snuggling, I guess_. Peter wasn't keen on admitting to what exactly he'd been doing when he woke, even to himself. "No, when you were in bed with me. What was going on there?" He took a seat in the chair easiest for Sylar to see from his position, pulling out the brace and scrubbing at it with the towel, hoping to dry it a tiny bit more before putting it back on.

XXX

"I don't know about you, but I was sleeping – trying to. It's not my fault you picked a small bed." That sounded lame even to his ears, 'you didn't come to bed, dear…' _He had better not try to pin that on me; him….doing that. _"I have a concussion and even if I was going to make a move, it wouldn't be while you're asleep at oh-dark-thirty in the morning. You wanted some and I said it was fine, no big deal," he shrugged it off.

XXX

_I wanted some? I wanted some!?_ Peter's head snapped up at that, teeth clenched. With an effort, he pressed his lips shut and went back to dabbing at the brace, using more pressure that was probably necessary. _Calm the fuck down, Peter. He's trying to upset you. That's obvious. Also, wait … he said it was fine? No big deal? All I remember him saying is 'ow' and leaving._

XXX

While Peter digested that, working up a reply, Sylar thought to interrogate a little himself, "Did you finish, either time?" A hooked thumb towards the bathroom, "The underwear…"

XXX

"What about the underwear?" Peter asked after a moment to figure out what Sylar was saying. Because yeah, he remembered taking them off the morning after the adventure to the hospital. He glanced in the direction of the bathroom. He figured they were still in there. "What of it? We're practically living together. My underwear has to be somewhere," he said, declining to address what Sylar was getting at.

XXX

_Yeah, but usually your underwear is on_ you. "I'm just curious," Sylar worked up a slight one-sided smirk, "Just want to know how easy your trigger is; want to know what I'm dealing with here."

XXX

Peter's brows rose. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and opened up the brace. Voice tight and teeth a little bared, he said, "How 'easy my trigger is' shouldn't be any of your business. I had the door shut. I didn't invite you in. But I wake up and you're in bed with me." Peter's jaw clenched and popped audibly, making him wince and nearly derailing the conversation (or at least his side of it). The stab of pain ruined the 'I'm incredibly angry about this' expression he had going there for a moment. He rubbed at it tensely, pulling his thoughts back together.

"Sylar ..." He sighed, rubbing more gently at the corner of his jaw as he let the anger die down and got at the unease that had been fueling it. "I am … you are … Listen, we gotta be safe in our own beds. Beds, sleeping, should be a no-fighting zone. And a no-taking-advantage-of-each-other zone, for both of us. When I first came here, you didn't get to see this, but I was barricading myself in my apartment at night. You want to hear me sleep, or whatever?" He stared at Sylar intently for a few seconds, "Give me some space. Stay out of my bed. Because if I don't think I'm going to stay alone after I fall asleep, then I'm not going to let my defenses down anywhere close to you."

XXX

Sylar stared back, upset and showing it at the anger directed at him. It was distressing, especially since he was innocent and hearing his companion had barricaded himself away for safety without provocation. _Who's fighting? I didn't do anything! I can't even be upset he was…rubbing on me? Giving him space isn't fair! He gets what he wants and I get nothing! _Everything about the last two weeks grew to a head – not being alone, Peter appearing, being real, supposedly; Peter avoiding him, moving away…picking fights…breaking in…taking care of him, seeing him with his pants down, sleeping with him but always holding him at arm's length, making excuses, making it out that Sylar was at fault…The mental (and emotional) rings he'd run around Peter had exhausted his barriers. It boiled down to his inability to get his desires met – even the platonic, small ones. It made him feel like so much used trash.

"I didn't…do anything," he breathed, feeling something tickling his temple. The boy who cried wolf. Peter was never going to believe he was innocent in anything, not with the evidence and motive stacked behind them both. Inhaling raggedly, he insisted because he had no other choice, "We were both sleeping. Nothing happened. I just wanted to hear you b-breathe…" It was then he noticed his nose was stuffed up, his vision hazy. Brushing a quick hand over his face, feeling the warm moisture trailing to and from his eyes; Sylar blinked in surprise at his hand then stood there, aimless for a moment. "You can't keep making promises and agreements you're not going to keep, Peter. It's hard enough to believe you now." Trying to, desperate to believe Peter he was. Hand pushing his completely scruffy hair back, he remembered where he'd laid his book.


	61. Proximity Alert

_Day 16, morning, December 26_

Peter sighed, affected by the tears. He tilted his head away and then back. He tried not to look at Sylar, but his eyes kept sliding to the other man anyway. They burned a little; his chest felt tight. He knew the feelings – sympathetic, empathetic, contagious. "Sylar ..." he said softly, almost a whine or a plea. All he could think of at the moment was the last time he'd had tears in Sylar's presence, when he'd dropped the guy, or Nathan, off the roof of Mercy Heights. Sylar had been laughing on the way down and saluted Peter after. How many times had Sylar seen others in emotional pain and scoffed at them? _But I'm not Sylar._

The man hesitated at Peter saying his name, eyeing him.

"I didn't say I was going to take that away from you. I woke up with you in my bed and I'm still here, Sylar. I'm right here." Peter pointed at the floor. "I haven't left. You _did_ do something. You got in my bed without my permission. And you _knew_ it – we'd already talked about the door. I'd told you I didn't want you in bed with me. I didn't sleep in the chair the other night for no reason, Sylar." Sylar walked out; Peter let him go.

XXX

Sylar was too worn out to care what Peter thought if he stopped by the bathroom. Doing so, door shut for once, he cleaned his face up, clearing his nose but he didn't linger. He wasn't going to hide away and sob (at least not when Peter knew about it). Retrieving his book from the guest room, he returned to the couch to make a point that he, Sylar, was going to do what he pleased and that didn't include pouting and crying like a heartbroken girl with a crush – which was something Peter might do. He was prepared to ignore Peter if he had to but it sucked to be around the guy and know everything was off limits. No touching, no talking, no looking. Reading quietly was okay, though, as it always had been.

XXX

Peter waited until Sylar was situated on the couch, while he put the finishing tightenings in place on his brace. He leaned forward, clear body language to continue talking. When the guy cracked the book instead, Peter felt a stirring of anger at being deliberately snubbed. It was a juvenile punishment for not … what? Fucking the guy? Getting fucked? Or just sleeping with him? He didn't know. He leaned back, forearms out along the uncomfortably modern arms of the chair.

Peter took a different tack. "I think … that after three years alone, that experience of not having anyone else here, never knowing if there will be, thinking everyone's abandoned you, maybe even not being sure who you are …" He swallowed, mind skittering around the edges of his bad dream, trying to balance the subtext with the reality as he faded the description from one to the other, "not being able to help yourself, not knowing _how_ you can help yourself … I think finding someone after that would leave a person with the urge to grab on, hold on, and not let go. That's how I felt the other night when you woke me up out of that nightmare." He watched Sylar for a few long moments, letting it sink in that he wasn't without understanding. "But that's me. How would you feel?" He canted it theoretical on purpose – people often had trouble saying how they felt at a given moment, but could address how they might feel in similar circumstances more easily.

XXX

Immediately his attention was suckered in, the content was…so accurate. Sylar frowned and stared between them at the floor, introverted. _Oh, God, how does he know that? He…feels that, too? _Slowly he closed the book. He could feel Peter watching him but it wasn't important. His eyes tracked back and forth over invisible points in the carpet. _Is he real? _Once again he considered the idea that Peter was a hallucination, a self-made image teasing him and telling him what he wanted to hear like when he'd shape-shifted into Mom and made her say things. It would explain how Peter knew to say those things because no one understood that, not that well. _Peter…This is Peter. He's done that before, for…(Nathan). He's an empath; he knows things. Maybe…_Sylar inhaled.

"Lost," he said simply. _Helpless to get what I want. _Pain crashed through him with the thought that perhaps Peter was passing judgment on his behavior, demanding strength instead of needy weakness; guiltily he worriedly glanced up at the other man's open, handsome face, soothed by what he saw there. "I know I should be doing better. I'm doing my best." _(That is such a lie.) I can't do my best here; I have needs, things I want. Leaving him __alone is not an option._ "No, I mean-…" He sighed, setting his book aside and shifting so he sat with his feet planted on the floor, hands wrapped around each other. Licking his lips, Sylar addressed what Peter probably wanted him to, "I got into bed with you. But I didn't molest you, okay? I didn't." He looked Peter dead in the eye for that. "I didn't touch y- I woke up and my hands were on your chest, but I didn't do it consciously. You were just…really close. I don't think I do anything weird in my sleep, except for the nightmares." What a series of corrections that was.

The nurse's point about staying here despite the incident(s) was a valid one – the man's bark was worse than his bite unless his family was mentioned – Peter wasn't outright denying him. Sylar clung to that and the fact that he was being listened to and offered a voice. "It's been three years and it was difficult before that. It's complicated and you just make it more complicated," he pleaded, hoping Peter could interpret that correctly, somehow.

XXX

Peter mulled over Sylar's last statements. _Three years without people and hard to get any human interaction before that, too? I can imagine getting friends wouldn't be easy while you were a killer. No friends, he's said. No family. Then there's whatever happened with his mother. And I make it complicated because … of Nathan (memories, brother, victim?), that I came here to get him out (rescue, doesn't want to help me but wants out?), he wants to kill me (competitor, antagonist, but he can't because then he'd be alone). And he's making passes at me. Where is his mind in regard to me? It's gotta be all over the place._

"Yeah," Peter breathed out, leaning forward to match Sylar's body language better, putting elbows on knees as his hands hung together loosely. "It's pretty complicated for me, too, right now, trying to figure out how to relate to you – are we … enemies, or friends, or something in between? Sometimes it seems like one, but then it switches. I don't think things are as complicated now as they were before coming here – at least here, it's just the two of us. That … simplifies things a lot. It lets us focus. I didn't have the same problems you did, before, but I spent some time on the run, feeling like anyone and everyone might turn me in, turn on me – family and friends _especially_. People I should have been able to trust were the worst. It's not a good feeling." Very seriously, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, he asked, "How do you deal with that?"

XXX

_Thank God. _Peter took it seriously; didn't lash out. It left him almost weak with relief and hope. Petrelli was really throwing the concepts at him: friends, enemies, the option of something in between and Peter's assumption/belief that he – they – should be able to trust friends and family. That wasn't universal to Sylar's understanding. It was kind of shocking to try to see how Peter's life wasn't perfectly linear, the guy had everything (besides a father, brother, mate and full-range abilities) so it was difficult to even picture what 'complications' might be there. It still sounded a bit far-fetched and false, the typical whiny rich boy complaining his lot. Turning back to himself, at first, Sylar blanked on answering that even to himself. _Deal? You don't deal with it – you can't; that's the whole point. If you could deal with it or prevent it, it wouldn't happen or it would be easier. Do I seem like I 'deal' with shit well? Why would he think I deal with anything at all? I don't know how. _Eventually the answer was simple and obvious; his primary solution and cathartic method was: "Killing people, apparently."

XXX

Peter felt a stab between his eyes, some bit of angry tension about Sylar's murders that Peter didn't want to be feeling at the moment. He reached up and rubbed it away with his thumb, hanging onto the tenuous emotional openness that seemed to be literally warming his skin. Sylar's comment didn't seem to be snark and Peter _felt_ that it wasn't. It was … complicated, just like Sylar had said. "Does it help?" Peter asked that honestly, ignoring his own experiences of shooting his father and trying to strangle Will in Ireland. Just because killing people hadn't helped him didn't mean that in that moment, Peter wasn't open to the idea that maybe it had helped Sylar. He wanted to unsnarl the man's complicated emotions, get at what was underneath it, and make it simple.

XXX

Once more, Sylar had to really stop and consider the question. On one hand, yes, killing people helped. It was a release, a vent, a pressure valve, an outlet, useful and necessary, too, because it made him more special and rid the world of incompetent, fearful freaks. On the other hand…well, his situation and mental state spoke for itself. Killing led to more killing which led to himself getting killed…wash, rinse, repeat. But how to answer? "I don't know, Peter. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it." _Not right now._He knew how bad that sounded but he didn't have a clear answer to give, even to explain his actions. Sylar gave the younger man an apologetic, pent-up, yet thankful look.

XXX

Peter gave a small, expressive, and acquiescing shrug, accepting Sylar's answer even if it was a lack of an answer. He didn't push.

XXX

It struck Sylar that he couldn't remember (or perhaps didn't know) what Peter's original intent was for this 'discussion.' "You're leading the witness, counselor," Sylar smirked a little, as much as he could but it was hollow because of what was going on inside him. Peter _had_picked up a few things in prelaw; the rest of it from living with a pair of stubborn, power-hungry lawyers. /It always touched him when Peter attacked from the shadows with infallible arguments; of course, it was also equally annoying and troublesome because of that near-infallibility. His baby bleeding heart brother saw injustice everywhere, it was akin to a tainted witness, having blinders on, Ma called it 'rose-colored glasses'. So help them all, Peter knew enough to sink any ship and the he had timing (usually bad) in spades./ "What do you want?"

XXX

Peter studied Sylar for a long moment, but there was no help there. He was hoping to see something to tip him off as to the sort of answer Sylar wanted. Peter let his eyes fall to the carpet as he considered the question. 'Nathan back' was _an_ answer, but painful given the audience. 'Help' was a better one, but he didn't feel like the thing with Emma involved asking for assistance that shouldn't be willingly given by any person of good heart. "Happiness," he said with a tone that bordered on morose because he was depressed about how difficult it was to get what he wanted. He couldn't _make_ anyone be happy and sometimes it seemed like the world conspired to have him on the verge of fucking it up all the time. "I want people to be happy," he said sadly.

He stirred in his chair, uneasy that the attention was on him and his motives. Even if he thought they were good, he expected them to be judged harshly and laughed at. Nathan would have scoffed and snorted, rolling his eyes and looking away because Peter wasn't worth looking at while he was voicing the kind of ideals Nathan would call childish. Arthur … well, Nathan's reaction was kinder. But Angela would have understood – at least, Peter thought she would have.

XXX

Sylar frowned and gifted his companion with an 'are you serious?' forward tilt of his head, "Huh?" he asked dumbly, after watching Peter squirm for a moment. It was typical Peter, though, inarguably._Am I…'people' to him? I told him what I wanted. Doesn't he know- hasn't he learned he's asking a lot? _What's more, that tune sounded familiar to Sylar, not just Nathan. Nathan who knuckled under and followed orders like a good soldier boy because he allowed himself to think there was no other option – and he did want that pat on the head. _But Peter doesn't want to suck up to people – he's a pain in the ass! A rebel! _Sylar blinked at the idealist.

XXX

Peter straightened and sought safety by turning the lens back on Sylar. "You want to hear someone nearby when you sleep, is that it? I remember you fell asleep while I was playing the piano, too. You don't have to be in bed with me … specifically … do you?" _Because that might be a deal-breaker._

XXX

Sylar pointed out, "You were playing music on the piano. And you want someone very close when you sleep, too, Petey; your dick told me so; several times." At that, he shut his mouth and thought through his next answer carefully. If he pushed it, would Peter balk? He knew the safe choice was 'no' but… to come so close (literally); Sylar didn't want to lose ground. It had been wonderful to wake up to another, semi-safe, warm, human body, at least until the bump-and-grind began. So he hadn't been invited, even stolen the experience was sweet. And strange. The emotional and mental reliefs a bedmate would provide paled a little next to kind of being molested in his sleep – it was a jarring reality Sylar was less fond of. But sleep would not be separated from molestation, unfortunately.

Hoping to avoid replying, Sylar looked up under his brows, pushing past his anxiety to rumble, "I want you in bed with me. I said I don't mind your sleeping habits." Then it occurred to him that he was clearly approaching this wrong, "But we don't have to do anything," he offered.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at that oh-so-sexy invitation. It was _so_ not where he was at, though (and not where he wanted to be, more importantly). "We're _not_ doing anything," Peter said, levering himself up out of the chair so he could pace around with an uneven limp. "Whether you mind my habits or not doesn't matter." Peter pointed at his chest demonstratively, puffing it out a bit. "_I_ don't want you in bed with me. My dick doesn't have a say in this. I don't want you close when I sleep; I don't want you close at all."

He paused there. His tone had become angry and what he'd said was meaner than he'd intended. It was tumbling out because he felt threatened by the idea Sylar would ignore his wishes and try to cozy up Peter like there wasn't this looming issue of Sylar's past between them, like Peter's feelings about all of that didn't matter. And worse yet, that he'd do it with that voice and those eyes and all the other things Peter might find tempting.

XXX

A delayed blink as his expression shuttered was the only reaction Sylar gave. On the outside. Internally, that didn't just sting; it hurt. Something so simple and small and it still had that effect. He'd been hoping…well, Peter acted like things might be warming up – marginally, yes – but warming all the same. Now it was disgust and misery, the usual tale; he wanted to simultaneously crawl into a hole and curl up there and beat Peter's face until it spoke something more pleasant.

XXX

"I am not here for your amusement," Peter said quietly, his voice laced with threat as he stopped his pacing to glare at the guy.

XXX

Sylar's face and body language chilled exponentially. His hands were tied (whether to crawl away or beat his companion) but he refused to lay down for this, whatever it was, wherever it came from. "Did I giggle?" Sylar rejoined, matching Peter's tone and glare. "But I'm here for your amusement, is that it? Are you gonna lie to me again? You said you weren't going to take this away from me." Through his anger and helplessness, his voice near the end was a lot more pouty than he wanted it to be.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed again. He came closer, returning to his chair to stand next to it with one hand on the back, still angry and tense. "I'm standing right here. What I _want_ to do is walk out that door and do my own thing – whatever that might be – until I calm down, regardless of how long that takes. I'm not saying we're going to stay in different apartments, not even saying we're going to stay in different rooms. I _am_ saying I don't want you in bed with me just like you're saying that's where you want me." He paused a beat before going on with a less challenging tone, "The more you try to manipulate me on this, the less I feel I can trust you. Whether I trust you, how comfortable I feel about things, is important. You're acting like my feelings don't matter to you. But if these are things you want – my cooperation, goodwill, being with you when I don't have to be, helping you more than the minimum that's medically required – then my feelings matter."

Peter turned a little, hiking his hip up on the arm of the chair and letting some of his weight settle on it. "Why would you think I'd be interested in being intimate with you? _**You killed my brother.**_ Do you think I can just put aside my feelings about that? I'm trying, Sylar. Really." He felt his eyes water and nose burn, sad and frustrated that Sylar expected Peter to be capable of that much, so soon. He felt like he was already performing a herculean task emotionally, only to be derided for not being even better. Sylar was alive, he was whole, he had even been completely helpless in Peter's care and suffered not for it. Peter had come here to get him, willing to believe a prophecy that Sylar could do something worthwhile despite dozens of murders and years of preying on the weak and unprepared to attest to how he couldn't. But none of that was acknowledged, nor good enough – not until Peter prostituted himself, apparently, would it count (and perhaps not even then, if Sylar's uncaring attitude was any indication).

"I'm trying to treat you like a … like my patient. Like … someone who hasn't done what you have. Sometimes I can't … I can't manage that." He took a deep breath. His voice was starting to catch, so he looked away and tried to get a hold of himself. He crossed his arms tensely, hugging himself and looking withdrawn, wishing he wasn't there. How nice it would be to be somewhere else, doing something good, making a difference to someone, instead of being here, where he felt insufficient and like he was pissing Sylar off by simply having opinions about himself and what he should do with himself that weren't what Sylar wanted them to be. "I'm glad I've done a good enough job that you think it would be nice to be in bed with me." He looked back to Sylar. "That's … thank you." He wiped at his eyes, irritated and upset, turning to walk over to the wheelchair and aimlessly look through the contents of the top-most bag. He wasn't looking for anything other than something else to do besides look at Sylar.

XXX

Not minutes ago, Peter was understanding Sylar's state of being, now…The emotional whiplash from hope and relief to pure helplessness and despair left him speechless, long enough for Peter to…tear up and finish. Obviously the hope, as always, was a joke; and the relief was fleeting. It came and went with the overly-emotional Petrelli's moods. Sylar was dependent and unable to predict the next 'swing, nor to barter or plead his way into things because Peter claimed not to want them or Peter wouldn't stick to the deal – there were way too many 'or's' in this situation. He hated it beyond measure. He could see the fulfillment of his needs slipping away. _Who said anything about intimate and 'nice'? And then he thanks m-? _"What are you doing?" Sylar demanded quickly of Peter riffling through his medical bag.

XXX

_What __**am**__ I doing?_ Sylar's curt tone was not lost on Peter, who looked back to see what was going on. The man's expression of too-sharp attention clued him in. _Fear. Afraid of medical stuff. I injected him back in that car, outside the Stanton. Maybe he thinks I'm looking for something to use on him._ Peter pushed himself upright and showed his hands. "Not doing anything." He tried to think of a good excuse or reason, but he couldn't find one. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him as completely valid of Sylar to be concerned – Peter was quite possibly going for a weapon, even if not consciously. Peter walked away, not sure where to go. He went to the end of the bed and sat there, feeling like a kid in a time-out.

XXX

"And you premeditated taking my mind from me. Sacrificing me for your brother; my mind so he can have my body. How is that a fair trade? Like I don't even have a right to my own mind and body? You didn't even notice when I was him." Sylar mostly remembered how hard Peter had clung to that wishful illusion. It had been so flattering and heart-warming, being defended against the world by someone who loved him – even if he didn't know who he was. For a few weeks, he'd had a real brother who accepted and acknowledged him, who heard out his problems and supported him. Of course that kind of acceptance only came when he was someone else, he knew that was the price he paid for belonging and purpose. He'd run out of words to describe how betraying and violating that was, and Sylar was not the only victim. Peter was active collateral, the kind that dragged brother and killer both through the ordeal, 'assistance' unasked for. "You're an idiot if you think that gets me in the mood," he croaked finally.

XXX

"Don't want you in the mood. That's my point. What's between us is too fucked up for it." He sighed, his face made a slow wince, and Peter ran his hand through his hair, fisting it briefly for the sensation of tugging on his scalp in distress over how he'd missed Sylar-as-Nathan. "Nathan and I weren't … we weren't on really good terms after the Stanton … or before it, either." He let his shoulders slump, hands going to his knees. It was depressing. He felt like a failure, even though he didn't know what he might have done if he'd found out earlier about the identity swap. "After what he did with Homeland Security and me seeing what had happened at Coyote Sands, I could see he was just repeating the same thing all over again. It made the Company look … reasonable. And I couldn't understand that. I couldn't get my mind around how all the bad stuff the Company was responsible for still made them the better choice than trying to be honest with the world about what we could do. So I just left. I checked out. I didn't talk to anyone – there was no one I _could_ talk to, about anything! Got my job back. And just … I quit looking up. I quit dreaming about flying. Just … made my world small. It seemed like it was working." Peter shook his head ruefully. "But you're right – I didn't even notice."

XXX

"Goddamnit, Peter, focus!" Sylar burst out. He'd been watching in confused horror as Peter went on some introspective retelling of his life. What's worse was that it didn't even sound that bad. But the topper was how Sylar's accusations went completely unacknowledged. _He's as shameless as I always thought. But he's too much of a coward to stand up for it. He's so…Petrelli. He really is going to ignore that, ignore _me_._ Probably the worst assault and trauma of his life, dismissed. Not that he should have expected more, even from his otherwise soulfully understanding caretaker. It was a smooth move, Peter changing the subject; Sylar was effectively silenced. It was like he'd not even spoken or existed. His expression drooped. _No rehabilitation, no justice for the damned._ Nothing had changed. Taking advantage of Peter's silence, he took a breath, recovering enough of a stoic face to converse beyond his perceived loss.

"I thought I was the one who had a concussion; at least I can stay on topic," he snipped now he had the bastard's attention, keeping himself the voice of reason while making a point, "May I sleep on the couch while you take the master bed, or is that too close for you?" Asking people for things wasn't really his speed but the situation called for it to be spelled out.

XXX

Peter blinked up at Sylar in silent but obedient surprise. He couldn't, offhand, recall the man using that tone with him before – few did, as it was rude as hell. Those few were limited to his father, and occasionally Nathan when he was particularly irate._ I thought I was on topic … Aren't we talking about the shit between us?_ "Um," he hemmed in response to Sylar's question, "yes. I mean no, it's not too close. I just don't want you to get in bed with me, okay?" He didn't like the suddenly apologetic tone he had, but that's what came out when he was snapped at like that. It left him feeling guilty no matter what he'd done or not done.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother to hide his pout.

XXX

He swallowed and looked away to the side, then down at his brace as he fiddled nervously with it. _Maybe that wasn't what we were talking about. Maybe what we were talking about was how he was in bed with me last night and … yeah, that's what we were talking about._ In a hesitant voice, Peter brought up, "I was really thinking that maybe sometime today we could go back to your place, or at least consider it." _Christ, get a grip, Peter. All he has to do is snap at you and you sound like you're sniveling in front of Dad_. He cleared his throat. "That way you'd have your clocks and your clothes. I could sleep on the couch until we figured something out." _Is this going to be permanent? I'm not sure I'm down with you as a roommate for like … forever. _But Peter didn't voice that, waiting for Sylar's response to the idea of a return trip today.

XXX

"Alright," Sylar agreed shortly because Peter would stay near him no matter the location. It counted for something. He hadn't even asked for it and that was comforting. _I'll be comfortable, at home, but he won't be. Maybe he thinks his workload will be lighter that way._ He had nothing else to say – Peter had talked about his things, Sylar spoke about his, nothing got decided but he had a passable answer, which he was glad of. The conversation was over, so he disengaged to amuse himself until Peter wished to leave. Sylar faced forward, shifting the pillow to the other side of the couch, before lying against it, feet propped on the cushions. This way he was pointed in Peter's direction. His book reopened between him and the nurse and he involved himself with reading since reality depressed him. The pit of loneliness opened up for him again and he had a hard time believing that Peter didn't want even the most basic contact for contact's sake, especially if his claim of 'making his world small' was true. That Sylar could understand, having come from a small world himself.

XXX

Peter felt dismissed. Put on top of being snapped at and verbally jerked around, it stung and left him angry, but there was really nothing to say. What might have been a discussion of what they had between them had been rudely cut off, or perhaps, Peter considered, it was his attempt to broach the larger subject that was rude. In any case, a boundary had been set and Sylar had actually accepted it in a clear manner. Peter decided to take that as a victory for both of them and to make good his escape before something happened to sour things further. "I'm going to go downstairs for a while." He stood and let himself out.

Several hours later saw his return, clothes changed as he'd braved the melting snow to go across the street to his own apartment. There was still ice underneath, but he'd gone slow and it had been alright. He was happier, having experienced the usual reset of his mood in Sylar's absence, back to a mostly optimistic baseline even if that was a bit rocky given the things that had happened in his life recently. Peter had with him a plastic bag with a loaf of bread, a couple cans of tuna, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of pickle relish. He raised it briefly after knocking and entering. "Got lunch. Thought we'd eat before we go. How's your appetite?" Peter looked to Sylar for his reaction, his own expression hopeful and trying to engage.

XXX

Reading, disturbed sleep, in and out of nightmares that had eventually woken him, now he was back to reading, just about to doze again when he heard the knock. _Peter's back_. The stress of being alone lifted. Sylar wanted to rush over and…well, touch the guy. It bothered him – that he had this stupid feeling at all, that he couldn't get rid of it and that he couldn't do anything to express himself. If he had to worry every time Peter left…His dignity was fast going out the window. But Peter was real and he was here. "Hey," he said sleepily, blinking a few times to wake himself up, orienting on Peter. _Go? The- yeah._ "Hungry but…nauseous," was his shy admission.

XXX

Peter had a half-second of pause there, accompanied by a pleased smile and the realization that Sylar had just given him honesty – real, actual honesty about his symptoms. And he liked the expression on the guy's face, probably more than was polite. Thinking it might help Sylar to understand Peter's medical choices, he explained, "Zofran lasts four or five hours and it's safe to take more doses as long as it's not closer together than that. The usual process is that whatever was making a person sick – reaction to anesthesia or chemo – will have worn off during that time. But for a concussion, we just have to go by how you feel. Let me know if you need more. I don't want to be on your case all the time, but I'm still pretty worried that you're not getting enough." He turned to the kitchen counter to unload his bag, glancing around for any evidence that Sylar had snacked or eaten without him. He didn't see any. He headed for the butter dish, asking, "I've got tuna here for sandwiches. Do you like it like you had the salmon? Just meat and butter? I thought I'd try some pickle relish on mine." _I'll do his first so he can't complain about the knife, __but before the food I should probably get the medicine in him._

XXX

Sylar sat up, relieved and wide-eyed. Like a moth to flame, he was there hovering a few feet from Peter as he spoke. "Okay." The drugs had helped him, not hurt him – they'd worked. "Can-can you get hooked on that stuff? The Zolfran?" All he knew was that it was an injective drug, drugs led to addictions, and Peter knew about and had done drugs and Sylar had something of a problem with temptation. And he had a considerably happier bundle of five-foot-ten Italian as his current fixation.

XXX

"No, you can't," Peter said, leaving the half-started food prep to go wash his hands (or at least his left hand). Sylar was crowding him a little, too. "It's a really commonly used medication. You're not going to develop a tolerance for it either. The technical name for it is ondansetron. Zofran's the brand name," he concluded, enunciating the word just a little because Sylar had added an L to it. He finished up with washing, realizing strict hygiene probably wasn't that important here. If the food wasn't decaying, then infection risk was out. _Isn't it? I __think it is._ He turned to face Sylar, drying himself on a fresh paper towel rather than the dishtowel because even though he 'knew' better, the habit was still there.

XXX

Sylar nodded, still thinking a moment before agreeing, nodding again more definitively, "Alright." The mention of the nurse being worried and the easy, open offer for more medical (_drug_) assistance went a long way. "I'm sorry, what else did you ask?"

XXX

It took Peter a moment to place what Sylar was asking about, as his mind was already moving ahead with calculating dosage and time since this morning's injection, and wondering if Sylar wanted him to take some as well again. "Oh. I was asking what you wanted on your sandwich." He gestured at the food on the counter. "So if you wanted something else, I could go get it before we started."

XXX

"Butter and tuna?" Sylar made a face, "Relish is fine. Is there mayonnaise? That's what my mom used to put in tuna sandwiches," he mumbled distractedly, looking around for the stuff to see if Peter had it. A second later, he realized what he'd just said, sounding like he still lived at home at the least. _Crap_. He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning to the fridge to get drinks of some kind. "We're pretty much out of milk," he declared, "There's…sports drinks, pop, water and beer."

XXX

Peter nodded at Sylar's somewhat ambiguous statement of preference, deciding to leave the assembly of vital ingredients to him. "I think there's some mayo in the fridge. I remember there was a bunch of condiments in there. Water's fine to drink." Peter walked over to the medical bag, getting out a new syringe, alcohol wipe, and bottle of medicine, drawing up the dosage while Sylar handled getting out glasses for their meal.

XXX

Sylar took the indicated beverage, gathering a pair of bottles. "Did you sleep or…play the piano?" Peter could be easily engaged sometimes, and Sylar was curious and wanted to see if Peter was chatty.

XXX

"I played the piano some. Wanted to take a nap, but I never settled down for it." Peter picked up the rubber tourniquet and gestured for Sylar to stay at the table for the moment. "If you'll sit, I'll give the shot to you now. Onset time for an intravenous injection is almost immediate, but it will still help to have it more minutes than fewer before you eat." He waited for Sylar to settle before going forward with the process, taking in Sylar's expression a few times to stay up with any possible sudden mood changes, like if Sylar realized and was offended that Peter was breezing by the part where he injected himself. "I explored the first floor a little more. There's a lot of maintenance space and stuff. And there's a basement with equipment in it. I didn't go through it very far though." He gave a short laugh and started, "It reminded me of … um." His brows drew together briefly and he looked down to slide the needle into his patient's arm. He tried to remember if Sylar had any context for the reference he'd almost made.

XXX

As Peter went about the business of prepping the meds, Sylar snagged the bottle of Zofran with his right hand, crossing over himself not to disturb the medic. Briefly, he segregated his attention to try to read the label, seeing nothing but useless medical terms that made no sense to him.

XXX

A quick glance at Sylar's face made clear the man was waiting for him to continue. More soberly, he said, "Well, I didn't have any abilities …" Injection complete, Peter released the tourniquet and collected his supplies, watching for any bleeding and seeing none. "It was after you'd thrown me out the window at Pinehearst. Claire and I were trying to get away from a couple guys my father sent after us and they followed us into some steam tunnels. One of them could create fire. I managed to lever out a gas pipe and when he tried to roast us, it blew up in his face." Peter shrugged briefly as he disposed of the trash, glancing back at Sylar. "We got away."

Peter moved on to the kitchen counter, pushing the tuna can to the side with the can opener next to it. "Could you get that open for me?" He went about getting the bread out and opening containers while Sylar helped, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.

XXX

Sylar listened, then considered it pensively. _Every once in a while Peter has a real, sideways gem that no one expects because it's not…brute force and in-your-face_, he thought of the gas pipe maneuver. It threw off Nathan, who was strategic and prepared, army-trained; Arthur who never bothered and had an uncanny foresight, rarely being ambushed; and Sylar whose preferred method was disguise and manipulation, enemies close until he struck with whatever was handy – knives, bricks, coffee mugs. In the middle of thinking and can-opening, Peter asked for a knife which Sylar went about getting from the drawer closer to himself before it connected. A warning, parental look was given to the nurse, clearly hinting, 'you're not going to do that again…Right? You know better.' Then he handed it over, sparing an eye for the butter/mouth/contaminants while finishing with the tuna. After that, he passed over the mayonnaise.

XXX

Peter saw the look. He ducked his head and frowned, but otherwise went on. "I went outside, too. There's still ice, so we're going to have to go slow, and there's still snow, but it's melting. It's that mushy, heavy snow now and there's just a couple inches of it. You should probably change back into your old clothes so you're covered." The peek-a-boo band of Sylar's belly was not as distracting as it had been the first time Peter had seen it this morning, but it was still something he was aware of trying to keep his eyes off. It was kind of ridiculous given that he'd seen much more of the man, but somehow the sometimes-there, sometimes-not band of exposed flesh drew his eye more than if Sylar had been entirely shirtless. "I was thinking we'd put our stuff on the wheelchair and roll it along with us. I used it like a walker coming back from the hospital. It was a big help."

XXX

_You went outside?_ Sylar paused from handling his own sandwich ingredients. For some reason that was a little shocking. He'd let Peter out of his sight and the kid had immediately dashed towards his escape – his companion being near an exit was worrisome because how easy would it be for Peter to just walk away? It was scary to think how close he'd come - every day, every time he slept - to being abandoned. By then Peter was done and Sylar followed him to the table. _Covered? Like…my jacket? Wearing jeans so I don't…get cold or scraped? _When that made little sense, he moved on. He wanted to say how he wouldn't be pushing Peter's ass around in a wheelchair, not for a mere broken hand, because any of that was pathetic, but on further inspection Sylar realized Peter couldn't operate the chair himself for that very reason_. Guess I would be 'pushing him around'._ He twitched a grin to himself, wiping it off quickly when Peter spoke.


	62. Doing It For Attention

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

"So what'd you do this morning? Did you get any further in the book? That's a lot more involved on strategy than I usually think about for the game. That's pretty cool." _You know, if baseball players can plan out their plays that much, I ought to be able to do a better job managing my life, and abilities and things, where lives depend on me. The stakes are so much higher than a game. Instead, here I am__. Stuck._ He lifted his eyes from his plate back to Sylar's, which were looking more clear and alert than they had for a week. _Those are really nice eyes,_ Peter thought wistfully and somewhat randomly.

XXX

"I slept; and read." Sylar had waited for the meal to drink, so he downed several long gulps of water before touching his food. His head was murder and he reached out, snagging the painkillers and taking the amount Peter had been giving him so far. He tilted his head at Peter. "Well, you play baseball. It's probably a different way of looking at it. Like…being there versus…reading about it." He caught Peter giving him a strange look. _What was that?_ Sylar stared at him for a moment or two longer than necessary, intending to inspire an explanation. When it didn't, he slowly refocused on his sandwich in disappointment, but not defeat. Baseball was kind of a dead-end conversation – Sylar didn't know much about it, Peter knew a lot and Nathan knew all he thought he needed to know about Peter, Petrellis, and baseball. "What do you want to do today?" was his crappy rejoinder. "We still have the…the…" Hadn't they been doing something in his apartment? "Puzzle. Or…you said maybe a game…? Sometime?"

XXX

Peter was busy keeping his eyes somewhere other than Sylar's now. He didn't know what kind of dreamy expression he might have been wearing before and he felt grateful Sylar wasn't pursuing the matter. He cleared his throat slightly. "Well, I thought we'd get over to your place and then get cleaned up, maybe do laundry. You'll have to show me where the laundry room is. We could take a board game down with us and play while the clothes wash." He smiled a little, thinking it would be a better diversion than staring at the tumbling garments or getting into another angry argument about whatever. _Not like we're short on topics for that. _"I think we were almost done with the puzzle. Shouldn't take too long to knock it out, but I'd rather get our clothes clean, first. I was going to hang onto those sweat pants to wear at your place. For sleeping, you know?" Naked wasn't something he wanted to be around Sylar and his norm of boxers wasn't an option for various reasons he didn't want to think about.

XXX

_Laundry now? Together. At my place. Sleeping, too._Sylar sent a checking glance towards Peter, who looked normal, delivery calm. Knowing Peter, the whole statement was as innocent as Peter would like him to believe. No 'you wanna molest my underwear?' involved, nothing, zip. For Sylar, laundry with anyone other than his mother was downright intimate. It just didn't mean the same thing at all to Peter and since the nurse was the one dictating things…that meant laundry was just laundry. _If it doesn't mean anything why the hell should I care what you wear to bed on my couch, Peter? W__hy would you even bring it up? _Petrelli's idea of small talk was not Sylar's idea of small talk. _(I don't make small talk unless I'm…hunting someone. That's why)._

He was also avoidant of the sandwich, namely its filling. How many times had Virginia forced tuna sandwiches on him? The last of which being…the night she died. He didn't get to mourn; it was a mere sandwich with disturbing memories. Unfortunately, he couldn't blame his hesitation on nausea this time.

XXX

Peter applied himself to eating, crunching on chips when his sandwich was done and rubbing at his jaw speculatively. "My jaw's not hurting today. I hope it keeps up that way." He sighed. "Haven't been able to eat carrots or celery or apples or a whole bunch of things for quite a while now. I've been told that crunch is real important to how satisfied a person is with food. What do you think?"

XXX

"I've thought about that. Maybe it's because soft food is associated with babies, sick or old people, like soup, applesauce, mush. Crunch is usually unhealthy food anyway, like chips," he gestured, "so maybe it's a guilty pleasure? But humans are animals and animals get satisfaction from eating when they've located a tree-full of nuts or hunted down a zebra. Maybe we get satisfaction from getting to use our teeth in a modern, industrialized setting." _I can think of a few non-food things I'd like to sink my teeth into… _"Like you can take a tiger out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the tiger." Which was something Sylar understood of a certain form of feeding. Once he'd cut his teeth, there was no going back to a hand-fed, mush diet. Idly, he wondered if Peter understood that, or felt the same way.

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar a few times, startled by an answer he found bizarre to the point of near-unintelligibility, but at least non-threatening. Deciding it was okay and in fact rather quirky and cool, he smiled and nodded. He took his plate to the sink to clean up from the meal. He puttered around, limping just a little, and put things up while Sylar finished. He picked up the painkillers from the table and took a double dose, thinking he should have done that before eating. It occurred to him that Sylar had taken his own medicine without prompting – another great sign, along with the fact that the man had eaten nearly all of his sandwich. Peter carried the bottle over to the wheelchair, putting it inside the top bag. He called back, "Do you want to go right away, or digest some first? I'm going to stop off in the bathroom either way," he added as a liberal hint that perhaps Sylar should consider doing the same.

XXX

"Now. Or I'll fall asleep," Sylar said by way of reason. _Good grief! He has no concept of a filter._ The notion of blurting out personal information was frightening, dangerous, stupid and useless. Since Peter has gone to the bathroom, he shook his head at the helpless emotionalism, and neatly folded the note Peter had written him, sliding it into his book which lay on the couch. Then, on a whim, when no one could see him, he leaned over the couch to try to spy how the snow/ice conditions were on the streets. Tall or not, he didn't have the right angle; he faltered, dizzy, before kneeling on the couch to better look – he wound up with his forehead against the cold glass when Peter entered.

XXX

Peter emerged from the bathroom, underwear in hand, after seeing to his needs. He stuffed the garment down under one of the med bags along with the sweat pants and then gave the apartment a quick sweep, room to room. "Do you want to bring that clock with us?" He hoped the answer was yes. To a pathetic degree, he wanted even that small effort to mean something. _He said it was beautiful. He likes that stuff, right?_ Peter was the sort of person who would loyally read the stock pages to a terminal man who had been unconscious for a week; getting a clock for his brother's murderer represented the same tireless desire to gain approval, no matter what the circumstances. "Other than that, I don't see anything else to bring. Don't forget your book." He turned to see if Sylar had changed clothes, or if he needed to urge the man on to get into something that covered him more adequately.

XXX

Startled, Sylar quickly snapped back, muttering, "Ow" to himself when the other man spoke. Hopefully, he asked, "Can we?" The clock was in working condition, a lovely piece; it wasn't perfect; it needed some work, and anyway, he could always care for another clock whether Peter resided here or slept near him or not. It was like getting a Christmas toy. "I'll need to wrap it up." Occupied with thinking ahead, ignoring Peter, he walked past to prepare the clock, he considered if he should carry it to protect it from jolts, drops or vibrations. It wasn't as though he wouldn't or couldn't fix it if something did happen, he'd just rather nothing did happen. Bringing back a large towel from the bathroom, he gently, carefully covered it with several layers.

XXX

Peter watched the clock-packing for a few moments, pleased and warmed that Sylar was taking it with him. _He likes it! I feel like an i__diot for thinking that's cool. Oh well … I guess I'm an idiot then._ Smiling to himself, he went to the refrigerator and got out the remaining fancy cheese, then found the cheese slicer. He intended to show that to Sylar later on, but for now he just packed them in the plastic bag he'd used for lunch and then stowed them on the wheel chair. He looked back, unable to tell if Sylar was obsessing pathologically or just being ultra careful in taking so long and being so meticulous at what he was doing. Given the number of clocks in his apartment, Peter suspected the former. "Hey, you need to change before we go."

XXX

Sluggishly his attention was drawn from the clock. He gave Peter a blankly questioning face. _Why? Change into what?_It was then he looked down to see what Peter considered inappropriate. Sweats and a too-small t-shirt. He'd forgotten. "Oh." Now the trick was remembering where he'd left his clothes. Sylar meandered to the bathroom, not finding them there, he moved on and found them in the guest room. The t-shirt he was glad to be rid of, it was much too tight and clingy. _Is he going to have to hold me up again? _He kept only the new socks on, pocketing his own for cleaning later. He appeared before Peter, arms out and an expression of 'happy now?' or possibly, 'how's this?'

XXX

_Jeez. He's taking forever._ To forestall his frustration, Peter moved the clock-package from the bed to the chair, noticing that the towel was folded around it in some clever fashion that tucked the corners into itself or something. He wasn't sure, but it wasn't going to come unfolded unless he tugged at it. _How'd he do that? Huh._ He arranged the bags better so things wouldn't be casually dislodged, looping bag handles and carry straps around the arms and back of the wheelchair. He took a final look around the place, picking up Sylar's book and adding it to the load. _He's doing a lot better, but he's absent-minded as can be._ Sylar finally came out, holding his arms out for inspection. Peter spied something bulgy in the guy's pants pockets, too lumpy to be the rude suspicion that first leapt to Peter's mind. He didn't ask, just nodding and gesturing at the front door. "Can you get that?" Peter fell in behind the wheelchair out of habit.

XXX

Sylar gave him a continually annoyed expression, mostly for having the audacity to nod an 'acceptable/okay' at his wardrobe. Or maybe it was a nod because he was dressed at all. Refusing to think on that, he opened the door and passed through ahead of Peter. He lingered awkwardly, not sure if he was to follow or lead the wheelchair expedition. He hovered until it became clear he was leading – when Peter nearly ran into him with the chair, when Sylar impeded the hallway. Hands in his pockets, he walked at a pace to the elevator, opening it, stepping in and pushing the lobby button to make way for Peter and the chair.

XXX

"You ever pushed a wheelchair?" Peter asked as the elevator started down. "I'm assuming you've been in one at some point?" It wasn't exactly a novel experience that everyone needed to try, but Peter was sideways asking if Sylar had ever had to care for someone who couldn't easily get around on their own.

XXX

"I can't…remember," Sylar said after trying to think about it. His childhood was blissfully hazy (what he did remember wasn't great). "Maybe? Like…on the way to the door once or twice. I'm…I really can't say." He couldn't vouch with any certainty about his time on Level Five; hallucinogenics had really warped his perceptions of that time and place. It was a strange question, possibly a leading one, if Peter was trying to get him into the chair. He eyed it suspiciously. /"My wife was in a wheelchair."/ Sylar felt his face fall. The wheelchair was between him and the controls. Peter was closer to them_. I'm going to die in an elevator. Over a wheelchair._ Closed quarters with Peter I'll Beat Your Face In And Play Dirty Petrelli, dropping through the air in a confined metal box of death over a stupid question was so ironic it was almost funny. It was better than dying in a sewer, though. There was no doubt in his mind Peter was going to clobber him; it showed on Sylar's face, a painful, resigned grimace as he shifted, desperate not to squirm or freak out. He cast a last chance look up at the ceiling to see if the escape hatch was accessible – it wasn't, painted shut. There was no way he was prying the door open, either; Peter would use his head as a door-knocker long before that could happen. _I didn't mean to._

XXX

Peter's mouth gaped for a second before snapping shut in a tight-mouthed scowl. Any possibility Sylar had had a spouse in a wheelchair was wiped away by his expression and lack of explanation. He was talking about Heidi. Peter's chest tightened and he could hear his heart pounding. His hand hurt and he didn't even think he was trying to clench it. He wanted to grab the guy and shake him. Not actually beat him up, but just try to shake some sense into him. He could tell from Sylar's expression and stance and awkwardly looking anywhere but at Peter that he knew what he'd done. It left Peter flummoxed for the moment about how to respond.

XXX

"I wished…my mom would have gotten a walker…?" Sylar mumbled with a kind of white-flag appeasement that was both hopeful, desperate and honest, hail-Mary'ing for a distraction. "I- she…was always frail and small. She was always falling." At the risk of sounding completely mean and evil, he continued in a depressed tone, "She just did it for the attention." Since Peter was a paramedic, had taken care of the old and dying, had shared stories of older persons, Sylar added with slight question and a shrug, "Maybe you know something about that."

XXX

That did it. Peter couldn't hold it in any longer, not that he was all that clear what 'it' was, but Sylar's little slip had just obliterated the happy, numb distance Peter had been able to put between Sylar, his patient, and Sylar, the killer. His voice was cutting, angry, and raised as he lashed out verbally, "What would I know something about? Taking a fall for attention? What the fuck, Sylar?! Are you trying to say that's _me_? Huh? Jumping off things just to make people pay attention to me? That sounds a lot like the sort of thing someone _other than you_ would say."

XXX

Sylar's head came up nervously. This was probably the angriest he'd seen Peter yet and it was here, injured, in the elevator with deadly weapons, that he'd unintentionally goaded him into blasting off. The insinuation that he'd sounded like Nathan stung bitterly. _I'm not even being his brother and I sound like him – shit, shit, shit. _Peter had every right to be mad, enraged, actually. Sylar knew (too late) how his words might sound. _If he wasn't going to kill me now, he will for calling him a drama queen and comparing him to Mom._He was miserable and stuck being yelled at because he couldn't keep his mouth shut or say the right thing.

XXX

Peter continued, "What do you think all of this is, anyway?" He spread his arms threateningly to indicate the entirety of the world, bristling as he did it. Sylar did not look happy about the rant. Peter didn't care. "You are _**not **__Nathan_. Matt Parkman made you think you were. It was a mental command," he snarled, pointing at his own temple with his left index finger, pointed like a gun, as his segue brutally abandoned the pretense he'd pandered to for weeks now about the nature of the world. "Just like you being here, just like this whole world that we're fucking trapped in! _It's not real_. And it's over. You're _not_ Nathan, you're _not_ my brother, and you _don't_ get to act like it just because Parkman and my mom and whoever else hatched some-" His throat choked up and tears came to his eyes. The plan had been so stupid! What if they'd succeeded? More, that is? Breathing raggedly, he tried to get control of himself, baring his teeth in frustrated anger as he stared down, by happenstance at the wheelchair that was mostly between them.

The elevator doors dinged and opened.

XXX

Surprisingly, Peter hadn't moved the wheelchair nor reached for any drugs. Trapped as he was, he wasn't going to take that as much of a comfort yet. Sylar bristled at being called crazy or…overly…delusional, whatever Peter was trying to infer_. If I'm crazy and making this all up, then how are you here, accepting and living in my world-of-make-believe, Peter, huh? Your hand is broken because you broke it. No one made you do that, not me, Nathan, your__ mom or Parkman. You definitely don't get to tell me how to act because you helped them turn me into Nathan. Fuck you. Do you seriously __think__ I'd act like him if I had a choice? (Maybe.) _That last thought kept him from voicing his own upset reaction by taking some certainty from him.

The door opened and, suicidal or not, Sylar had enough self-preservation left to slide out before Peter could change his mind to enact death by wheelchair. He breathed hard for a moment, recovering from the adrenaline and shock that came from near-death experiences and being yelled at. Peter didn't emerge and Sylar stayed close, about a yard away, waiting in case Peter…well, he didn't much know what he was waiting for. _Is…he going back up? Is he staying? He's not gonna help me __back to my apartment now, that's for sure._Just as he was about to call the man's name, he heard movement from inside the car.

XXX

Peter snapped to as the doors began to close. He jabbed the button to reopen them, pushing the wheelchair out aggressively and giving it a rough shove off to the side out of his way. He glared at Sylar like he was working himself up to round two, but instead he said, "I need to calm down."

XXX

Sylar met his eyes for all of a second, catching the glare as it was intended before looking away. "I'm sorry. I meant…You're a nurse. You took care of those…old people, the dying people." There was a word for that but it wasn't registering to him, and in his haste, and for fear of losing Peter to wherever he might go, Sylar didn't stop to think of it. "Like Charles. A-and you were a paramedic – _are_a paramedic. I thought…you might have to respond to fake calls like the police do…" Explaining himself and neatly dodging answering what _he _(not unreliable, eye-witness Nathan) thought about Peter's claims to aerial (suicide) hall of fame. It sure looked liked suicide, that's what Nathan had decided. Sylar understood maybe a bit more because instead of burying and denying his ability, he'd tested it out on a corpse he'd murdered and tried to kill himself after. "Dealing with…crazy people," Sylar waved an all-encompassing hand that included himself, the Petrellis, his mother, Peter's patients…

XXX

Peter's eyes shot to the side as he mentally evaluated his options (Go in the apartment manager's office and flounce on the couch he'd found there earlier? Go play piano? Play something else? Pace?) while Sylar rattled on. Peter was listening, just not looking at him. The nervous, tense, and completely conciliatory tone was taking the edge off his anger, though, turning his rage into sullen resentment. He finally gave Sylar a narrow-eyed glance, tracking the hand-waving. He looked away with an unimpressed eye-roll, stalking to the side to look in the exercise room. Going in there and blowing off some steam sounded okay.

XXX

Sylar turned and crossed the lobby, exiting the building. "Ow! Christ!" It was around noon, they'd had lunch and now the sun was out, blazing away into his tender eyes. He quickly raised a hand to look around. It took him a few minutes, but he spotted it; his apartment was only a few blocks to his right, across the street. Undeservedly grumpy and depressed at losing the warm crutch that was Peter, he set off. The view shifted as his foot went out from under him; he flew and impacted hard on his flank and elbow. It drove the breath out of him and jarred his bones, shaking him badly for how unexpected it was. Even Nature, Fate, wasn't happy with him. Since no one was there to hear him, and he'd gotten into the habit of talking to himself or the world before Peter had appeared, Sylar slammed the side of his fist into the ice, screaming at the pinnacle of frustrated anger to hear it echo, "FUCK!" For once he wanted to do the right thing – cross the street, walk himself home, have a conversation, or make a friend or keep one.

XXX

Peter had the door to the exercise room open and was starting inside when he heard the lobby door cycle open and shut. He looked back, seeing Sylar going outside on his own. "Hey, um ..." he said into the now-empty lobby as he stepped back in and let the workout room door swing shut. _Bad idea. Don't go out there alone, Sylar. What are you doing? Are you just looking?_ Peter followed, jolting suddenly in sympathetic pain and surprise when Sylar's first step onto the slushy snow-covered ice landed him on his rump. _Shit! Is he okay? Didn't hit his head at least._ He hurried outside, arriving in time to hear as well as see Sylar's tantrum at things not going his way.

XXX

Sylar heard the door and sat up, mortified. And after the things he'd said about his mother… "_What_, Peter?! What do you want? I'm crazy and I'm just doing it for the attention!" Pushing himself to his knees, he gingerly rushed the process of standing, both feet sliding some before he got his balance.

XXX

Seeing that Sylar was well enough to rage at things, Peter couldn't stop the laughter that started bubbling up. They had a saying among EMTs that the loudest patients needed the least help. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. Sylar's anger reassured Peter the guy's worst injury was to his pride, which turned what might have been horrible into hilarity. Peter was chuckling as he tried to help Sylar up, even if Sylar was having none of it. "Aren't we all?" Peter said in answer to Sylar's words. "Come on, buddy. Hang onto me, alright? Get back over here under the eave where you're off the ice."

XXX

Sylar growled wordlessly; it was all just too much and he couldn't express himself any better than he'd already done. Then he got hurt and Peter laughed at him. So, yes, he struggled against the nurse, impairing Peter's help somewhat. Mostly he flopped around like a wet fish, looking still more ridiculous, trying to get his feet while Peter had all the balance and footing in the world on the bare concrete under the eave. The nurse was considerably stronger than he was, though. His face wound up against Peter's arms and chest a few times and he got a face-full of what Peter smelled like. Sylar wanted to stay there. God, he about melted…He may or may not have made some ambiguous sounds about it as they moved around. His clutching and grabbing at Peter's coat and buff arms was completely legitimate, as were his sounds. He was needy and he knew it.

XXX

Trying to herd Sylar to safety, Peter said, "That stuff really messed me up yesterday. Or the day before that, I guess. You've got to watch it. Can you still walk okay?" He took a step back and eyed Sylar, trying to judge the man's stance and balance.

XXX

"I'm fine!" Sylar spat quickly, pulling away from Peter, trying to cover up for…well, everything. He bristled at the very thought of needing assistance. _Just like Mom. I didn't do it on purpose! He thinks I did! _He wanted to vent, physically, at something soft, powerless, available and responsive, which mostly described Peter here – and he would have laid into Peter if he didn't think the nurse would kick his ass. He searched for something to blame instead – there had to be something besides his rather 'human' error. The indignity was a weakness he couldn't afford. Relief came when Peter didn't rub it in, but it left him just as confused what to do. There just wasn't anything to blame. "I used to be able to make ice; melt it, cut it up into tiny pieces, disintegrate it; fly over it!" But Peter ignored him once more. Sylar didn't know what to do with that, either.

XXX

"Let me go get the wheelchair. We'll both hang onto it. It's a big help." In a much better humor (seeing Sylar fall on his ass was a great tension-defuser), Peter went back inside and retrieved the ambulatory appliance. As he got it outside, he said, "I'll take the right. You take the left. Let's just go real slow." He took hold of the right handle of the wheelchair with his left hand, leaving Sylar to take the left handle with his right hand. It put them each on opposite sides of the thing, jointly pushing it forward along the sidewalk.

XXX

Sylar grumbled dissentingly, but slowly followed the example after thinking ahead some. If he fell twice he'd look stupid on purpose, instead of on accident like the first fall looked (or so he hoped). "I didn't fall on purpose," he informed Peter to cover how retarded he felt co-driving a goddamn wheelchair filled with drugs, which didn't seem to bother Peter, then again, little aside from Sylar seemed to. His protest was important because he needed Peter to think every ailment or injury was real, even if it wasn't. And he hadn't fallen on purpose, this time - he needed to make that clear. _When I fall on purpose…I use rope for effect._ Sylar was wound tighter than the bundled clock, fussy, twitchy, paranoid, defensive. He'd come close to getting his lights knocked out several times now. He wanted some kind of emotional outlet that would be acknowledged and addressed with kindness and help; he wanted his own bed and rest without the roaming, all-encompassing gaze of the sun or Peter's judgmental, triggery scrutiny. He wanted some of that wonderful smell and human flesh Peter possessed. And when he was done resting, he wanted some safe interaction, damnit. _I want, I want, I want. I know._

XXX

"Yeah, I know. Stuff's slicker than snot." Sylar seemed really stressed to Peter – voice tense, body language wound up and a little jerky, eyes darting around like he expected the ice (or Peter) to come after him. It was enough to make Peter wonder if he was uncovering another weird phobia. _Wasn't he afraid of thunder, too? _He made sure to move slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye on his companion and trying to do nothing that might agitate him further. _I wonder if he's just afraid of thi__ngs he can't control with his abilities? Well … that's kind of broad. That's … everything now. But if someone had been really powerful and then lost it all, then maybe he feels like he's at the world's mercy?_

XXX

Peter wasn't giving him much and that made him nervous. He could neither cut into the man's head nor read his mind to see what was going on inside. Other people's thoughts were dangerous, threatening, and untouchable. It was like they could see everything in him, everything about him and he couldn't retaliate, explain or fix whatever they saw that they inevitably didn't like. They reached his apartment building with little incident (a few slips in the slush on his part). "You're-you're coming up, right?"

XXX

"Sure. That was the plan." Peter took over driving the wheelchair alone now that they were off the ice, which left Sylar both hands free to manage doors, the elevator buttons, and to keep his own balance.

XXX

Sylar relaxed then, which struck him as an odd reaction. _Stockholm Syndrome. That's all. He's…not my brother; not my friend. He's not anything but dangerous. But he's going to play a game with me._ He mentally scoffed at that. _A board game or the world-domination game? Do I care which? (Do I care who wins?)_ They rode the elevator with much less tension this time – Sylar making a point to avoid looking anywhere near Peter's person the whole way in case any warning glares were being lasered at him. For such a usually gentle man, Peter could really make someone uncomfortable – although, for such a usually gentle man, Peter could kick ass, make trouble and glare like few others with much less effort than Sylar thought fair. He hobbled a little faster to his door, where he saw that the wheelchair would be a tight fit in his crowded apartment.

Partly blocking the door, he suggested, "Um…you should…leave it in the hall." Hinting still further (but he would put his foot down and fight over it if need be, his phrasing, tone, and body language were a red herring of politeness, for now), "You can come out and get the stuff if you need it." Which was his way of being safe and in charge – the meds, and Peter's possessions, weren't welcome. With that, he scooped up the clock and his book, making sure Peter didn't sneak anything in, before letting himself in.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said agreeably, parking the chair next to the grocery cart full of books in the hallway. _It fits right in. Ha. My stuff; his stuff._ He watched as Sylar gathered up the clock and book, noticing what seemed like a furtive manner in the other man. _Is he going to try to lock me out or something? He's acting really paranoid. Again. Didn't he ask me up? Or was that him being afraid that I would come up and hoping I didn't?_ Peter lingered over the wheelchair, giving Sylar plenty of opportunity to retreat inside without him. He pulled out the bag of cheeses and the slicer, trying to see if there was anything else that needed to be brought in. No slam of door sounded, so he glanced to the side to see that Sylar was observing him closely enough to telegraph continuing suspicion. _But he's not trying to lock me out. Maybe it's the meds that's concerning him? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I need to defuse him._ He held up his items, showing them off for inspection. Sylar seemed satisfied; they both went inside. _Probably not a good time to make a big deal about having found a cheese slicer._

Peter wandered into the kitchen to stow the cheese, still trying to work out what was up with his jittery companion. _Is he still __thinking I'm mad about the Heidi-in-a-wheelchair comment or the part about me jumping __off buildings __for attention?_ He turned around from putting stuff away to find Sylar virtually in his pocket, having put down his own things and then followed Peter into the kitchen with disturbing stealth. But the guy didn't appear to be up to anything malign. He was just … there. And continuing to eye-ball Peter like he expected Peter to try something at any moment. _He's really afraid. Of me leaving? That's what he's been__ most afraid of since I got here._

Peter pulled in a deep breath, putting on a smile that wasn't the same as his usual nurse-face. It was different because it was more genuine, more gentle, and showing a momentary affectionate amusement. "Come on, Sylar," he said, gesturing back towards the living room. "Have a seat on the couch for me. You need to get out of your wet shoes. Socks, too, probably."

XXX

Having been given enough of a cue, Sylar led the way to the living room, sitting first. He waited moment, unsure what he was waiting for – most likely waiting for Peter to park it somewhere. When that didn't happen, he got to work. He'd laced his shoes snug enough, it wasn't his usual, thorough job because of his headache. His shoes were in better shape than his socks, which had soaked up the slush; they were the more difficult, too, sticking to his skin. The process was mildly frustrating because he wanted to hurry for several reasons, the pain in his head affecting everything it was so strong. _Did I take any pills? I thought I did… _His jacket was the next thing removed.

XXX

Peter watched the removal. _Is he well enough to assess frostbite on his own? We weren't out long. He's otherwise healthy, so he's not in much danger of anything, is he? How wet did his feet get? Didn't he already have some__thing wrong with his toes? Kicked a file cabinet. I should look at that again._ He started to squat or bend – whichever didn't matter, as Peter straightened quickly and with a grunt of pain. "Nope, that won't work for me. If I get down there, I won't be able to get back up." At least, not easily, not without hurting. Between all his various pulled muscles around his groin and hips, getting up and down wasn't a simple matter.

XXX

Sylar stopped and looked up immediately. "Huh?" Then Peter clarified it. "Oh."

XXX

Peter dipped into the bathroom to emerge with a towel and took up a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Sylar. "When you're done there, turn and give me your feet. I want to look at them." He said it perfectly matter-of-factly.

XXX

Finished with the second sock, Sylar set them and the shoes aside. He looked up to see Peter not in the room, but returning to it. _I must be really out of it. Falling, running my mouth. I'm a pain in the ass and I don't mean to be. I wouldn't care for me, not like Peter's doi__ng. Is that stubbornness or patience?_ Virginia has been one to emphasize 'virtues' (and 'sins'). She'd cropped up enough, too much, already today. Sylar raised a long eyebrow. Peter looked very serious and un-fucking-bothered by his own request for the gift of feet. _O-kay…_

Sylar did as requested, shifting to proffer his limbs, trying and failing to hold them above Peter's lap but the angle of back and knees overcame him. The towel was a good idea, keeping clammy, otherwise smelly (dirty?) feet off Peter. _W__ait, isn't this a custom to other cultures? Foot baths? Foot…worship? What the hell's it called?_ His eyes were tracking between Peter and his feet in the man's lap.

XXX

"Set them down," Peter murmured, pushing Sylar's feet so the heels rested on his thigh. He immediately moved one over a few inches, off the still-somewhat-tender spot where Sylar had kicked him a little more than a week before. They were long, angular feet, appropriate to Sylar's height and size. Pale, too-white skin was cool to the touch as he rested his left hand briefly on the sole and then the fingers of his right (where they weren't restrained by the brace) against the top. The skin on the bottom was dry enough; that on the top was damp. He scrubbed with the towel at the wetter portions of skin. It was mainly on the top of foot (under laces and tongue of the shoe) and around the ankles. On the plus side, he didn't see any signs of frostbite. He set aside the towel to look at Sylar's toes with more interest.

XXX

The nurse plucked and tugged his toes aside, palming them just to…feel the skin. _Is this a test? _Sylar's expression turned amused, _The 'let me massage your feet' line, routine…custom thing._ But that was all. He snapped his face back to neutral as Peter patted him dry, kindly covering him with the towel when done. "Do you…enjoy giving physicals? I mean…Is this a standard thing? Do my feet really need…this?" He tilted his head and gestured, curious and probing.

XXX

He tensed at the man's first question, shooting Sylar a wary look like Peter had just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He'd been accused too often of manufacturing situations to save people from (even if only once) and he felt on shaky ground helping Sylar at all. The follow-up questions let Peter relax a little. He watched Sylar's face for a few more moments as he double-checked intent. Then he looked at the towel-covered feet, resting his hands against them.

XXX

Sylar hadn't been fidgeting before, but he went still now, seeing and feeling Peter tense, stare and check out his feet. _Don't break my toes. I didn't mean anything (much) by it._ He debated pulling his feet away as a precautionary measure.

XXX

Thus settled, Peter answered what he perceived as a challenge to his ethics directly and straightforwardly. "Yes, I enjoy it. I like being with people, seeing them. You can't treat a patient without looking at them, getting information about them, and some of that information you have to get by touch. It's standard." He shrugged. "I think your feet need it. What if they had frostbite and I didn't bother to check? What if, since the last time I looked, those stubbed toes had infected or something? How would I know if I didn't look?" _And I can't trust you to take care of yourself yet._

Peter smoothed down the towel and tucked it in a little. It was an unnecessary, habitual care-taking gesture. His eyes followed what he was doing now rather than Sylar's face. More slowly and softly, he added, "We're taught, as nurses and paramedics, to touch our patients. It makes them happy; they feel recognized. There's a lot of studies about the benefits of positive touch." He reached up to scratch at his nose self-consciously, still looking down instead of at Sylar. "People don't get enough of it." He was trying not to admit that he knew he'd picked a profession that allowed him to connect with people, literally and frequently. It looked selfish (and possibly inappropriate) and he wanted to be the opposite of that. He wanted his career choice to be about his heroism, not about self-indulgence at the expense of others.


	63. First Kiss

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

Thank God Peter wasn't looking at him. Sylar knew his face was slipping, but he had little idea what Peter would see if he looked now, probably some wide-eyed wonderment or goofy confusion. He was stunned or…off-balance by that answer, mostly how it affected (rather, how it hadn't played a part in) his life. He wondered why that was. Then he wanted to rip the man's head open to see how he was made because that brain was sure to be an interesting one. _They make people like him? He sounds like…Wonder Nurse. Still. Why treat me that way? Why make me happy and recognized and positive? So I won't hurt him?_ He had always assumed those things were good, but to hear from a medical professional that those things were staples of health, well…It made a lot of sense and, honestly, it hurt because it did. Sylar wanted to protest the ideology oozing from Peter's person; just to make the explanation fit his own life, which wasn't resplendent with hugs and kisses or sex. The difference was a smack in the face of how…not-normal he was and how good normal, _un-special_ people had it as a rule.

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He stopped there, trying not to think about how much he wanted to put his hands under the towel and directly on Sylar's skin. That was above and beyond medical care and thus off-limits, much like sitting around with one's patient's feet in one's lap. It sent the wrong message, he knew. But he couldn't bring himself to move them. Instead, in an act of idiocy he knew he was going to regret, Peter pointed out, "Your pants have got to be soaked from falling. You should get them off." He looked to the back of the couch, where the blanket had been flipped up. He pulled it down and tossed it over Sylar's legs so he'd be covered. "Unfasten them, lift up, and I'll pull them off." He plucked at the sodden cuffs. _I wouldn't be feeling so guilty about this if he were just an average patient. This would be completely normal: 'Got wet clothes? Ge__t out of them.' Normal. But with the usual patient, I go home at the end of the day and never see them again. I don't sleep on their couch while they're crushing on me._

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Sylar blinked, whiplashed by the change in topic because he'd been sea-deep into analyzing it. He frowned about it. _Touch is good, now take off your pants? And I'm going to think there's a connection there when there isn't because Peter doesn't want…that, any of it. Does he say that stuff on purpose? Just drop trou under the blanket wi__th my feet in your lap._ Sylar battled a blush despite himself, mostly from the weirdness of the situation. _God, we're lucky I put my underwear back on. I'm sure my balls are free of frostbite, but thanks for thinking of them. They'd appreciate some 'recogn__ition.' _He didn't say that though, not wanting to ruin...whatever the fuck was going on here. After a long checking glance at Peter, Sylar popped his pants open and arched up a few inches which was really as far as he could go, groaning from tight muscles, bruises and the infernal headache. When he settled, pants-less, he purposefully calmed himself: _This isn't weird. This isn't weird. This isn't weird…_It was both nerve-wracking and…slightly arousing despite itself when all he could picture was 'positive touch' and Peter's hand sneaking up under the damn blanket. He sniffed dismissively, giving checking glances to Peter every few seconds. "Touch spoils people, too, Peter," he said by way of protesting the ideology. That's what he'd been told about physical gratification of most varieties. It was a subtle message that he considered himself more adapted or adaptable than Mr. Six Hundred Fucks. He wasn't that needy.

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Peter snorted, but he was pleased that they'd managed to get past the depantsing without incident. He tossed the garment to the side and then fussed with the blanket and towel. He folded the towel a few times and put it under Sylar's bony heels so they wouldn't dig into his leg so much, tucking the blanket around them. Then Peter relaxed against the couch, looking very much like he intended to stay there for a while. Even for him, sitting here with Sylar's feet in his lap was pretty damn strange, but he was tired, it felt good, and he was feeling selfish. He didn't think Sylar would object and even if he did (as long as he didn't call Peter out on what he was doing), he didn't care too much.

Aside from the murky moral waters, there was something more clear-cut to debate. "There used to be a theory that cuddling babies spoiled them somehow, like they might go rotten if you touched them too much. It's wrong; disproven; false. People go insane without contact – depression, anxiety ..." He shrugged, letting his eyes fall shut. He was warming up enough to notice his own pants were damp around the ankles, but the rest of him was comfy enough. "Next you'll be telling me that caring for the terminally ill doesn't improve their quality of life."

Peter's eyes were shut; his right hand rested on Sylar's nearer ankle; his left was on his own thigh. He looked a lot like he might doze off like that. He'd gotten his way – Sylar's needs were taken care of without fight or argument, and Peter's loosely claimed prize of physical contact wasn't being denied or used to shame him. It made him feel like he could lay down his defenses enough to be snoozy for the moment.

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Sylar eyed Peter's countenance. Instead of sticking his foot in it (figuratively speaking), he went the 'think harder, question less' route, considering what he knew of Peter. The man was relaxed, that much was obvious. Nathan wouldn't have cared if Peter was sleepy. But why the touching? His ankle of all things, his rather hairy ankle? The man who murdered his brother? There was no reason whatever to touch or allow contact after the frostbite/infection check. Not that Sylar minded, heck, he was thrilled; it was comforting. He just couldn't figure it out and…that was okay, he supposed (though it would rumble around in his mind for a while because it was an interesting, unanswered question or behavior). _So we just sit here, foot-in-lap, hand-on-ankle. Yup, we're enemies alright_, he concluded with a mental eye roll. Letting go of the mystery, Sylar let his gaze wander over Peter's unseeing face, because he could and it was a familiar, good-looking face.

He softened his voice in case Peter was…trying to sleep, "The only things I know about old people is that they don't like living care and supposedly they get bad care there." After all, none of his parents had ever gone into care (Virginia definitely qualified and Gabriel had known it, more was the pity; Samson went the natural therapy direction) and all the dead/dying people he'd been around were terminal in a different, more immediate sense. "How do you know it causes insanity?" _Is the Company testing __on babies- Yeah, they are._ This was of particular interest to him; it wasn't like the insanity defense was going to clear him of anything anyway.

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"Living care?" Peter's voice was still normal, even if his eyes remained shut. His expression showed a momentary puzzlement. "You mean assisted living care, right?"

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_Why does his frown have to be so adorable?_ "Yeah, that," Sylar said indifferently.

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"Yeah. No one likes to be dismissed or disrespected, to feel out of control of their life, or like their family members are just waiting for them to check out. It can be a really depressing, vulnerable time for people if they lose their mobility and ability to take care of themselves. There's some things about the eldercare system that makes it harder than usual for bad treatment to be corrected, but that doesn't mean bad treatment is all there is. One thing I liked a lot about hospice care was that I was absolutely sure I was making a difference in someone's life, helping them, sometimes when no one else would. There's a lot of good hospice nurses out there. Not enough, but a lot." Which was part of why he'd moved on to something he was more uniquely suited to, getting out in the middle of it on the front line. There were others who could do hospice care just as well as he could, but no one who could spin abilities into ways to save lives.

He sighed, his thumb working back and forth briefly on the blanket as he thought about Sylar's question. He frowned as he tried to remember. "There was a study in orphanages in … somewhere in Eastern Europe. Where the children didn't get much individual attention. And then there's been behavioral studies on infants, testing the whole 'cry it out' philosophy that a crying baby should be left to self-soothe. There's other studies on the effects of touch on preemies. They thought for a long time was that touching premature babies was too dangerous due to risk of infection, but it turned out the thing that was too dangerous was depriving them of human contact."

Peter shrugged, squirming a little and shooting a brief glance at Sylar before looking down at his hands. "Insanity … maybe that was the wrong word for me to use. What I meant was that going without human contact causes a lot of problems for people. With babies it's the starkest because they have no other experience, but it doesn't ..." He paused, remembering Noah's admonition for him to get out of his apartment and connect with his family again. Noah had known about Sylar's forced impersonation of Peter's brother; Claire had said so. Had Noah been telling him to go be friendly to Sylar-as-Nathan?

Peter gave a short shake of his head and brought himself back to the present. "It doesn't do adults any favors either. There's a reason why solitary confinement is a big punishment in prisons." _Or here. Like for you,_ Peter thought, realizing why there was that hint of personal interest in Sylar's voice. Perversely, it made him want to jerk his hand away from Sylar's leg as it occurred to him how much his touch might mean to the man. Peter had been doing it for his own needs, almost consciously declining to consider Sylar's outside of whether or not Sylar was likely to allow the contact. Now that he realized ... For the moment, he refused to give in to the urge to pull away. He left his hand there, his thumb rubbing a few slow circles as he thought it over, feeling through his emotions on the subject.

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"No…Insanity sounds about right," Sylar admitted like a statement. He understood the concept of everyone he knew watching, wanting and waiting for him to die. It was one of the worst feelings he knew. _Connect the dots, Peter. You're a medical professional, I'm the patient; the adult patient needs to get laid to stay sane, see?_ He watched the thumb caressing him through the blanket. All the teasing and closeness grew on him. That tiny motion, intentional or not, had rippling effects like a butterfly's wings. _He understands, he's describing it perfectly._ _Has he already connected the dots? He needs touch? Does he want something? He doesn't want to say it. I can help with that. _As gently and smoothly as he could, Sylar lifted his feet away and knelt on the couch. He moved with necessary speed as he homed in on Petrelli's lips. _Don't read too much into kissing; it's not a requirement; it's just easiest…_ Passion wasn't driving him; it was more a case of fulfilling mutual needs. Nervous, ready to pull away, he skipped over bonding and communication. Leaning down, he cupped the man's jaw and artlessly pressed his lips against Peter's unsuspecting ones. _Come on; give me something; don't hit me; come on…_

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In retrospect, Peter would have expected desire, passion, or lust to have been writ on Sylar's face. Maybe infatuation or yearning. Instead it was something akin to fear – an expression Peter would not have anticipated as a prelude to what followed. It had a lot to do with why he just sat there as Sylar got up all of a sudden, eyes fixed on Peter rather than any other goal. He watched with mild surprise as Sylar reached for his jaw, the beginnings of a thought forming: _He wants to look at my jaw again? Why now? Why does he look-_ By the time he realized Sylar wasn't just leaning close to peer at the way his mandible connected to his skull, the man was kissing him.

Peter jerked back, barking, "Hey!" Hands that had already been rising slowly sped up, finding Sylar's shoulder with his left, upper chest with his right. He gave a short, sharp push, uncertain as to what the response would be. His gaze scanned rapidly over Sylar's face, lingering for a moment on lips before rising and narrowing to meet Sylar's eyes. _He's doing this because I impli__ed he's insane? Like revenge? Or manipulation, like 'you say I'm insane so I'll act that way'? Or is it just all the fucking mixed signals I'm giving? _Are_ they mixed? I've told him fucking NO already I don't know how many times. (Then I should probably sto__p touching him and putting my feet against him and humping him in bed and putting his feet in my lap and agreeing to sleep in his fucking apartment!)_ "Back off," he said authoritatively, giving another push. He waited a breathless moment, a thrill of both fear and arousal surging through him as Sylar leaned over him, still so close. Too close. He could smell him, feel the heat of skin under his hands, and Peter's mind was flooded with the awareness that Sylar wanted him badly. His traitorous libido chose to point out that the blanket had certainly fallen enough to reveal bare legs and underwear (assuming Sylar was wearing any), but Peter's eyes stayed fixed on Sylar's face, curiosity be damned.

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Sylar felt them disconnect and allowed himself to sway back with the first, light push. The second time with an explicit demand, he sat back on his heels, then shifted to his butt still further away, legs Indian style, face blank. He didn't like the retreat at all but his test had yielded an answer, a response, so the experiment was over; he didn't feel like pushing more than he had already, mostly because the consequence was sure to be another fight. Sylar's eyes lethargically tracked between Peter's left hand and his face.

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Peter pushed himself up off the couch as soon as possible, stiff and coiled like he desperately wanted to start a fight. His left hand went so far as to make a fist as he faced Sylar directly, scowling and glaring. There was nothing quite there to set him to swinging, so he stalked off to the kitchen, pawing at his hair the whole way before turning and coming back. Guilt tore at him. Uncertainty. Knowledge that he'd done things that Sylar might have seen as come-ons. Admission, in his own words and thoughts, that Sylar's need for contact and intimate human companionship would be as great as anyone's who felt they'd spent three years in solitary. _But why the fuck am I the one to have to give him that?! Maybe I'm the only one here, but he killed my brother! And a lot of other people! If he__ was my patient at the hospital they'd fucking_ remove me _from working on him. I'm compromised! Anyone knows that. I am not here to fix him!_

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Sylar sighed when Peter stood. He felt drained. There was a time when he would have reveled in seeing even such negative passion because of him, aimed at him. Now it made him feel worthless that something as stupid and small as a kiss sent someone into a rage. He wanted to scrub himself raw in a shower to see if that helped make him more acceptable, palatable, presentable (make him feel better or get better results). Or beat some sense into his own brain. It wouldn't work but he entertained it childishly for a moment. This would only be one of many rejections; so this one didn't mean much, a pebble compared to a rockslide. He gave expressionless, undivided attention to Peter through his fit (the man was surprisingly controlled thus far) because that was the safest thing to do when someone was angry at him. They wanted his attention, they wanted to be and would be heard.

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Standing in front of the man, still radiating a desire to inflict violence, Peter challenged, "Why me, Sylar? Why the fuck me? If it was some little old lady who had come here to get you out or Matt Parkman changed his mind or some preteen kid with an early power you wouldn't be making moves on them. What the fuck is it about me that makes you think this could work?"

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Sylar looked up at the somewhat-taller, angry form. _Is he calling me a pedophile? I just kill people! _Sylar bit that back with effort, with every intention of revisiting it later. '_Because you're my brother?'_ was the best and only truthful answer that came to him and it was not appropriate. The question was not one he'd given much thought to; he certainly didn't have an answer to please both of them, not even a decent one to pass off for Peter's sake. That made little sense even to him because he had standards and Peter fit them for some reason – unfortunately Sylar didn't always know what those standards were, like his own preferences were hidden from him_. I have preferences?_ Another possible answer appeared: _(Because I know he'll hurt me?)_ Almost tonelessly, he replied, "You answered your own question. You're not old, you're not Parkman, you're not a kid. You're you and you're here." _I already told him we're not going to like each other…Does he still expect 'kiss and make nice'? I mean…He makes it sound like there should be something more – is that just him or is that how it really is? It doesn't matter either way. I'm insan__e._

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Peter made an exasperated snarling noise and took a step back, running his hand through his hair again. His expression shifted from angry towards confused. He said as if to himself, "Yeah, but I'd hoped ..." _I'd hoped you had a good answer! But it__'s a stupid question. Why does anyone like anyone? But the thing is, why would he think I wouldn't freak out? He killed my brother! He's killed _me_. Why does he think we could still-_

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"And I am not a pedophile!" Sylar hissed for good measure. "Not like you ever bothered to ask Molly, Micah, Luke or Claire, but I never touched them. Like that." He sneered at the idea. _I let one crash on my – Taub's – couch and I slept in the same hotel room as Luke…and I touched Claire'__s cheek. None of that's…sexual. That's…Ugh!_ He also didn't contemplate the part where he'd gotten along with the pair of teenage boys, how both of them had wormed their way under his defenses with distressing ease. "They're all still alive, too," he added spitefully. That was an issue for contention with himself – letting Molly get away, not pursuing her. How easy his life would have been if he'd have just grown a pair and killed one little girl. _I probably wouldn't be here._

The list of things Peter thought he did or liked was far-fetched and stereotypical – it was insulting. Rather than endure another round of 'homicidal maniac clichés', he put his foot down. "You don't know anything about how I operate or why I do things. You'd have done a successful job of killing me if you knew anything about me. So…quit with that." His voice quieted at the end.

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Peter made a choked-sounding grunt before snapping, "I wasn't saying you were a pedophile. Specifically, that's the _opposite_ of what I meant," he said with a dramatic wave of his arm. "I said if it was someone … too old or young for you to be attracted to - that's what I meant – _too_ old or young, then you wouldn't be making passes at them. You're making it sexual _now_ because I-" He rolled his eyes and leaned his butt against the side of the desk. _Because I fit whatever profile of people you're attracted to, whether that be broad or narrow. And there's nothing I can do about that. Nothing he can do about it. The attraction, at least. He can do things about acting on it. _"Fine. Because I'm me." _Complete non-answer!_ he fumed internally. Peter looked sullen and grumpy, still a little fidgety as he turned his mind to the other things Sylar had said.

"Glad they're still alive." He raised his eyes to regard Sylar steadily for a moment, a grudging respect that Sylar had some limits to whom he would kill. "Most of the time I didn't want to kill you. I just wanted to stop you. There's a difference." He crossed his arms and hunched a little as he looked away, unhappy for having entertained and attempted Sylar's death despite it going against his morals. "Who's Luke, anyway?"

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Sylar's eyes were narrowed as they exchanged looks, but his wariness was decreased. He was more grouchy about the conversation than he was about the sort-of failed kiss (that just depressed him, less so if he'd gotten punched over it, but maybe that made it worse; he didn't know). "No one you knew. He…lived next door to my…real father. Probably knew each other most of his - Luke's - life. Little brat knew more about my dad than I do. Luke could…emit microwaves, like an EMP," Sylar sent a glance to see if Peter followed the acronym; Nathan was military so maybe Peter knew. Contemplatively he confessed with a far-away expression, "Saved my life a few times. He was a good kid." There was more he could say, stories he could tell, insights he could share. He stopped there because that was probably more than Peter asked for.

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Peter nodded for the glance about EMP. He'd heard about it. It had something to do with nuclear bombs and scrambling electronic stuff. He made the leap to assume Luke had a power similar to Ted's in emitting radiation, but as he hadn't heard about any massive explosions, apparently Luke hadn't had to deal with the 'blowing up an entire city' side effect. _Or maybe Sylar helped him with that? Not killed him, but … no, didn't Sylar say you couldn't turn off an ability?_ He cocked his head, hearing a slightly different tone in Sylar's voice, almost … affectionate, definitely friendly, possibly mournful. It really snagged his attention, not that it had been wandering. Peter's expression changed from sullen to curious as his hunch straightened a little and he quit holding himself so firmly. "Tell me more about him. Was he a friend?"

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Sylar's brows twitched in momentary amusement/confusion. "As much as I can be friends with a seventeen-year-old." Sadly, that spoke volumes. _I hang out with kids and the only people who tolerate me are going through puberty. They either think I'm some kind of savior or badass__. Not so different from adults, apparently._ "He was from Jersey; kind of a hyper-active delinquent…His mom was a piece of work. She's lucky to be alive." Sylar's expression clearly showed his distaste. He showed up and wanted to kill the woman just for…existing and making Luke's life miserable.

"The whole thing was…really ironic." _You mean familiar._ It was only after he met Luke that he re-remembered Samson killing his own mother. And Sylar had killed Virginia years before to finally unburden himself, albeit by accident. He showed up and the moment he knew the kid had a power, Sylar felt like he knew him; wanted to help him some, mentor him. He didn't know how to express that to Peter, or if it should be expressed at all. "He lied to me just to test out a power…" He shook his head, impressed. "He had balls, he had a pair enough to tell me that my dad took him bird watching. And that Luke reminded him of me. To my face. And this was a kid who saw me in action; he knew what I could do."

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"Yeah?" Peter nodded, straightening to normal and letting his arms slide free of each other. "Friendship's not really age-dependent. I counted a guy who was a couple hundred years old as a … well, sort of a friend. I thought we were friends, for a while at least." He gave a brief eye roll and said introspectively, "I never really knew Adam." Lifting his head, Peter rallied with, "What seems to matter more is what people have in common. Sounds like you and Luke shared some common ground." _You resented that he knew your fa__ther? Jealous? Is this the father who left when you were young? I can see how that might tick a person off, to have someone else be the favored son through no fault of yours. Or son-substitute._ That wasn't a direction Peter wanted to explore at the moment with Sylar, but he wanted to hear more about this Luke guy. Sylar had had a friend he hadn't killed. That was something Peter wanted to know more about, to encourage. He understood and admitted that he didn't know much about how Sylar operated, but he was learning more and more.

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_You have no idea_, Sylar thought about their 'common ground.'

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"What happened to him, far as you know? You said he was still alive." _You also said he 'saw you in action'. What does that mean? Did you kill someone in __front of him? _Not wanting to trot that out, because it sounded a lot like a judgment (and it was), Peter asked instead, "Was he able to control his ability?"

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"Last time I saw him he was in an abandoned diner. That's where I left him." After all, they'd had some run-ins with agents, Luke knew what to look for and the kid was far from defenseless. Sylar's brows did furrow this time. "Yeah. Teenage boy with a power, he must have practiced. He never lost control even under stress. Had good aim, too," he said that like it was odd – and it was. "He was probably good at hiding it for school or saving it up for juvie."

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_An abandoned diner? Huh. He was alive at least. And I assume by that Sylar means he was basically okay. At seventeen, he probably had__ a phone. Assuming Luke had anyone he could call._ Peter considered Jeremy, Amanda, and Claire – the other youths he'd known with abilities. Those were the ones he'd talked to personally. He knew about Molly and Micah from others._ Sylar's power didn't freak__ him out, so he couldn't have been too traumatized by Sylar's dad. I'm pretty sure Sylar said his dad had an ability, or the same ability._ "What kind of relationship did he have with your father?"

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Sylar paused to give Peter a look. He wasn't quite wary but the questions were getting obvious. _Is this, like, a therapy session to him? _This one was also a loaded question. "He…knew my dad for some years. At least, that's the impression I got. Luke's dad was gone. He said…He said…" another halt before he shook it off, "my dad said he had a little boy once and that Luke reminded him of me." His mouth was open to say more, tell the rest but it just wouldn't come out. /'He sold you for money, you know…He told me once that he had a little boy a long time ago but he needed cash so he sold him.'/ And the whole part about Samson being 'Mr. Rogers' and killing his mother. He closed his mouth and looked disinterested. Realizing Peter had no frame of reference, he explained a little, "He knew where my dad was and he was smart enough not to tell me for a few days on our road trip and when he did I took the address and left him somewhere off the grid. I don't know why my dad told him that." That last sentence reeked of insecure jealousy. Why should Luke have access to his father in case of freaking emergency when the old bastard couldn't even remember the mother of his child or his son's name?

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"Why he told him that Luke reminded him of you? Probably because he missed you." _People are messy, organic. We don't make __sense and it's stupid to get bogged down in trying to. _Sylar's desire for the universe and other people in it to conform to his idea of appropriate behavior had never been so clear. _I'd say you were in for a life of disappointment, but you've already had t__hat._

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"What?" Sylar was confused at that leap of 'logic', another assumption, another miscommunication. "No! I meant why my dad gave Luke his address. Jesus," he expelled. "My dad didn't miss me. He had cancer, and the Hunger. I'll give you one guess what power he wanted from me. I know, the irony is just painful," was his sarcastic finish. A forceful exhale banished those remembered conversations. "Say what you want about my family, at least I know when they're going to make a move. Your parents? I understand them, I speak the language but when it comes to the unexpected, I don't think anyone sees it coming."

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_Ah. An exact copy of his ability? _Peter wasn't sure what to think of two potential Sylars running around. Or the idea of someone possibly having that power for decades. Arthur came to mind, but Peter derailed that thought by focusing on something else Sylar had said and asking, "What kind of cancer?"

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"Lung cancer, I think. He had an oxygen tank and he still smoked. He probably faked most of the coughing. He made the cancer sound terminal." A smirk twisted his lips at that, hearing, /'You'll heal, you'll be fine...I don't want to die'/ rattle through his memory.

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"I've heard lung cancer is a mess." Peter picked up Sylar's pants and fetched the dirty clothes hamper from the closet, brows pulled together in thought as he did. In a suspicious, slightly accusing tone (accusing of Noah, not Sylar), he said, "Noah told me that Claire's ability wouldn't cure cancer. Or at least, that it would only cause a metastasizing tumor to accelerate growth." He stopped in front of the door to the bathroom, saying almost to himself, "Was Noah lying? What advantage was there to him getting me to take Jeremy's ability?"

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Sylar tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "That…makes sense and it doesn't. Either he would be healed or the ability puts the cancer in overdrive, but it wouldn't kill him because he'd just keep coming back. Unless it was brain cancer, depending how close it was to his ability node. That might kill him outright. Or he might die anyway, or he'd be stuck at whatever stage he was at and keep dying and coming back. Huh." The knowledge was both comforting and frightening for all its mystery. Even if Samson had taken regeneration, he'd still be a wheezing old man with aching joints. _But Claire, Peter and I are young and beautiful, is that it? Yes. Survival __of the fittest._

"Bennet has a host of Bennet reasons to lie. He's a Company man. Do you think if the Company found a cure for cancer, they'd make good use of it? They don't protect or help anyone. Your mother, running things, has her own crazy agenda so maybe she wanted you to have that power." This Jeremy kid's life – just like Sylar's, Bridget's, Nathan and Peter's - was certainly small potatoes for her grand cockamamie schemes, the ones that never paid off.

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Peter frowned, both at the simple fact Sylar had made a reference to Peter's mother and at Sylar's disturbing leap to talking about brain cancer (_I never told him what Hiro was sick with, did I?_), then he slipped into the bathroom to look for any other articles of clothing in need of a wash. He emerged, propping the hamper on the chair while he said, "Maybe Noah didn't want Claire healing people? I've always wondered why she didn't. Maybe he thought that would protect her from being discovered and experimented on … or at least swarmed by people who wanted to be cured." He was still frowning. His job, his personal situations and track history – oh yeah, Peter had lots of reasons to want to tap Claire's ability as frequently as she'd allow. But that was her decision to make – her decision to be a hero. It wasn't Noah's.

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_Did Peter mention doing laundry?_ Sylar assumed (hoped) that's what Peter was up to, gathering clothes and all. He decided to assist and further pester his keeper. Standing, he felt an unusual breeze on his legs that reminded him of his lack of pants. Before Peter could nag him, Sylar was at his closet, leaned against the wall, shuffling into a new pair of jeans. _Why does he have to be so active?_ "Aren't you still…sore?" he struggled for the appropriate word to sum up Peter's injuries. _I feel like my head is going to split open around one of those Alien pod-creatures and he's buzzing around like everything's fine._ Sylar had been looking forward to some quiet time but the Petrelli's blood was up. _Maybe he's…anxious about the kiss?_ Sylar snuck a covert glance at the man. He thought ahead then, pleased with himself for managing it, to changing shirts also. Jeans on, lower half covered, he unbuttoned his shirt slowly and slid into a fresh one. I'm_sore. I fell on the ice. _Approaching Peter and the hamper, he placed his days-old shirt inside. _I wonder how bad he'd freak out if I kissed him again_, Sylar considered sadistically, unable to stop his expression from reading 'smug.'

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"Yeah, I am," Peter said testily. _I would have been happy to sit on the couch with you, but you took it too far. I shouldn't have been doing that, anyway._ His eyes narrowed a little at Sylar's expression, and his next questions came out a little more demanding than was necessary. "Where's the laundry detergent? Far as that goes, where's the laundry room? I should have brought my clothes from my place."

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_Oh. Laundry now, he means._ Sylar stretched his back and rolled his eyes in pure annoyance. "It's in the hall closet," he pointed and moved to get it, whether or not Peter was going to do it himself. "If you moved closer, you wouldn't have that problem," he commented mildly. "I'll show you where it's at." _Like I'm going to give you directions and trust you not__ to get lost._

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_I'm already going to be bunking on your couch tonight, Sylar. That's a lot closer than I want to be._ He blew air out of his nose, irritated that Sylar was still demanding more. _He's a control freak who wants me in his pocket all the t__ime, _Peter thought uncharitably. Realizing Sylar seemed to be prepping for coming with him, Peter changed his tact, opting for a lighter tone as he said, "Hey, if you want to stay here and rest, that's fine with me. I've done laundry. Your clothes are safe with me." He laughed a little at the joke that Sylar might fear to let Peter handle the washing in the same way he didn't want Peter touching anything else of his.

XXX

Sylar canted his head again, missing…whatever was funny. _Implying something else __isn't safe?_ When Peter didn't move between him and the door, looking poised to leave him, Sylar struggled to come up with baiting activity. "We could…" _Talk? (No). Kiss? (Yes, but no). Ah!_ "Play a board game?" he hedged and reminded, "You said we could." When Peter looked grudgingly accepting, Sylar informed, "They're in the hall, you pick."

XXX

Peter swallowed down his grumbling as he conceded defeat, or at least that he wasn't going to be more direct in telling Sylar to stay away from him for a while. _Yeah, I'm sore. And I'm irritable. And I was planning on resting on the couch while … yeah, touching you like that should be off limits. Even just sitting there with my hand on your ankle. That's weird. Wrong. I shouldn't even want to do that. (Well, I cer__tainly don't want to now.)_ He sighed and carried the clothes hamper into the hall, looking at the choices. "We can play while the clothes wash," he said distractedly.

The box on top was a combination chess/checkers set. Peter nudged at it half-heartedly, remembering Arthur being overbearing and Nathan a gloating ass when he'd played chess with them. He'd played in college and had happier times with it, but the early experiences had soured the fun for him. He shot a sidelong glance back at Sylar. _He won't b__ehave himself any better. I'll bet that smug look earlier was about the kiss and 'getting one over on me'. I hate that attitude. _The next was Scrabble, which he liked, but judged might be too complicated for Sylar's current mental faculties. Clue and Monopoly were the next two, with various others further under. He hesitated on Clue. _Didn't he say he liked that? It involves killing people. Can I handle that? From him? Well, if I can't, it's not a big loss. I'm not all that invested in Clue. _He pulled it out and brushed it off. Not that it was dusty, but he felt like it should be. Having decided, he set it on top of the clothes and turned to his companion. "Hey? You ready?"

XXX

"Yeah!" Wait. "Not…yet." Sylar wanted some shoes for this. Clean socks and the damp shoes from before took moments, then he was in the hall with Peter, shutting the door behind himself.


	64. Get a Clue

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

"Where's the laundry room at?" Peter asked again in just as crabby a tone as before, trying to figure out a comfortable way of hauling a tall, narrow hamper in his present condition. It was doable, but awkward – too big to tuck under an arm, too heavy to carry one-handed, so he was left hooking the functional fingers of his right hand under the rim and trying not to actually carry any weight on that hand. Once in the elevator, he set it on the floor and stared up and to the side at a random spot on the wall in the opposite direction from Sylar. _I'm tired_. He breathed out heavily. _Most of what I've done is just a lot of sitting around, though._ He glanced over Sylar's way once to show a polite awareness of the guy's presence, then looked away again before he could be engaged in conversation. _What was it Matt yelled at me? 'If you go in there, you'll never come out!' Can't be true. I won't let it be true. _As the elevator doors dinged open, a new thought occurred to him: _What would I need to do to keep it from being true?_

XXX

_Okay. If that's the mood we're in._ "Basement. C'mon, I'll show you." Sylar led the way. _You should really move in. It wouldn't be that bad. Wouldn't have to be on my floor even._ He could feel 'cranky' radiating off Peter and it didn't bother him much – he knew it was harmless. That said, unless he wanted to piss the guy off, he had to pay attention to Peter and simultaneously not annoy or smother him. The ride down was silent but not tense.

XXX

The new scene distracted him. The elevator doors opened on a dingy, poorly-lit basement that featured exposed piping and miscellaneous equipment Peter imagined was necessary for the successful (if equally imaginary) operation of the building. He'd mostly given up trying to rationalize or understand the world. The only thing here worth understanding was Sylar, who still had so many walls up that it would be no easy task to bring them down. Peter hung back and let Sylar lead the way, thus gaining a little bit of privacy for him to wrestle the hamper into submission.

XXX

Sylar turned left out of the doors, leading away from the lobby. There were two right turns, a door, and a long horror-film hallway. "It's cleaner than it looks. It's mostly old," he informed, entering the last door to his left. The washers were on the right walls, the dryers the left. A tall table was mounted in the middle of the room, for folding. There was one chair and a carpeted step area that led to another hall with more apartments. That was there they would be sitting.

XXX

The laundry room itself was better lit and actually enclosed. Peter didn't think they had but a single load to wash. He dumped in clothes all together, not sorting for whites or colors. Just about everything they'd worn had been dark anyway. He frowned into the washer tub. "I used to wear colors. I ought to wear something bright tomorrow. What'd'ya think?"

XXX

Standing by, looking for the opportunity to aid the one-handed with the clothes, Sylar turned to him and grinned. Color was good, wasn't it? Getting Peter out of his mourning garb certainly was. "Sounds good to me." _Uh-oh._ "Um…Speaking of…" _Anal-retentive much? (Shut up. They'll last longer this way.) _Sylar stepped in to sort the colors before Peter added detergent. The other man huffed and moved away – Sylar checked to make sure it was an okay detachment and it seemed to be. "It's…better for the clothes, this way. It only takes a minute," he tried to reason anyway, just in case or maybe just because. That done, he added detergent and started the machines.

XXX

Peter rolled his eyes but held his peace, stepping back out of Sylar's way, then further still because he didn't have anything invested in how the laundry was arranged. It was mostly Sylar's clothes and despite how easily irritated Peter felt at the moment, this wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to argue about. He snagged the game box from where he'd set it to the side before unloading the clothes and wandered off to the other side of the room, looking for a place to sit. A single chair meant they were both going to be on the floor and since he didn't want to sit flat if he could help it (due to pain when he'd inevitably have to get himself back up), the stair steps looked like the best option. He sunk down on the middle one carefully, near the half-wall so he could pull himself up when he needed to rise.

XXX

"Clue," he said, approaching Peter and spying the game. Sylar settled his legs Indian style and dug out the multitude of tiny pieces that went to the game. "Who do you wanna be?" He asked of the character player-slash-color choices, holding them up in his palm.

XXX

Peter tried to remember the details of the game. He knew the pieces corresponded to various personas, but that was about it. He didn't think which of the brightly colored tokens he chose had any rules-based impact on the game. With nothing else to go on, he picked the red one. He liked red.

XXX

"Ms. Scarlet. Is that red or pink? No, I think it's pink. Why'd you choose pink, Peter?"

XXX

Peter glared at him, passing the piece to his left hand, which curled around it in a fist. He swayed forward slightly, feet tucking back as much as he could on the step as if poising to get up. His bad mood surged to full force. "I picked it because it's _**red**_. What the fuck does it matter to you if it's pink? You got any other bullshit you want to get off your chest?" Sylar's comment about him being a 'male nurse' came to mind, setting him to wonder if Sylar saw him as effeminate and coded that as 'bad'. His eyes narrowed slightly in comprehension. "Does this have something to do with why you keep making passes at me?" He rocked back against his seat on the stairs, stretching his legs out and relaxing his grip around the game piece, which nevertheless had already left an imprint against his palm. "I am not _less_ than you because of the gender of those I fall in love with."

XXX

Sylar frowned. _(I was just teasing…) Keep your mouth shut already! He's not your fucking friend!_ He was left with confusion, feeling attacked without sufficient cause or reason. _He did say he liked red, which is still weird._ "I hit on you because you chose a pink- red piece that you just now took?" _I hit on you before you took it…_Peter's mental/verbal leaps weren't traceable to him and he was twelve steps behind trying to piece them together to answer. He blurted "What?" _How did we get on love?_ "Pink is gay is good…?" he asked with trepidation, feeling out if that's what Peter was talking about. _Why does he think I care? (Nathan would care, but I'm not Nathan. Is he labeling me as Nathan or…?)_ Clue – red piece – female character – bullshit – hitting on him – loving…people; what, if anything, was the connecting factor? "Because you're gay? I hit on you because you're not, um…" there was a long pause to word this in vague Sylar-form, "opposed, that way. Not…counting that it's me." _Is he gonna hit me over this? I don't even know what I did! He will hit me if that's not what he's talking about._

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wasn't following most of what Sylar was saying, but the gist seemed to be that Sylar was in the same boat regarding what Peter had said. _Is he putting me on?_ His lips pressed together tightly for a moment and he leaned forward, eyes boring into Sylar. "You don't get it?" Peter asked with a slight sideways motion of his head.

XXX

Sylar's mouth tensed at the familiarity of that – at Nathan's familiarity of that phrase. _/"__You get it right?" "Yeah, I get it." "Good man."__/_ came to mind before everything began to fall apart, thinking it many times as Peter 'didn't get it' about being mind fucked. As it was, being spoken to him now, it was almost like being asked if he was stupid. "No, I don't," he said, not appreciating the suspicious look he was being given either.

XXX

Peter leaned back, face relaxing as he accepted that Sylar didn't understand the context for the outburst. But before he addressed it, he needed to say something about another thing Sylar had brought up. "I'm not gay. I'm bisexual. It's two different things, but you're right that it means I'm not 'opposed' to being with men sexually." He skipped the mention of Sylar in particular.

XXX

_Eh-hu-uh…Whatever excuse you need to get off, Peter._ Sylar made a 'there you have it' face. _Just that sentence, 'being with men sexually', so casual. How does that even happen?_

XXX

_And now, the 'getting it' part._ He rubbed his heel on the floor speculatively, looking down at it and pulling his arms in closer to make himself smaller. "You know, my dad didn't like … a lot of things about me. The last thing he didn't like, before he died the first time, was me becoming a nurse. I'll spare you all his bullshit about it being beneath a Petrelli and move on to the part about how he didn't think that was a job for a man. If I was going to do it, then to him, it meant I _wasn't_ a man. That maybe I needed to wear women's shoes like Nathan got me for graduation, or that I was wearing my hair long because I wanted people to confuse me for a girl." Peter snorted at the stupidity of that. "As if anyone would, who actually took a look at me. God forbid my dad had ever found out I wasn't actually straight." He rolled his eyes and looked away. He knew Arthur had had reason to suspect. It just seemed swallowed up by Peter's general inadequacy to Arthur, or maybe his father saw it as too depraved to even mention. It was a ridiculous point of view to have in 21st century New York, but his father took Peter's stubbornness to absurd lengths.

XXX

Peter's point was a very obvious one, a good one, too, if he dared say so. Sylar should have thought of that, taken it into consideration. Nathan had been very familiar with the argument as the go-between father and brother. Arthur – the foundation for all of Peter's rebelliousness. Arthur who wanted his son to be…normal? So he could…dismiss or handle him more easily? That was the exact opposite of little Gabriel's upbringing. _Peter wants to be special, his dad wanted him to be normal; I wanted to be normal, my mom wanted me to be special. Yeah, I'd have been a good fit for the Petrellis. But that means Peter just…doesn't belong anywhere? That can't be right. Nobody turns him away. And on top of that, he's worried about being manly. So he works out a lot._ Sylar would know better than to assume that didn't affect Peter, even before this little outburst. _But why does he wear his hair long then, if not to piss of Arthur and Nathan?_

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a long, level look. "There's nothing funny about jokes that there's something wrong with me or anyone else for being other than my dad's stupid idea of a man's man."

XXX

_I wasn't referring to you dad's stupid idea of a man's man. (I was referring to my dad's stupid idea of it, not that I'd have ever been stupid enough to pick a pink or purple piece) Of course, I didn't mean for you to get this upset about it._ How often had Peter played with dolls or dressed up in dresses, put on make-up or stated a preference for 'girl' colors that this was such an issue? Sylar really had no idea what to say. He had his own opinion, Nathan's, Peter's, Martin's, Virginia's, and Arthur's opinion in the mix. The problem was he could understand everyone else's opinion – but Peter just did what Peter wanted to do, no matter the rhyme or reason, and he was good enough to rationalize it with whatever he wanted and make it sound passable. There was safety in numbers, being accepted by the herd but…the empath's side had sense, too. Peter was girly, he was rebellious, he was an outsider there was no denying it. Sylar was even pretty sure Peter knew that. Sylar didn't know where he fell into this whole mess – he'd been forced into obedience but driven to shine when he wanted normalcy. He still hadn't figured any of it out, mostly he left it alone because it was just so damn tangled.

For now, because Peter was staring at him, demanding agreement, Sylar nodded noncommittally. If pressed, he'd say he was acknowledging Peter's point of view, his grievance. Distantly, he was torqued that Peter wanted everything both ways (no puns intended): know him, but don't know him using Nathan's memories. "Why do you wear your hair long, then? The secret hope that you'll join a rock band? Not that it's a bad look or anything, it's just…" _Pointless?_

XXX

Peter let another long beat slide by, weighing Sylar's bland but curious tone, like Sylar hadn't just been insulting and Peter hadn't snapped at him in response. Absent was any recognition from Sylar that he'd said anything wrong – that nod didn't count. It looked like an acknowledgment that Peter had said something, not an indication they felt the same way on it. Peter sighed voluminously and let it go, reaching up to rake his mentioned hair back. "I was in a band, briefly. But no, that's not it. I like my hair long. A lot of other people like it that way. I had it short for a while; didn't like it as much. My _father_ doesn't get to decide what I do with my life _or_ my hair." _Or didn't, rather. Whatever._ His eyes cut off to the side in annoyance, then back. He pulled over the game box to distract himself, getting out the board and unfolding it.

XXX

Part of Peter's statement was bothering him. Sylar looked away for a moment, thinking abstractly, trying to connect it to what he knew. He wanted to see if he could explain some of that famously crazed Peter behavior. He didn't know that he cared particularly for the trauma involved (assuming there was any), but he would definitely point the finger at idiot-Nathan for not knowing or caring. That was just being a bad brother. "Peter, did…did some guy make you do things? Is that why you…?" He finished with a 'you know…' gesture to indicate those perverted fetishes Peter had.

XXX

Peter found himself in a dilemma. If he set the board on the lowest level next to Sylar, then Peter would have to lean down uncomfortably for it or ask Sylar to do his moves for him. If it put it on the highest level, above the short quarter-flight of stairs, then Sylar would have to move to that level, where he'd tower above Peter to an absurd and unacceptable degree. He frowned, glancing up and down the stairs at the two options. He set it next to where Sylar was sitting and scooted himself down to sit on the same level. It would be tougher to get up, but he figured he'd make it somehow.

He furrowed his brow at Sylar's questions and gesture. "Uh, it was Elle who cut my hair, not a guy." At Sylar's expression, Peter shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

XXX

Sylar tilted his chin down, giving Peter a more meaningful look, enunciating more. "Around high school maybe. Did a guy ever make you do anything for him, to him?"

XXX

"Oh!" Now Peter got it, and his face showed it with a bob up and down of his brows and a few rapid blinks. It was followed by a smile that was somewhere between a wince and bared teeth as he processed what Sylar was implying. Just to be sure, he asked, "You're suggesting … I'm bisexual because I was raped, or molested. Is that right?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar nodded again, waiting. Those were the common labels for such events, whether or not he thought they applied. He didn't know if Peter would answer this one in so many words.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar another long, searching look, one of many he'd given him so far during this conversation. Sylar seemed serious as could be and more importantly, he was _listening_. Not just 'hearing what Peter was saying' listening, but actually seemed to be trying to understand. Peter's left hand found his right, tracing the edge of the brace and scratching idly while he thought about what that meant for Sylar. He calmed and moved back so his butt was against the riser for the bottom stair step.

"No. That's not the case." He spoke simply and plainly, relating the facts in a manner he hoped was educational. "I wasn't raped in high school and it didn't have anything to do with my preferences. I've been attracted to both since the earliest sexual fantasies I can remember. That's how it is for most people: what you want, what you dream about, that's what you're attracted to, at least as far as general trends. It doesn't have anything to do with being abused, except that I've talked to a few people who … once they were mistreated by a certain type of person, they might stay away from that type after that and sometimes that's broad enough that they stay away from an entire gender, or just get turned off from sex altogether. Sometimes people don't get past it. Different people cope differently."

His voice had softened a bit towards the end, eyeing Sylar with a slightly furrowed brow. It was a thoughtful look. _He said liking each other didn't have anything to do with sex. Has anything ever happened to him? Is that why he's asking?_ Peter dug into the box for the cards, setting them out unshuffled on the board as he tried to feel his way through what little he knew for sure of Sylar's past. Oddly, the thing that came front and center to his mind was the whole Nathan identity fiasco, how Peter had tried to repeat it, and how upset Sylar had been about that earlier. His expression faded to melancholy. _Is that why he could never like me?_

XXX

_There goes that theory. I guess that's good he wasn't raped or anything. He doesn't understand it._ Sylar couldn't imagine that kind of thing, done willingly, being natural or pleasurable. He stared intently at Peter throughout his speech. _Wait, wait, wait! If I don't dream about guys, I'm not gay? They were wrong! I have nightmares, though…does that count? I don't really dream about that stuff so what does that mean? It's so complicated._ Sylar caught Peter looking at him and hastily fixed his face before looking away to think. _Some people don't get a choice. Oh well. It doesn't matter._ He sniffed and straightened, taking the yellow Colonel Mustard piece after all that.

XXX

Peter gave a small frown as he moved his cards to the side and pulled the other supplies from the box. Quietly and slowly, eyes mostly on what he was doing, he said, "You know, it's really hard for me to relate to you, to understand you, when you don't give me any feedback. It's okay; you don't have to at all. But if you want to sometime, talk to me about stuff, okay?"

He picked up the box lid, spying the rules printed on the inside of it. In a more normal voice, he said, "Now hang on a moment while I figure out how to play." Peter had played the game a few times years ago, but the refresher didn't hurt and his main purpose was to direct his attention entirely elsewhere, giving Sylar a few moments of privacy to think over his offer. Not that he expected a response right away, but maybe eventually. _Would probably go better if I wasn't getting angry and raging at him every five minutes._

XXX

_And what do I have to talk about? What does he want to hear? What does he need to understand? Why would he want to understand me?_ Sylar was reminded of Gabriel's trips to the school nurse. She'd invited him to talk. He never did. He was still touched by the offers but the reality of disclosure was complicated and dangerous. Because of that, he had to ignore it. _Most of what's happened to me didn't really happen anyway._ "Okay," he intoned, voice polite and lighter, less sarcastic than he felt, responding because it was required.

"Did you ever see the movie, Clue? All the multiple endings?" He shuffled the cards since Peter couldn't or shouldn't, passing them out then taking the three secret cards and putting them into the envelope. Idly, he checked out his own cards while Peter handled the pencils and check-lists. "I liked all of them except Mrs. Peacock's. It didn't seem…probable. She didn't seem capable, I guess."

XXX

Getting the gist of the rules, Peter set the lid aside and picked up his cards, sitting up straighter and glancing over at Sylar a few times. "No, I never saw the movie, but I remember seeing the trailers for it. I wouldn't think my mo- um." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I've seen a lot of people I didn't think were capable of what they did." The second try wasn't much better. _Um, I kind of fall into that category, too …_ Peter sniffed, looking anywhere but at Sylar – the game board, his cards, the box lid, were all good things to check on for the moment. His voice brightened with a new topic. "Unless maybe you're talking physically? Then yeah, I can see that. Especially with, you know, a candlestick, those pliers or whatever." He gestured at the wrench, not sure what that thing was called, but knowing one used it to loosen nuts and bolts. "So what happened in the movie?" he asked, desperate to get away from the subject he'd inadvertently brought up.

XXX

Sylar's jaw ticked but Peter moved on quickly enough, even so the comment didn't seem intended to encompass him at all. "I guess both. It was mostly her story that wasn't as strong as the others." Sylar shrugged. "It starts out like the game," he gestured, "all the characters get blackmailed into coming to Mr. Body's house and the movie unfolds, Mr. Body is killed, the maid is killed, some other people who come to the house get whacked. They set it up that everyone has motive or has killed someone in the past. There's a storm and they can't leave the house until the solve the murders because everyone knows everyone's secrets and the blackmailer is still at large in the house, the police have been called to arrive in a few hours. So they travel through the house and find secret passages, suspecting everyone else the whole time. Then at the end, there's a series of multiple endings, kind of like chose your own adventure. One is where the butler is the killer, he's the real Mr. Body and the dead guy is really the butler. One is Miss Scarlet blackmailing everyone through Colonel Mustard or something like that. Another is Mr. Green pretending- uh…well, he turns out to be an FBI agent. Ms. Peacock's was that her husband was some government guy and she knew all the secrets," he waved that off. "I dunno, I watched it several times and they all seem plausible, you know? If someone was off killing, then they weren't in the group scene, or they shouldn't be."

XXX

"Which ending was the real ending? Was it the first one they showed, or the last?" Peter fidgeted, instinctively disliking the ambiguity without focusing on why it bothered him. That sort of thing had never bothered him before, but he hadn't thought about movies and literary devices for years.

XXX

"Uh…I think the 'real ending' was the butler. They showed it first, I think." Sylar frowned, trying to wrack his memory. "Any of the endings could work, though, like I said."

XXX

"That's not the way things work," Peter said, trying to be reasonable and instead sounding defensive. His voice was tight and his grip on his cards too firm, curling the ones on the end. "I mean, maybe in a movie, yeah, but in real life, like if you have time travel, there's only one ending. You don't get to pick which one you get. You just … get the one you get. You don't get to _pick!_" He stopped, because his voice was pitching up in alarm as he repeated himself. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, and inappropriate. Lips pursed, he ducked his head and stared sightlessly at his cards. He wanted to go lie down, be alone, be away from this guy who kept stirring up all these unresolved problems inside of him.

Even so, he knew Sylar was not to blame for his sudden agitation. He tried not to think of various futures he wished had never happened, even if now, they never would. Regardless, they'd happened to _him_ – murdered Nathan, stranded Caitlyn, killed 97% of the population, shot Nathan – or, wait, those last two weren't him. Or at least not really him. Did it matter if he were the only one who knew about it? _(But then where's Caitlyn? And where did future-me come from if it doesn't happen after all?)_ He pulled into himself even further, shoulders hunching up as he put the cards face down and pinched his nose with thumb and forefinger. _And in one of those maybe-places, Sylar was a good guy._

Clearing his throat and still looking down, he said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm … I don't understand time travel. I don't like the futures I've seen. They all … They're all awful, except for you." He picked up his cards and reached for the dice, since Miss Scarlet went first. He rolled them, a three and a one, woodenly moving his piece the four squares indicated. It left his piece in a hallway next to the lounge. He looked up at Sylar with a bland expression. "Did you like the movie?"

XXX

"Oh…" Sylar voiced because Peter wanted 'feedback.' "I didn't think about time travel. I never had that one." Not much of an excuse, he supposed, depending on where one stood on a lot of things.

"They're all awful except for my future or all the futures are awful except the ones I'm in?" He dared to ask. Either seemed like a really good answer but…the future was the future and not set in stone. A good future was unlikely to happen now anyway. He lusted after the idea that Peter might be interested in a future that was nice because he was in it.

XXX

"The futures I've seen were awful, including the one you were in, but the bigger problem for me was that I didn't run into anyone worth knowing except for you. And maybe N- hrm." He breathed out and looked down, trying to recall what Nathan had said to him in the morgue or wherever it was Peter had woke up next to a dead version of himself. Nathan hadn't seem bothered at all by the dead body of his 'real' brother. That was disturbing and Peter had been unable to stop himself from trying to get to the bottom of that. Snapping his eyes back to Sylar, he asked, "You were going to tell me what you thought about the movie?"

XXX

Before he answered the direct question, Sylar wanted to clear something up, "It's just a movie, Peter. The same people- the characters ended up dead, in the same way, no matter who killed them. Maybe it is like a…a…choose your own adventure ending but it's the same as solving a crime, like the game. You obviously don't have a problem playing the game, even with-" _a murderer. Yeah, definitely keep quiet._ Sylar cleared his throat, ashamed. "I liked the movie. It was clever and funny and kept you guessing and even then there's no clear, real answer so it's…kind of realistic, in a way. What's that saying you heroes like, 'morally grey'? It's not a black-and-white ending." He shrugged and rolled his turn, five, with his piece between lounge and dining room, closer to the latter. He was absurdly pleased to have gotten a higher, 'better', score than Peter, knowing dice was a game of chance notwithstanding.

XXX

Peter was still responding to Sylar's near statement of 'even with me', or at least that was how Peter was completing it in his head. He heard the rest, but it was less important. "Sylar," he said softly, "I don't have a problem playing a board game with you. This place," he gestured at the world in general, "is not good for me. I know it's even worse for you, but hey, you've got me here now." He smiled weakly, thinking his presence was the difference between a hell of sensory deprivation and feeling intermittent pain – an improvement, but not much of one. "Things will get better for both of us."

He rolled, getting a three and a four, enough to let him go to the Lounge or the Dining Room. He counted off the squares, noticing he'd be one move from getting into the Hall, too. He picked up the box lid to figure out if there was any reason to wait on going in a room. There didn't seem to be, so he moved to the Lounge as it was closer. "Hm, one accusation per game. But I can suggest ... hm. I can see the advantage to calling a player into a room, at least to the player you're calling because next turn they're in the room and can make their own suggestion. But I don't see what I'd get out of that. Or why we move whatever murder weapon I suggest into the room with me. What does it matter where the pieces are?"

XXX

_He did it again_; that was what Sylar registered subconsciously. Soft voice, admission of his suffering, a hint of connection or friendliness…Then that stupid/cute combination of reading the rules aloud or speaking his strategy, asking a question, whatever that was. "While we're on the subject of 'feedback,' how was the kiss?" He asked it casually, checking off the cards he had off the checklist.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, putting down the box lid. "I didn't want it; don't do it again." After a moment of threatening glaring, he dropped his gaze from Sylar's and thought about what feedback he wanted to give. _I just wanted to sit on the couch … with him. But we're stuck here and … and that's a point Sylar's been making for a while now … Lonely. Still haven't jerked off in forever. And there he is, offering. Human touch. That's what I was talking about right before he did it. Is that why?_ "I was talking about … the value of human contact right before you did that. What were you trying to do?"

XXX

Sylar glanced up to catch the full-force glare, double-taking because he'd asked civilly enough. _Why is he so threatened by that? It's just a kiss. He'd be the first to agree, a kiss is the lightest thing I'm capable of. I'm not his bitch boy (He just wants to know he's safe. Even you can understand that). I'm still not his tame bitch; he doesn't get to order me around._ Glare acknowledged, he went back to arranging his cards in order – a task of vital importance all of a sudden, now he wanted to avoid the conversation he'd begun. Mockingly, in his head he mimicked Peter's voice, '_If you want to, you can talk to me about stuff, okay?'_ "Which answer do you want?" Sylar thought to cut to the chase, no more falling into verbal traps.

XXX

"Give me both." Peter's eyes stayed on him intently, refusing to pander to the dodge.

XXX

The older man sighed. "I wanted to kiss you or I want things from you," Sylar stated it in a no-nonsense tone, his face somewhat defiant.

XXX

"Which is it?" He assumed both, but wanted to see if Sylar would choose one over the other.

XXX

Sylar pinned his companion with a stare over the top of his cards. Damn these steps for being too small to sit Indian style. "You decide. You're going to either way. Pick which one suits your needs and that's the truth. It doesn't matter anyway. Are you going to make a guess?" he indicated the board game, leaving off the 'Miss Scarlett' jab he could have made. _Two can play this game, Petrelli._

XXX

"Matters to me." Peter eased back, ignoring the prompt about Clue just as he breezed by the glare. "I know you want … things from me, kissing probably among them. I don't want to give you that – intimacy, sex, you know?" He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck in unease. Telling someone he wouldn't be loving towards them went against a lot of core parts of Peter's being, but Sylar – he'd tried to murder the guy and still didn't feel sorry about it (sorry he'd fallen so low, yes; sorry he'd done it … that was debatable). Even if he knew very well how the feelings of hate and love weren't incompatible, he didn't want to soften his heart towards Sylar. That it was happening anyway in a dozen mundane ways frustrated him.

XXX

Hearing it was so much different than knowing it, and here Peter said it aloud. It was that extra reminder of his worthlessness. "I know," Sylar stated simply, giving feedback just so Peter didn't get any wrong impressions of his expectations. _(But he wants me to like him…?)_

XXX

That hurt and Peter knew it – hurt Sylar to be shut down, hurt Peter to know he was shutting him down. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them as he huffed and indicated the game. "But I'm playing a board game with you." _That counts for something, right?_ He waved at the washing machines. "We're doing laundry together. Earlier we were sitting on the couch having a conversation. There's a lot of things I'm okay with." He dipped his head, trying to catch Sylar's gaze as he decided to get this out in the open rather than hinted at. With a steady, lower-pitched voice, he asked, "I was intending to sleep on your couch tonight because you wanted me there. Am I going to wake up with you on top of me or something?"

XXX

Sylar's head dropped for a moment. That was his cue to be grateful – and to swallow any and all unpleasantness his situation held. It was a tough mouthful; it usually was. He knew he should be grateful (and he was); he just wasn't the type to rest on his laurels because if he ever did, he'd be accused of sloth. And it was hard to turn away from a challenge with an outcome he viewed as attainable, to have his idealism smacked away. Since when was being tolerated a joyous state of being? It wasn't, but it was much, much better than the alternatives. He wouldn't lie, the idea of being atop Peter, even a sleeping Peter, sounded like a gamble; it sounded like danger incarnate and that was the attraction. His first instinct was to take that as an invitation, a dare, a warning, all of the above. Knowing Peter as he did thus far (and knowing him better after testing him with a half-planned, admittedly stupid kiss) the nurse meant it in the most boring way possible. Sylar looked up to see Peter feeding him a question – this one had a right and wrong answer (such a relief Peter showed that hint sometimes).

To cover his flayed and bleeding ego, he managed to say smoothly and pointedly enough, "If you ask nicely, and only if I can bring my concussion." He sniffed and made an impatient motion at the board game Peter was so obviously avoiding, "Use it or lose it, Petrelli."

XXX

It wasn't a 'no, you're not going to wake up with me assaulting you'. _And the guy wonders why I'm not on board with getting close to him? Even if Rene showed up and stripped all my memories (again), being with Sylar – just _trying_ to be with him – would be a fucking minefield! This is important to me. Why can't he tell me 'no, you're safe, it's good'?_ He sighed. _Because he can't. Because he's the kind of guy I even have to ask the stupid question. What he said is pretty much a 'you're safe', so … fine. _Incongruously, Peter moved back to the game. "Miss Peacock, in the lounge, with the revolver." He looked to Sylar expectantly.

XXX

Finally. No wonder Peter was difficult to handle – poor kid couldn't focus. Sylar had all three of the cards, once he shuffled them around so he could see. Big hands came in handy but with blazing lights and bad seating and a homicidal headache, his cognition or perception wasn't one-hundred percent. The question was, which was the best card to show? There were nine rooms, six characters, and six weapons but the rooms took the longest to get to and the cards were divided in half…_What the hell._ Sylar showed his partner in crime the character card, Miss Peacock.

That done, Sylar rolled himself into the dining room and surveyed his cards. He lacked the room, conveniently. "Ms. White, in the dining room with the…rope."

XXX

Laundry was migrated to the dryers and the game, simplistic with only two players, was concluded in Sylar's favor. Peter thought about explaining himself and how he'd only figured out the reasons behind some of the rules, and how they impacted strategy and choice in the game, right at the end, but he skipped it. Instead, "I think you've been holding out on me on the MMSE's I've been doing. You're pretty good at this." Peter helped put away the game, then got himself to his feet. He stretched, hands over head and shirt riding up, then rubbed his elbow as he limped over to the dryer to check the time left on the cycle. He rubbed his lower lip with his index finger. "Almost done. How about we pull them out and take them upstairs to fold?"

XXX

Sylar agreed. That was the next logical step, though he usually folded here in the laundry room. After forking the clothes into the hamper, Sylar pointedly hefted it – because watching Peter try to carry it one handed again would just annoy him. He left Peter to carry the board game, much more suited to his capacity at the moment. Back in his apartment, he seated himself on the couch. His knees became his table of sorts for folding, reaching in to snag an item of clothing to fold, doing so, setting it aside, before repeating the process. Sylar came across Peter's underwear and while he wasn't totally disgusted (they were clean, after all), he wasn't sure what he should do with them, socially speaking. Would Peter throw a fit and call him a pervert if he folded them? Just holding them now was risky in that regard. Was it rude to hold them like they might scald him? Or would Peter even notice…? Luckily as he watched, Peter came across some of Sylar's underwear, handling and folding them without a thought it seemed. _Okay…_Now Sylar didn't know what to feel about that. _It's just clothing, right? He didn't do anything weird so it must not be weird._ He spotted Peter mishandling a shirt, though, "No, no. Arms together, folded in the middle…Like this," he demonstrated folding the shirt in half vertically, the armholes together before turning the sleeves to one side, then beginning the compression folds horizontally across the middle. After that, Sylar kept half an eye on Peter's folding process, curious about it. _Didn't I say something about folding clothes eventually? And he disagreed with me? _That made him grin to himself.

Folding the laundry didn't take long with two of them (even if one man was one-handed). Sylar handled putting them away and Peter went about making soup for dinner.


	65. Cereal Killer

Day 16, December 26, Evening

Peter loitered in the kitchen well after the meal was over, putting things away and going to the bother of washing the dishes. Despite being tired, he wasn't in a rush to claim his bed on the couch. He was still waiting, hoping, for some manner of reassurance as he had been all day. Some 'no, I'm not going to force myself on you'. Instead, he'd been kissed without his consent and his concerns about that were not even worthy of a straight answer. Talking about it sitting across the Clue board from Sylar was one thing – it was easier to think that maybe Sylar climbing in bed with him that morning or kissing him that afternoon had been … innocent. Or understandably human. Getting ready to go to bed with the guy in the room was another thing entirely – this wasn't some hypothetical that Sylar might be venting his 'understandably human' urges on. Human beings hurt each other all the time, something Peter was painfully aware of.

He fondled one of the kitchen knives, considering taking it to bed with him. It seemed kind of extreme, but if he needed it and didn't have it … that would suck. If he had it and didn't need it, then it didn't matter and he had nothing to worry about. Peter was not unaware that the 'good' behavior Sylar had shown for the last week might be due mainly to inability. Now that the guy was feeling better, transgressions were afoot – not necessarily a coincidence. The more he thought about it, the more decided he became. He chose the paring knife, wrapping his fist around it. It had a small indentation before the heel of the blade, making it less likely his hand would slip past the bolster and cut his fingers on the blade.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother trimming his beard down to a manageable stubble, not tonight. There was little point besides comfort. He'd definitely do in the morning. Peter was…in the kitchen – the light was still on. At least, he was pretty sure Peter hadn't flown the coop. _Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him – the drugs are right outside and Peter is nothing if not a sneaky bastard_. Dismissing it because so far that threat had been unfounded, Sylar left out a blanket and pillow on the couch for Peter to arrange and fluff as he would. Ready for sleep, he turned off the living room lights and crawled into his cot, sighing just to be back with familiar things.

XXX

Peter continued his aimless puttering (planning out breakfast, but really just wasting time) until he assumed Sylar was asleep. Lights off in the kitchen left the apartment nearly dead dark. The cloud cover outside must have broken at some point during the day, because as Peter's eyes adjusted, he could see enough moonlight coming in through the window to get around. It made a decent enough nightlight that he didn't bother with leaving any other light on. He set the knife on the arm of the couch, finding the blanket and pillow Sylar had left out. Thoughtful, but on the other hand, self-serving. The guy wanted him to stay.

Peter arranged the bedding and sat down, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the floor in front of him, far enough away that he wouldn't trip on it if he had to get up in the night. Next were shoes, carefully unlaced and examined for any residual dampness. These were placed more carefully on the floor halfway down the couch, laces loosened and open. Then socks were pulled off and tossed over with his shirt. He rubbed his feet and in between toes. Absently holding his right foot with his left hand, he listened as the many clocks simultaneously chimed the hour, and then ticked away in the comparative quiet after. He stood up, gave one last stretch for the benefit of his back and then flipped back the blanket. He picked up the knife and sat, preparing to swing his legs under the blanket and settle in.

XXX

A quick glance showed Peter, shirtless, engaged and…very armed. Without a word, he clicked on his bedside reading lamp and sat up. "Nuh-uh," he proclaimed loudly. "If you can't sleep with me, restless bed mate, then you can't sleep with a knife. You sure as hell can't in _my_ apartment."

XXX

"What?" Peter shielded his eyes from the sudden light with his right hand, the knife in question held tensely in his left. He hadn't expected to be confronted about having it. He hadn't expected Sylar to know at all unless things went badly, which he supposed might describe the current situation. Shirtless, already uncomfortable just to be here, and feeling threatened over his chosen method of self-defense, he dropped his right hand and took an aggressive tack. "I can sleep with whatever I want. And _who_ever I want." _To mean: not you._ "Why do you care? Is me having a knife inconvenient for something you had planned?"

XXX

Sylar immediately didn't like that tone. A growled sigh-harumph of aggravation preceded his words. "I'm not contesting that." _Why do I care? Why do I_ care_? _There was a long, silent stare, broken only by his occasional blinking as he processed that, or tried to. "Why do I care?" Sylar repeated finally. "Yeah, you're right. It is inconvenient. I was _planning _on sleeping and waking up as _myself_," he stressed. "Do you not remember what happened the last time you stabbed me?" Sylar asked that with hurt confusion. The last time he'd been pierced by this man, he'd been torn asunder, left to wither or be destroyed, body and soul. He hadn't felt the sanity, the safety of his mind and body together for months and at the end of it, Petrelli had hunted him down to try again, this time with full knowledge of what he was doing. There was no way he was leaving stabby-Petrelli in custody of a shanking weapon whether or not he had a kill-spot.

He paused to let that sink in – hopefully with logic, not…paring knives. The next obvious issue was this escalation. "It was a fucking kiss. Get over it."

XXX

_The last time I stabbed him …_ The tone meant Peter entirely skipped the injections of Zofran he'd given Sylar recently. Sylar was too upset for it to be that. Instead: _Nails? The nail gun? No, stabbed. Kirby Plaza, sword through the chest. But that was Hiro, not me! Stabbed … glass, but that was him stabbing me._ His eyes dropped and slid out of focus as a quick sweep of events when he'd thought Sylar was his brother came up blank, just like the fight at the Stanton. _'Waking up as myself'. Does he mean the- Yes, he has to. The syringe in the limo. Right? Could still be the nails. Or maybe future-me stabbed him and he thinks it was me. That would suck. Again._

Peter looked at Sylar and tilted his head, brow furrowing and his grip on the object under contest loosening. "I remember," he said soberly. Just as seriously, he continued, "We're going to have to deal with the fact that we're both dangerous here." He gestured with his right, pointing first at himself, then Sylar, then himself again. "To each other. It's not the 'fucking kiss'. I'm over the 'fucking kiss'. What I'm not over is you telling me to get over it and acting like what you do, and what you have done, doesn't matter." Peter drew in a slow, deep breath, trying to relax the muscles of his back. They were tightening up and this was an important conversation that he wanted to have as calmly as possible. He breathed out slowly. The fingers of his left hand played with their grip on the knife. He let them, leaving his gaze and attention otherwise entirely on Sylar.

XXX

A light bulb was desperate to pop up over his head and light up because there was something there and he was too keyed up, tired, frazzled, something, to strike on the connection. _We're…saying the same thing, we're worried about the same thing? But I have to live with the knife? That's not fair._ Sylar's eyes went to the knife as it shifted in Peter's hand. Nothing came of it but he couldn't tell if the fiddling was a nervous, pre-emptive gesture or…not. He literally sat waiting when Peter finished speaking. _Oh, no. He didn't._ Peter was waiting, cleverly leaving open space and social pressure (and bodily threat) in such a way that Sylar had to fill-in-the-blank. And a guy holding a knife, not over the kiss, but the behavior, demanding the right answer was a mountain of unfairness. Sylar glared lasers at the nurse for that reason alone. "Do you have to hold that right now?" he snipped about the blade. If he was going to have to think, mystically procure the right answer or response, or worse, apologize or sleep, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it at paring-knife-point – his dignity and sense of fucking reality simply refused.

XXX

Peter glanced down at the knife, then gave Sylar a good, long look. _This gives me power over you? You're really afraid of it._ He waited to see if Sylar flinched or shifted under his gaze, trying to decide if the request that he disarm himself was a safe one to follow. Sylar's attention did not waver; he didn't give Peter anything, which was enough. Peter set the knife on the couch to his left, the opposite side of him from the other man.

XXX

That was good. Not great, but better. Sylar noticed the care (or paranoia) involved in setting the knife on the other side of Peter – it was smart whether Sylar did anything or not. His face showed his slight annoyance and acceptance, briefly. It was a relief, nonetheless, and it took the edge of tension away from the interaction. That Peter would put the knife down boded well. "Is it necessary to freak out about this before I sleep? If it's not about the kiss, can't this wait?"

XXX

Peter snorted lightly. "I wasn't freaking out about it. I was just going to bed - going to lie over here and mind my own business all night. If you minded yours, then nothing would have happened and I didn't think you'd ever know." He waited a beat, trying to see a way out of this that met his needs and enough of Sylar's that they could give up on this lousy day and get some sleep. "Would it help if I promised something?"

XXX

_Wh- really? We are saying the same thing. I'm…a walking arsenal and he has a knife. Stand-off. _Sylar's eyes narrowed at first, then he frowned and frowned harder. He had to think about the idea of being promised something, how much Peter's word was worth, and, if so, what he wanted. "Yes," he surprised himself by saying, looking up at the man, almost asking 'is that okay?' "I…just don't want the knife in here." _I believe him. I trust him not to do anything with his bare hands or any other object in here. How...strange and unexpected._ With a kind of rueful, humorous admission, he spoke softly, "Reality tends to…warp when you're around, Peter. But you'd have…done something by now if you were going to. You're a straightforward guy, right?"

XXX

"I try to be," he said, greatly soothed by Sylar's probably unintentional compliment. The set of Peter's shoulders eased and he got to what he really needed. "I want to hear you tell me that I'll be safe, asleep, here, tonight. And that I'll be safe by _my_ standards, not yours." He wondered what it was he should promise, having not been given any hints about that.

XXX

Sylar's face was dubious, eyebrow arced. He made a choking sound. _That's all he wanted? That's it?_ "You'll be safe by your standards." That was easy enough. And he didn't have to lie. There wasn't enough room on the couch for two. It was now up to Peter to believe that or not. Sylar tilted his head, awaiting that answer. The unlikelihood of that was the whole reason he hadn't bothered making any solid promise.

XXX

Peter turned his head a little, watching Sylar out of the side of his eyes. Then he chuckled silently and nodded. "Okay." He took up the knife in his left hand, rolling the handle in his palm and then looking at Sylar. "I promise I won't have any other weapon in bed with me, either." He gave that a moment, his intention being to find out more conclusively where the limit of trust should be drawn. It was the same bizarre, reverse brinksmanship that had led him to sleep in the exposed main bedroom of the penthouse apartment just a few nights before, leaving himself open to whatever Sylar might do. Sylar had indeed climbed in bed with him, although it was on top of the covers and after waking him from a nightmare. Peter didn't have as much objection to that as he did to the second, more underhanded and unwantedly intimate bed-sharing that had come when he'd retreated to the guest bedroom and shut the door. There was a point there, but Peter was tired and not making the connection.

He shifted, pushing himself forward on the couch to get his feet under him and himself up. He took the short walk to the kitchen, returning the utensil to its slot in the knife block. He did so without going to the bother of making a lot of noise to telegraph his action. Sylar would trust him or not, and he'd already said he would. He went back to the couch, making the briefest 'my hands are empty' gesture before twitching back the covers a bit more and sitting down.

XXX

Sylar could only blink and stare at this turn of events. _That worked?_ Peter believed him? Trusted his word? His words had meant something? That seemed so unaccountably nice on Peter's part. Sylar couldn't begin to label what flooded through him. It felt so good, whatever it was. Like the vice around his soul had eased. It was a balm, that he could be trusted on words alone not to harm someone, to be around them. He was being heard. Using his words – his word – had gotten something he wanted; he couldn't believe it! He'd talked down manic Peter Petrelli from a lethal weapon, hell, Nathan couldn't even do that! Sylar was practically giddy.

Peter did him one better and returned the knife without being asked and promised there were no hidden surprises. _I still believe him. Huh…_He beamed at nothing and turned off the light once Peter was seated. "Night, Peter," his voice probably oozed with pleasure despite himself. An experimental kiss, board game, laundry, a successful negotiation and company while he slept; oh, yes, it had been a good day.

XXX

Peter settled himself in, head closer to the kitchen, feet in Sylar's direction, face up for the moment. He drew in a slow breath, looking over in the direction of the voice. "Good night … Sylar."

His toes scraped against the bottom of the blanket as he shifted around. Peter reached back to move the pillow, then turned on his left side so he was facing the room. He made another attempt to fluff the pillow, then wormed his head against it. _A smell._ He drew in a deep breath. _Sylar. That's him_. Peter wriggled, drawing up his knees a little, then extending one leg and leaving one knee up as the small of his back had its say about his position. He turned his face more directly to the pillow and breathed in again, wanting another lungful.

He wasn't sure what he thought about the scent, except that it definitely tickled something in his hindbrain. That, and he wanted to smell more of it. He wasn't even sure he liked it – it was like when you catch scent of something evocative or different and have a mindless urge to sniff more and deeper so you get a better whiff. _Um, can Sylar hear me over here? What do I sound like?_ With embarrassed self-awareness, Peter went quiet and still, straining his eyes warily in the other man's direction. It was light enough to see an outline of him, but he couldn't see features. Just as well – it meant Sylar couldn't see him. He hoped.

XXX

Sylar, being much more stationary, heard the process of wiggling. _It is the couch_, he recognized. He heard an inhale, dismissing it as a weird sigh. A second, longer, purposeful inhale. _Does something smell?_ Sylar took a quick sniff of the air, finding nothing unusual. _Maybe it's me; I stink? People are more immune to their own things after all. I've never fallen asleep with him before, maybe this is something he does. Like…checking for carbon monoxide or…something? He's a nurse. But you can't smell that stuff._ A third, definite sniff in the dark. _Weirdest sleepover ever. I hope he doesn't do this all night. _Then it was quiet. Sylar wondered if it was an 'uncomfortable' quiet.

XXX

"Hey … Sylar?" His voice sounded softer and kind of weird in the dark. Juvenile. Peter cleared his throat a little to give it more age. "What do you want me to do if you have a nightmare? Give you a shake, throw a pillow at you, what?"

XXX

_(You'd…actually wake me?) Course he would; he wants to sleep, you'd be interrupting._ That made more sense than Peter wanting him to be getting a good night's sleep. Off-balance and uncertain, "Um…throw a pillow at me, I guess? I wouldn't get close or touch me – I might attack you," his voice ended softly, regretfully, not wanting Peter to think that was a threat. He didn't suggest a ten-foot pole, either. Sylar now noticed how strange it was, not having a concrete answer about himself – it seemed like that sort of thing should be known. It wasn't like he'd ever slept with someone around; the few times he had been woken up hadn't been pleasant for anyone involved. The paranoia about agents, doctors, monsters and God-knows what else was impossible to be free of. Then day must have rushed over him, consuming him in sleep.

Day 17, December 27, Morning

Sylar remembered waking once, sort of, and wanting to go back to sleep so he did. It was comfortable for a little while then it felt…empty. Sylar woke to knocking again. "Mmmm?" _God, what is-? That's so weird._ "C'min," he called out sleepily to give the all-clear. While Peter entered, Sylar blinked himself slowly to wakefulness, happy to recognize his surroundings. His clocks, his books, his bed, his clothes.

XXX

"Hey." Having managed to get through the night unmolested and unaccompanied, Peter gave Sylar a small but friendly smile. He issued a nod of welcome as well, then ducked into the kitchen on the off chance Sylar might still want to sleep.

XXX

Where had Peter gone? _Doesn't he have everything he needs here? I'm not exactly set up for guests but…he doesn't have a problem using my stuff. (I don't think…)_ "Where were you?" he asked, propping himself on his elbows, feeling his headache roar full force. He didn't really want to rise yet or rise at all.

XXX

Peter pulled out the milk carton, sloshing it and judging there was enough for the both of them. He glanced out at Sylar's question. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes dropped and a small frown creased his lips and brow. He didn't want to answer to Sylar about his schedule, but … it was a reasonable question if they were here together, somewhat as roommates and Sylar depending on Peter for a degree of care. _There's no reason why I should keep my routine a secret from him. No legitimate reason, at least._

Coming to a decision, Peter blew out a short puff of air and turned to search for cereal boxes. He'd seen some before. He answered over his shoulder as he looked through the cabinets. "I went to work out. I like to do that in the mornings. Then I went to my apartment and showered. Came back here. Thought we'd eat together. You want some cereal? I don't really feel like cooking."

Finding a half-empty box of Lucky Charms, he returned to the door to shake it enticingly at Sylar. "This stuff's horrible for you! I love it. Better get in here before I eat it all." With a mischievous grin, he headed off to get bowls, then medication.

XXX

Sylar was pleased to be worthwhile company to eat with; he puffed up with pride a little. The empath bustled around in the kitchen, asking questions without really needing answers. The Lucky Charms appeared with a critique of their healthiness-factor and in the same breath, their awesomeness was proclaimed and a challenge/laughable threat given. Sylar (after his initial wide-eyed confusion) couldn't help but grin. It grew into a smile as he chuckled and hauled himself upright. Peter was too chipper to eat by himself so there would be cereal left for him when he got there. Sylar noticed a book, one of his own collection, on the armrest of the couch. Apparently, Peter had been reading it at some point – '_Realm of the Incas_,' an interesting choice. He wondered if he should be angry or comforted in the knowledge that Peter had helped himself to his things (and left it lying out). That wasn't a new theme. Either way, the book looked undamaged.

XXX

"Did- How did you sleep?" Peter asked, correcting himself from a question that only had a yes/no answer. Not only was it better to ask a patient something open-ended, but also, Peter actually wanted to talk.

XXX

Sylar entered the kitchen and nodded to the question, brushing his hair back. His focused on getting something to drink for breakfast. Task completed, he realized he'd been rude for several minutes, "How about you?"

XXX

So much for the open-ended question. He hadn't even gotten a yes or no. Peter let the attempt lapse between them, getting out spoons and bowls until Sylar volunteered to restart it with his own question. "I slept okay. Awful stiff, though." And he found the couch confining, wanting a bed big enough to stretch out on. Couch-surfing was definitely not a long-term solution, not that Peter thought he needed to worry about it anyway. Soon, Sylar would be well enough that Peter could move back to his own apartment.

XXX

Sylar grunted about the couch. There was little help for it (aside from crude offerings to 'adjust Peter's back for him'). _My promise didn't insure __against__ back pain, Petrelli, and seriously, it's a couch._

XXX

Since it sounded like they were headed back to non-verbal territory, Peter prompted, "How's your stomach feeling? Do you want some Zofran or do you feel okay?" He looked up at Sylar, hands on the back of the chair opposite Sylar, hesitating on sitting down and obviously waiting for the answer.

XXX

"It's better today, but my head feels worse." Sylar sat and fiddled with his spoon, indecisive. "I'll…try it without?" Peter didn't have any objections, in fact, he looked happy. At that, they both poured and ate, Sylar stuck to his method of (playing with his food out of solitary boredom) eating mainly the cereal, leaving the marshmallows for after.

XXX

Peter nodded to himself and took a seat, a small smile showing his serenity with Sylar's choice.

Lucky Charms had some things going for it in Peter's estimation. On a personal note, it wasn't homogenous and he liked that. He toyed with having one bite of several cereal bits and a marshmallow, then just cereal, then three marshmallow bits together. Different combinations tasted different and he liked trying them out. On an interpersonal note, cereal was mostly milk and it was another way to get liquids into Sylar. Looking over, Peter thought for a moment the man was eating it the same way, but then he noticed the pattern. "You don't like the marshmallows? Why would you get Lucky Charms and not eat the marshmallows?"

XXX

Sylar looked up from his careful spoon-rationing. His expression was confused; how had Peter come to that conclusion? Not liking the marshmallows was how it appeared, though. "They're called 'marbits.' It's mostly something to do. I eat them last. I…like the cereal itself plain…" Sylar ducked his head and went back to poking at his breakfast, self-conscious now that his habits were weird and they both knew it. That decided, from then on he ate like a normal person, as careless as he could manage about the marbit ratio.

XXX

"Oh." Peter pulled his head back, straightening a little and looking nonplussed at the answer. "Okay. Sure." Looking for something different to talk about, he offered, "I'd like to finish the puzzle today so we can use the desk for whatever else."

XXX

Sylar looked up in relief. Peter's field trip adventures were very tiring. He knew he'd appreciate them more when he was at full health, but now it was just draining. He was pretty sure it wasn't that much fun for Peter, either, not as much fun as it could have, should have been anyway. _Maybe he remembered I have a concussion._ "That sounds good." He slyly probed, "How'd you like the book?"

XXX

"The book?" Peter's head turned in the direction of the living room, tracking to where he'd left his latest reading material. Then he looked back to Sylar, his face doing funny things as he struggled with what to say, wondering if the book's contents were some reflection on Sylar or his interests. "Well, uh, the Incans … they were … well, it's not the sort of thing they taught me in Catholic school." History had interested him well enough, but he couldn't remember the Central and South American tribes as any more than a blur of names and shifting regions, given short shrift in his classes. It was part of why he'd continued reading the text after pulling it down at random, spine unseen, from the shelf above him. He cleared his throat. "Seemed a little gory. I didn't know they had entire cultures where ..." His voice trailed off and he looked down to watch his spoon swirl around, chasing the last few cereal bits. Human sacrifice brought to mind a much more modern moment, when his mother had knowingly set him up for disaster at Kirby … and then there was the tangled crap she (and he) had pulled in trying to sacrifice Sylar for Nathan. "How do people do that to each other?" It was raw and heartfelt, more than the apparent subject matter warranted, as Peter's emotion for the question came from a so much more personal source.

XXX

A Petrelli's education was lacking? And lacking in the area of human sacrifice? That was hilarious, in a totally sick way. _Peter's a nurse…how is that gory to him?_ Sylar tried to absorb that without…laughing, questioning or otherwise mocking. The nurse's tone caught him off guard. Sylar tilted his head and waited to see if the outburst was rhetorical. The tone suggested it wasn't. The tone suggested Sylar hadn't followed some emotional thought process leading up to the outburst and he didn't want to jump in, taking things literally, especially when he didn't know the context. Of course, since Sylar was apparently more knowledgeable, he thought there were plenty of viable, less emotional reasons behind the question: the Incas sacrificed 'pure' children in attempts to control the weather for a good harvest, for the children to escort the emperor in the afterlife, and/or worshipping the sun as a god. The question as better asked to someone like Hitler, whose reasons were scientifically stupid, if interesting. The point being that Hitler at least knew better, the Incas didn't (not that it much excused them). History was good at showing human nature: cannibalistic.

Peter's question, posed to him here required a vague answer. Being singled out, trapped and persecuted (at least, that's what it felt like, no matter what anyone told him, no matter how they rationalized it or didn't) was something Sylar understood. He was only slightly suspicious that Peter was referring to the Hunger and Sylar's own acts of sacrifice. Voice blank, he said, "By caring about the end result more than individual lives." That he understood (given his background) and yet he…didn't understand it. It just…kind of…_existed_.

XXX

"But-" Peter pulled in air, held it under pressure for a moment, then let it out in an upset burst, accompanied with a small grunt. He looked at Sylar's blank face, realizing he was treading into dangerous waters here, but pushing on regardless. "Ends don't justify the means. But wait … that's what you're saying, isn't it?" Peter dipped his head, eyes still on Sylar's. "That … evil … is when people care about the end result more than the person involved?" Peter did not doubt that Sylar had a moral compass. Sylar had admitted as much before when he'd said he knew that what he'd done – all the killings, perhaps other things – had been wrong. And certainly he wouldn't be on Peter's case (or the Petrelli's) if he didn't see a glaring moral failure there. But Peter wanted to get it out in the open. It was important to him somehow, to get Sylar's agreement on the meaning of right and wrong. It was a foundation for other conversations, even if they weren't ones he wanted to have over breakfast.

Speaking of which, Peter's brows drew together as he looked at Sylar's half-finished bowl. "Did you start eating the marshmallows because I mentioned it?" His eyes, very intent like they always were when he had a subject he wasn't about to let go of, locked onto Sylar's face. "Sylar, you can eat your cereal however you want. You don't like them, don't eat them. Hell, we can sort your cereal beforehand if you'd rather." He laughed, waving a hand at the rest of the box. "Give me all the marshbits or whatever and you can have the cereal. That'd be great. Probably rot my teeth, but that's not a big deal."

XXX

_Is he mocking me?_ Peter repeated what he'd said, how many times, staring him down. It was like when what teachers did in class, countering your answer to their question with a question of logic that proved your answer wrong, doing so, of course, in front of a class full of your peers. There was no escaping the questions or the humiliation after the mistake. It was like a pseudo-challenge or pseudo-insult to his intellect and capabilities. _Fine, maybe it was a really generic, stupid answer but I didn't know what you were talking about._ The laughter sealed the deal. Sylar glared after that. His face was angry. He was not enjoying having his every word and behavior criticized. _Can't listen right, can't sit right, can't answer or talk right, can't eat right…What does he want? _He lost it over the offer to have his cereal sorted beforehand, like he was a picky child, and that's what it meant, too: childish. Needy. Boiling over, he ranted, "You're asking a guy who can't eat his fucking cereal properly the definition of good and evil? Funny, Petrelli, really fucking hilarious!" His voice rose to a yell, made more impressive by the kitchen appliances and the small size of the kitchen itself. Sylar shoved the box at Peter; let him have the damn stuff if he liked it so much. He rose to drop his dishes off in the sink, clanking them loudly in the process. Turning around he belted, "What the fuck is it to you how I want to eat my fucking cereal anyway? Is that of vital importance for…._anything_?"

XXX

Peter's brows rose with the volume of Sylar's voice. Words came out that were nonsensical in combination, but the hurt underneath was loud and clear even if Peter didn't know what had happened to trigger the outburst. He ignored the box that was shoved at him, both his hands going loose and level on the table. He was quiet and focused, his face blank, or perhaps with his game-face on. He didn't think he was going to have to fight, but he wasn't doing much thinking at all – just reacting.

When Sylar went to the sink, Peter started to interpret the whole thing as potentially nonviolent. _He's just venting. What is he venting about? The cereal? _He turned and stood up just as quietly as he had sat, pushing his chair in and leaning his ass against it. He crossed his arms over his chest, head cocked, lips shifted to one side, his whole posture looking highly unimpressed. He was glad he'd washed up and put away everything the night before, and that cereal prep didn't involve skillets or knives. That meant there was nothing immediately dangerous for Sylar to grab near the sink and contributed to why Peter was able to let this wash over him for the time being. _He's mentioned the cereal twice now. And he acted weird when I first commented on it._

He blinked once, slowly. "Tell me about the cereal."

XXX

"_No_, you tell me about the cereal. Hmm? You want to- you want to demonstrate the right way to eat cereal for me? Why stop at cereal?" Peter responding to cereal talks meant the issue (the one Peter had) was about cereal. At least, that was the cover story. Sylar couldn't understand how cereal was amusing or humiliating enough to warrant the attention. Peter's expression made him want to smack that indifferent look away.

XXX

"If it's important enough for you to toss the rest of your bowl and yell about it, then it's important enough to talk about." He spoke in a mostly reasonable tone although there was an undercurrent of irritation to it. It was hard to avoid thinking that maybe Sylar was just picking a fight because last night had passed uneventfully. "What matters to me is getting you healthy. That includes eating. If the food's something you don't want, tell me. Calmly." Peter chuckled quietly and added, "Remember last night? I can be talked down from things if you give me reasons instead of just blowing up about it."

XXX

Sylar was quiet as he thought his way around that. That his reaction was garnering a response like this was…_Or is this another joke?_ His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned at insinuation he was being unreasonable, hysterical, insane. Then there another chuckle from the nurse. Teeth and fists clenched, he grated his reason, "Quit. Laughing."

XXX

Peter's head pulled back, his expression sobering more from the perception of danger than from the words themselves. He looked Sylar up and down carefully, eyes going from face to shoulders to fists to feet and then back to face. _I'm not the one who needs to be talked down._ He drew in a deeper, careful breath, very conscious of a sudden, stupid urge to say to hell with being reasonable and to throw down right here in the middle of the kitchen. It didn't matter that the apparent subject was trivial; there were enough weighty, unspoken subjects between them to account for the urge. Expression even, Peter gave a single nod to agree with Sylar's … request, putting his left hand on the top of the chair behind him. He didn't have much of his weight on the chair – the previous impression of a semi-relaxed slouch had been mostly for show. Now he straightened a little, attention entirely focused on Sylar, eyes neither narrowed nor wide.

XXX

Jerkily, his hands unclenched. "Right and wrong isn't funny unless you're making fun of someone. And cereal…I don't even…" Sylar trailed off rather than say the words 'I don't get the joke.' It was one thing to be mocked, another thing not to grasp the reason for the mockery – most people seemed able to pinpoint the reason or cause, but he struggled.

XXX

Peter thought over the discussion and Sylar's reactions to it. _Maybe he thought me talking about the cereal was trivializing everything else? He's being an asshole about it, regardless. I wasn't making fun of him. How can I clarify that I really just wanted to talk to him, to hear what he had to say? _"I was asking about it – about good and evil, the Incas, their society – because I _value_ your opinion on it. I wanted to know what you thought." He left the cereal out of it entirely, along with any denials of making fun of him.

XXX

"Oh, please," Sylar scoffed, "You don't expect me to fall for that, do you?" That ploy was so obvious even he saw it at first glance for what it was.

XXX

"Sylar, you have insights to things …" Peter ran his left hand through his hair, tousling it and rolling his eyes briefly at the ceiling, "things I don't want to have a frame of reference for." He sighed with resignation. "But I don't necessarily get to choose that. Sometimes it happens to me anyway, some futures … In some futures, I'm not that different from you. I want to know you. I want to know how you've coped." He frowned briefly, lips pressed together as he glanced down to remember. "I had a dream a few years ago, back when all of this started happening. It was one of those future-dreams. You told me …" he looked up intently at Sylar, eyes locked to his, "you told me I didn't know anything about power." He watched Sylar's face for a reaction. "I've thought about that a lot. I've never understood what it meant. But … that it was _you_ in the dream telling me that … it has to mean something."

XXX

Everything stampeded through Sylar's already over-heated and confused brain. He had a reaction to every sentence Peter uttered, good, bad, and ugly: _Did he roll his eyes at me? My frame of reference is undesirable? I get to chose the crap in my life? But he's the same as me, sort of. I don't cope, I already said that. _Then Peter stared at him and he felt caught, though it wasn't a negative paralysis since the man wasn't saying anything bad. Sylar blinked. _He dreamed about me? And I said that? That's…impressive of me. It's true; what I- he- whoever, said. Did he dream that before we met? That would be…(weird? Cool? Destiny?)_ His expression eased, no less confused, but given a sense of direction maybe (thoroughly distracted, too). He wasn't sure where to start speaking, most of it jumbled questions. "It means something, yeah. It's…it's just really…" Sylar lifted his eyebrows, closing his eyes for a second, shifting his mouth before returning to a more neutral musculature, "Weird that you would know that without…knowing that. I never said that." He shook himself and refocused, "Are you asking me about it?"

XXX

Peter cocked his head slightly, not sure what Sylar was trying to get across. It was like Sylar thought he knew something he didn't actually know, like maybe he'd accidentally said the right words and Sylar had misunderstood it to indicate comprehension on Peter's part. Or … well, maybe Sylar would clarify. "Yeah, I am."

XXX

"It's the same thing I told you about quitting abilities. Trying to contain power will…_tear_ you apart," Sylar harshly enunciated. "Because you're just a channel, a weak one at that. At the start you didn't know much about abilities, let alone power but you…got some experience," he ended ruefully. Ted's power and Hiro's, then that fateful Haitian's…He got the feeling he was ignoring something or forgetting something about the conversation. The catharsis of talking about the overpowering, mind-rending, soul-blackening intent of the Hunger distracted him. In fact, Peter seemed to know lots of ways to get to him…conveniently so.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed a little, but the rest of his face was relaxed. It was a thoughtful/concentrating expression. _The power will out, will find a way to be released? Is that what he's saying? You just need a direction then, an outlet. It's like a fire hose, all that pressure? _He frowned at being called weak, but he didn't argue it.

XXX

"This is all in my head, isn't it?" He nodded at Peter, calculating the odds and facts. "I've been here too long and I need a connection so I've finally gone off the deep end and decided to talk to myself." Having decided that, since there was nothing he could do about it (and he wasn't…displeased to have Peter here, real or not), he turned back to the sink to rinse out his bowl, mostly at peace with the knowledge. "If you're part of me then…you still need this explained, don't you?" _I must be the only one with a certified person in my head, a bunch of other people I murdered and used to know, who needs to explain the things I know to myself because I'm so crazy that I snapped and I'm now picturing my worst enemy for amusement._


	66. Truth or Dare

Day 17, December 27, Morning

Peter pursed his lips, straightening and stepping closer. He reached out and with the heel of his left hand, jogged Sylar on the right shoulder. "I'm real, asshole." He glared at the man for a moment, then turned away, shaking his head. He didn't like the disrespect implicit in being reduced to a figment of Sylar's imagination. It robbed him of his agency, made him meaningless in Sylar's eyes. It was twisted that Peter thought the world they were in was fake and Sylar was real; Sylar thought the world was real but Peter fake. _Great. Just great. I can't think of how to prove I'm not, either._ With a huff, he gathered his bowl and spoon from the table, putting them on the counter next to the sink where Sylar could get them and go through the same rinsing and perhaps washing. Then he turned to lean against the counter an arm's length away, facing the opposite way of Sylar who was at the sink. He gave a little sigh and crossed his arms loosely, looking over at him. "Go ahead. Explain it to me."

XXX

Sylar jerked aside from the contact he hadn't seen coming. When nothing followed and Peter turned away, he relaxed – it had been a simple, unexplained shove_. Why the attitude? Don't like being part of my mind? Join the club. _Only the wording was unique to Peter, a point towards proving that Peter was…real. _I wouldn't say that to myself, not in those words anyway. Is Nathan that…lively that he'd make up a Peter hallucination?_ The prickly nurse remained close and the proximity was vaguely threatening; Sylar kept half an eye on him as he rinsed the other man's dishes, too. "I just did."

XXX

Peter snorted, frowning and tightening his arms across his chest. "No, you didn't." _What were we even talking about? Powers?_ "Did your powers ..." Peter's voice softened abruptly, his expression changing from frustrated to concerned, "'tear you apart'?" He cocked his head suddenly in curiosity, not unleavened by empathy. "Is that why you think I'm not real? Has this happened before?" He turned a little towards Sylar, his hands dropping to the counter behind him as he blinked and moved his lips together a few times as if on the cusp of speaking. He didn't know what to say, though. His mind was full of the knowledge of power-induced identity disorders and his own experiences of losing his memories and later losing his body, stuffed bizarrely into a pseudo-possession of an ill-fated stranger. Imagining or being forced to imagine someone who wasn't really there seemed pedestrian enough by comparison. Peter knew of a half dozen abilities that could do it, without even thinking about it much.

XXX

Sylar heaved a sigh and swatted the faucet off. _Yes, I did! _The implication that he had mental problems, seeing things or wanting to see them, that his sense of reality was completely fucked with no way of knowing up from down, really bothered him. He was further mystified as to who or what this apparition was. "Why the hell are you asking me that? If you're Peter, you hate me and it doesn't matter. If you're me then you already know the answer. This- you-" Sylar scraped a hand through his hair, frustration, paranoia and panic beginning to overflow. An extension of himself would behave one way, Peter (real or not) would act another way; it was important to know for that reason. And knowing if he was having yet another mental break would at the least be entertaining, alone for the rest of eternity. Not that he enjoyed looking like an unstable, paranoid nut job, even to himself. _But why Peter of all people?_

"Prove you're him."

XXX

"Prove I'm what? Who, me?" Peter snorted and turned sideways to the counter, fully facing Sylar. Lips pursed tightly for a moment, he regarded Sylar with narrowed eyes. It was precisely the question Peter had been entertaining himself, but he saw how he could turn this to maybe get the information he needed to answer it. Very seriously, he asked, "What could I do to prove that to you?"

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter for a moment as if trying to see through him. Then he cast around for suitable evidence. His eyes lit on the knife block. Not only would the test answer the question, it would potentially serve a dual purpose. Sylar pushed away from the sink, passing Peter to palm the largest knife. He turned and extended it along his forearm, handle out, towards his enigmatic companion. "Use that, however you want. Then I'll know." Not using it was not an option.

XXX

Peter looked at the weapon. The thumb and index finger of his right hand twitched, betraying his desire to reach for it. His face relaxed slowly as Sylar waited for Peter to accept the offer. "We already tried this, last night. I put it back." _Though it wasn't the big one – I had the paring knife._ Peter dipped his head in the direction of the knife block, not trusting his hands to make any gestures between them.

XXX

"And I get the feeling we're going to try it again and again until you run out of patience." Sylar pointed out, watching the man's face. "C'mon. You hate me, right? You've been trying to do this since you got here. Now's your chance."

XXX

Peter looked at the blade, feeling the same temptation and mental static he'd felt when he found the gun in the nightstand of that apartment they'd explored. _I didn't come here to kill him!_ But it hardly mattered. His mind flashed to Nathan dead in that storage unit, the weight of his body when Noah helped Peter lug him into the airplane, the distant roar of the jets that had flown overhead at the funeral … He took the knife. He told himself it was just to get it out of the hands of the unbalanced guy who wasn't even sure Peter was real. He looked it only briefly, having no great interest in a standard eight inch cook's knife. He held it point downwards between them, eyes locking onto Sylar's as his voice dropped to a growl.

"I've been trying to do one thing since I got here – one very difficult thing that you don't seem to give a damn about." He lifted the knife, knuckles whitening as his muscles tensed for the strike. "And you know what's going to happen to you if I don't get what I want?" He waited a beat, eyes boring fearlessly into those of the taller man. "Nothing," he hissed, turning to stab the knife solidly into the counter, the steel tip biting through the Formica and into the plywood backing. He left it there. Peter turned and stalked out, frustrated and tense, tired already of trying to validate his own existence to someone whose only interest in him was how to use him.

Peter walked off into the living room, scowling at the place, and flopped into the wheelie chair behind the desk. He sat there silently, brooding in the direction of the kitchen entrance.

XXX

Sylar was motionless, gazing sightlessly at the knife. _I'm so crazy…Why would he leave me alone with a weapon? Doesn't he know I'm crazy? He was supposed to…_ "No!" he cried out, finally finding his footing, his voice. He felt…betrayed and dismissed. Stalking into the living room, he stood across from Peter, the desk between them. "You're going to quit stringing me around! You've already done that enough and you're not honest about it. The knife, that knife," Sylar pointed back to the kitchen, speaking quickly, animated and agitated, "that's the only way you can prove this. I've got me in my head; I've got your brother – he knows you! - and if you tell me something Peter knows that I don't know, if you're him…then…it's just something I made up. Do you have a better idea? Because I'm crazy, remember?" _Give me something, whoever you are._

XXX

He watched the other man's agitation, Peter being annoyed at first with narrowed eyes and tensed posture. But as Sylar went on, Peter softened. It sucked, the bind Sylar was in, the tenuous grip on reality. He had to know, on some level, that the world he was in was fake. At the very least, it was so radically different from the real world that Sylar, an intelligent, rational man in a lot of other ways, probably had to imagine some pretty bizarre circumstances to explain it, if he found it explicable at all. The whole issue of where trash went, for example. It had been a brief conversation where Sylar had seemed aware of the unreality of the place. It had to take a lot of effort and determination to create the mental world Sylar found himself in. Peter wondered how anomalous his presence must be, simultaneously difficult to deal with due to difference and yet impossible to differentiate from the rest of the wonky world. He had sympathy for that.

XXX

"You say and ask all these things. It's...twisted and you lie and appear out of nowhere then you take care of me and leave me alive? You're not making any sense. And..." Sylar sighed again, sagging into the open chair, "that makes sense, too, because no one makes sense but...If you're Peter, just..._be Peter_. Okay?" His voice wound down until he couldn't talk anymore.

XXX

"I'm Peter," he said kindly, his voice softer and his posture having relaxed as Sylar came to the end of his rope. "I'm not you. I'm not something you imagined. I'm not," he waved vaguely at the rest of the world, "part of all of this. At least, no more than you are. We're different people. I have a history and I know it – a family, a childhood, people I've known, things I've done – the whole life story of Peter Petrelli. It wasn't about _you_. You weren't in most of it. You are a very small part of my life, Sylar. Who I am doesn't depend on you, wasn't shaped by you. It's _my_ life, not _yours_." It occurred to him that a confusion about boundaries might have tons to do with why Sylar had it in himself to kill people. They weren't him … and if they weren't him, then he didn't know what to do with them. Maybe they didn't count to him or were all frightening, unpredictable strangers who didn't make sense, just as he'd implied.

XXX

Sylar listened, allowing his face to emote what vulnerability it would for the moment. He tried to absorb what Peter was saying, trying to remember that Peter said he was straightforward. Few questions or inconsistencies sprang from the empath's words, so by and large, Sylar was comforted and what's more, he…accepted that this was Peter and Peter was real. For the most part. Of course, he wanted Peter to be real, as odd and masochistic as it was. It was almost like having Peter, possessing him but it was also the simple knowledge that he wasn't alone. _I'm not 'part of this,' whatever that means. _Being a small part of Peter's life was a strangely frightening idea, but perhaps that was because of the implied minimization of himself in general. Since he didn't agree with it, Sylar ignored it (and the flash of panic it inspired). Peter made sense, finally, insisting on his own history and his own identity interwoven with that history. Sylar suspected that Nathan would put a more Nathan-like slant if he were to conjure up a Peter apparition and this sounded…well, very Peter. If Sylar were to imagine the younger Petrelli things would certainly be different. It came down to Peter's own behavioral inconsistencies – nursing him to health, staying with him, playing with him (somewhat), and letting him live without abusing the abundant weapons around them.

XXX

Peter leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms and some of his weight on the edge of the desk. "I'm not going to cut you up. Not unless we're already in a fight and there's …" He rolled his eyes quickly and shook his head, knowing himself well enough to know he'd make some very dumb decisions in the heat of combat. "That would be really stupid of me, but my point is that I'm not going to take that kitchen knife and hurt you with it, any more than I'm going to take that hammer to you." He waved to his right, at the stack of tools in easy reach. "If you don't understand why, that's because you don't understand _me_. If I was something you'd thought up, then you'd know why I did things without having to ask me, or guess." He pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly. "Do you get it?"

XXX

Sylar frowned more towards the floor. _Why should I care if you do cut me up? Why would you think I care about __that?_ he wondered. The burden of proof was on Sylar's plate – it was his task to understand things. It was assumed he knew the mundane, apparently commonplace facts of life like all humans came equipped with it and he was born wrong without it or that all humans were taught and he hadn't learned for some reason. Sylar had been struggling to understand everything for as long as he could remember. It was like a damn _dis_ability, retardation. He felt like a freak, five steps behind what even an average person could easily grasp and he had to fight and manipulate his target to gain knowledge because it would not be freely given. When he couldn't understand, he had no one to blame but himself. _I do too know him. I do…I know him…_It sounded weak even to himself. If the Petrellis lacked understanding of their own son and brother – what chance did Sylar have when he barely knew who and where he was? The expectations were steep and taxing. _(Just…try harder). I'm always trying harder. _Sylar nodded to everything Peter had said, even though he was still upset about the knife not being used. His head felt like it was being split down the middle, worse than before, and since he had nothing better to say, he grouched, reaching for a puzzle piece, "My head still hurts." _It always hurts, doesn't it?_

XXX

"That's probably because of the stress. If you're okay with it, how about we just sit here and work the puzzle and try not to aggravate each other too much, okay?" Peter smiled gently at Sylar, reaching out to get a piece of his own. He glanced briefly at it, mostly watching Sylar and making sure things were okay between them for the moment. _I have a feeling these standoffs, confrontations, whatever I want to call them, are only going to get more common as he gets to feeling better._ Peter looked down at where he might place the little cardboard piece in his hand. _Need to make sure we can … back down from it. Talk each other down. Trust each other. _He mused on their situation as they completed the puzzle bit by bit.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar breathed, "Okay." He nodded, still frowning but for different reasons now. He couldn't remember who'd aggravated whom and communication was…a blur; too many topics at once. Orienting on the puzzle, he thought it over slowly.

XXX

Peter noticed as Sylar wound down and seemed to space out, the puzzle piece eventually falling from limp fingers. The man's breathing deepened and face relaxed. Peter leaned back in the chair, watching voyeuristically as his bristly companion made adorable sleepy sighs through slightly parted, pouting lips. _He has nice lips._ Peter smiled shyly and looked away, coloring a little and being glad Sylar wasn't watching him. Of course, had Sylar been awake, Peter would have had something much closer to his game-face on, more serious and alert. He could relax like this and enjoy what he saw. Bewilderingly (to Peter), his mind seemed to think this was the perfect time to review Sylar's good points, the moments when he'd said things that were clever or tried to be helpful, and the flashes of compassion or vulnerability that he'd shown. Peter let his thoughts go where they would. There seemed to be no reason to feed his hate.

When Sylar's head started dipping, Peter eased himself out of his chair and circled the desk. "Sylar?" he said in a normal tone, wanting to wake him and give a warning of his impending touch. He repeated softer, "Sylar," as he stepped behind and put his hands on either of the man's shoulders. "Come on, buddy." His hands slid down Sylar's arms to squeeze a little over his biceps, trying to urge Sylar up. "Come on. Let me get you to where you can lie down. Bed or couch? I promise I won't finish the puzzle without you."

XXX

Sylar was snatched from sleep by contact to his shoulders. He started with a jolt, too disoriented to focus on where it was coming from, where he should defend himself. A quiet voice spoke to him and the contact – hands – soothed down his arms, giving him a choice. Instinctively he moved towards his bed, desiring the comfort it offered more than the need to question. He didn't bother to wake up much, either.

XXX

Peter used Sylar's downtime to go to the grocery store. The snow was melting rapidly, but there was enough of it still there, and his leg and knee still hurting enough that he didn't indulge his restless desire to explore the immediate few blocks around their apartments. Instead he returned to Sylar's place, stocked the fridge, made lunch, and occupied himself reading the book about the Incas. The puzzle had been nearly done when Sylar conked out, so Peter left it with one piece unset, laying the last piece to the side so Sylar could put it in and maintain the fiction that they'd worked it together.

XXX

The rest of Sylar's day was low-key and restful. He finally groomed when he woke from his nap and was required to do little else. Peter slept with him again that night. Well, not slept _with_ him; Peter crashed on the couch.

XXX

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

Peter waited, poised breathlessly as Sylar stared bitterly at his game board like it had betrayed him. Finally, he muttered the words. Peter couldn't make out exactly what was said, but it certainly wasn't, 'you missed'. Peter erupted into laughter and whoops of victory. "I got it?" Mouth agape, Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's surly visage, making sure it wasn't a joke or feint, but Sylar looked too pissed for that. "Oh my God, I got it! I sank your last freaking battleship, man! Ha, ha, ha!" He put his left hand out asking for a high five. Sylar looked like he might grab it and break it if it stayed out there any longer, so Peter pulled it back swiftly. Instead, he swiveled his game board carefully, showing it off to his defeated opponent. "Look! Look at this! You _had_ me, man! You almost _had_ me! One more turn and you'd have called it and I'd have been dead."

Grinning widely, Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching exultantly. "You know what? I am never playing Battleship with you again." Peter stabbed a finger once at Sylar. "Cuz, look at that," he said, turning his motion into a wave at the game board. "What are you doing, stepping off a fucking grid? How is that any fun, Sylar? It's like I'm not even playing against a human being, just an algorithm." Peter's busily gesturing hand picked up his beer so he could take a deep draw off from it, emptying the bottle. "I can play that way, too, you know." He set the bottle down. "And then the game would be pointless - all a matter of who won the coin toss to go first. We could just have the coin toss, then whoever gets it right could gloat about what they did to make it happen, which is nothing. You're missing the fun part, Sylar!" Peter leaned forward sharply. "And you know what's really fun? That you did all that methodical bullshit and I _still_ beat your ass!"

XXX

Sylar angrily yanked the pegs from their holders on the board, shaking his head in disbelief, growling, "You won by pure chance. That's all." He paused with a handful of pegs to glare at his partner. Peter Petrelli liked to trash talk, especially a few beers in. Obviously Sylar wasn't thrilled to have his defeat rubbed in his face, but Peter was attacking his playing style, too. "Even computers can't foresee random Hail Mary's," he denounced, putting Peter's final (winning) move in the perspective light of desperation. The nurse had an educated guess to go on, sure. Regardless of the game, Peter played randomly, perhaps that made Sylar overly confident. He didn't point out how often computers won, that made him look worse still. "One more move and I'd have won with certainty." Being called a computer, more or less, was bothersome and slightly flattering. _I did things! I thought it through, I made a plan! I can, too, have fun! Or is he saying that like I'm not supposed to have fun?_ That slowed his otherwise urgent, jerky yanks at the pegs. _But I'm not supposed to lose, at least, not every time. And I haven't…Is he threatening not to play unless he wins?_ "I'm not changing how I play, Petrelli," he asserted, watching his companion to see how that was received. He was remembering how he'd been called out as a child whenever his strategies of 'fun' weren't making the grade. No, playing to win was important; fun was just… just that: a blank spot. Maybe it was a luxury or something he couldn't understand, which was very likely. _I'm not having fun correctly. People who murder other people for fun aren't right._ "Maybe playing against a computer will raise your game. Have another beer," he snarked, unsure of what or whom he was angry at now. _He has no idea who he's dealing with, does he? Makes me want to break him in. It's so tempting sometimes…_

XXX

Peter snorted and picked up his bottle. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Me drinking more would probably help you win, wouldn't it?" He swung the dead soldier back and forth as he waggled his brows.

He got to his feet, leaving his game board set up so he could admire it a little more, or to make Sylar be the one to have to disassemble it. Either way, he took Sylar's suggestion that he get another drink and headed to the kitchen. As he passed, he reached down and gave a friendly couple of pats to Sylar's shoulder, taking care to telegraph the motion. At one point he'd thought Sylar would get used to friendly touch and stop twitching from the contact, but it hadn't happened. So Peter had changed and gone to giving more warning. He was glad that seemed to work, as the alternative was no contact at all, something Peter shied away from. That would have complicated things like this current, non-verbal attempt to soothe Sylar's ruffled feathers.

XXX

Sylar ceased his plucking when he felt the patting. It wasn't as unheard-of as it had been in the past – Mister Touch/No-Touch offering up physical contact of any sort. He questioned it now because of Peter's win. _Is that a literal put-down, rubbing it in?_ A half-glare followed Peter as he left, albeit to get more beer (for once being an obedient boy). Peter seemed happy and friendly, though. _Maybe even…pliable. Hmm…_

XXX

The bottle went in the trash and Peter stuck his head in the refrigerator. A few days before, he'd taken one of the grocery store shopping carts and stocked up on stuff, including beverages. Since the champagne had gone over fine and Peter had largely gotten over his fear of being impaired around Sylar, he'd added a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine to other stuff in the cart. He snagged two bottles, because like even if he was mostly over it, he certainly wasn't going to drink alone.

Peter returned, setting the drinks down in front of their respective seats. "You don't _have_ to change how you play, Sylar. My dad and Nathan never did and I still don't like chess." He sat, looking across the table at the other man, a 'so there you go' expression on his face – one brow up and a brief tilt of his head. He added, "Since Battleship and chess aren't options, what else would you like to play?"

XXX

"Then maybe you should change the way _you_ play, Petrelli," Sylar sassed. His lips thinned at the reinforcement that he'd…somehow screwed up and lost a game to play with Peter; it felt like deprivation or punishment even. _But I do have to change or you won't play Battleship with me, apparently. _That it had to be mentioned more than once made it sound like Peter was at least trying to be serious about not playing it ever again (at least until Sylar mended his ways). As Peter got more chatty with drink, Sylar was drawn into talking himself; he gazed up at Peter from underneath his eyebrows. _Do you really want to know what I wanna play? (Should I say it?) What else could we play with our clothes on?_ "How about…" _What's a good party game?_ Nathan's memories from high school and college came to the forefront. Girls, smoke, booze, cards and more. Sylar smirked, "Truth or Dare."

XXX

Peter raised his brows without answering right away. Instead, he pulled out his utility tool, selected the bottle opener, and popped the lid off his beer. He passed the device towards Sylar as he considered the proposal. It had been a long day filled with the playing of one board game after another. Over the previous few days, Peter had won some of their games, lost others, and observed that Sylar was impatient and short when explaining rules. It meant Peter quit asking. Truth or Dare was simple. It also didn't obligate them to a specific length, and given that the evening had worn into early night, Peter wasn't keen to get sucked into an all-night game of Risk or something like it. Plus, he wondered what Sylar wanted to know (or see him do). His curiosity was what cinched it for him. "Okay."

XXX

"Which do you pick?"

XXX

"Truth." He collected the utility tool from Sylar and restored it to his pocket.

XXX

"What was the first New Year's you drank alcohol?" Sylar imagined it was pretty young – Nathan had surely noticed (if Angela or Arthur hadn't), but he didn't remember what year or age Peter was. He started with something light and easy. For now.

XXX

"New Year's? Is this New Year's? I hadn't been keeping track of the days … Huh." Peter shrugged, bemused, and focused on the question instead of the impact of having been here for three full weeks with no Matt, no way out, nothing and nobody but his brother's cranky killer to spend time with. "You know, we weren't one of those families that believed kids shouldn't touch the stuff until they were twenty-one." _'We'. The Petrellis. How does he take that, anyway? Does he think I'm including him? … Am I? Hm. Well, back to the question._ "So I'm sure I tasted alcohol back when I was five or six or whatever. Just the tiniest sip of champagne for the New Year's toast, if I was awake. It was traditional. But I think what you're really asking is the first time I got drunk." He looked at Sylar for a moment for confirmation.

"When I was thirteen, Nathan had come home for Christmas and my birthday, but he had to leave before New Year's. I ..." He looked at Sylar, having another of those unsettling flashes that this man's face was probably the last thing Nathan had seen. Peter grimaced as his face reflected an echo of grief and unresolved rage. He set it aside, looking down at the table, toying with his beer by rotating it in circles. "I was pretty down after he left. Bob Bishop came to the New Year's Eve party and he got me off to the side in the kitchen early on." Peter's mouth twisted down in an ugly fashion. He didn't like Bob's idea of a joke and he'd seen Bob's idea of good parenting in Elle. He chewed his upper lip briefly. He'd been lonely and upset enough about Nathan's departure to be suckered in by Bob's false offer of friendship. "He gave me a bottle of some kind of cherry liqueur and said it was a gift for me, a late Christmas present. It was really sweet. Tasted a lot like maraschino cherries, which, you know," Peter shrugged and waved his bottle around a little, "I liked it at that point. And they're okay now, but not my favorite and it took a while for me to get over it." He took a short drink. "Anyway, long story shorter, I drank it. Started puking hours before midnight and kept it up all evening. I was so miserable. I saw his face once, at the beginning when I was telling my mom I was feeling sick. He looked so ..." Peter tilted the bottle sideways, along with his head, "smug."

Peter tapped the fingers of his right hand, where they weren't bound by the brace, restlessly against the arm of the office chair. "So what about you? Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Sylar didn't hesitate. "Dare." Truth was uninteresting (usually painful) and what 'truth' did Sylar have to share anyway?

XXX

Peter leaned back a little further, enjoying the surprising rush of power too much for the comfort of his own conscience. _I could ask him to do anything …_ His mind blanked out for a moment as what he wanted most wasn't something that could be forced or compelled – and he didn't want to hear Sylar's apologies or confessions anyway. But there were other things where Peter wasn't as picky about motivations. _What I really want is to take him down a peg. Pegs._ He looked at the Battleship board – his still open, facing him, on display. Sylar's was neatly disassembled and folded shut off to the side. Cocking his head to one side and smiling with false sweetness, Peter said, "Tell me, with as much sincerity as you can manage, congratulations for beating you at Battleship. I dare you to concede gracefully."

XXX

Sylar's mouth went thin and flat, teeth clenching. _So that's how it's going to be. _That peppy smile on Peter's face made it clear what was going on. "Sincerity, huh?" His left eyebrow raised with disdain. He could easily give Peter a lie, a con, that would have almost more sincerity than if he tried to apply the actual emotion. The muscles around his mouth moved as he stared pointedly away from Peter, staring holes into the wall, working himself up to and into the correct frame of mind (if it was possible). Rules were rules – if the Dare specified sincerity, then it was required. _Congratulate him for winning by chance? That's…kind of hollow. But so's his mind sometimes, I suppose._ After a few moments for which Sylar did not apologize for using, he turned to back to Peter. After licking his lips, "Congratulations," he intoned with barest hints of 'this is forced and I don't like it,' "For…" the eyebrow went up again as he gestured, "beating me at Battleship." Honestly, the worst part was the last sentence; a simple conciliatory word wasn't too difficult to cough up.

_Will he do something similar the next time I do Dare?_ "Truth or Dare?" Sylar asked to move on.

XXX

"Dare." What would Sylar would ask him to do, given that power? Of course it was only so much power as either of them was willing to grant the other, but that by itself was part of the appeal of the game – how far would they let the other go?

XXX

"Why don't you finish off that beer in one go?" Sylar's smirk remained. _Get you nice and drunk. Plus, I wanna see if you can do it; I think you can. _As a bonus, Peter's long neck would be exposed.

XXX

Sylar's Truth question had seemed like a strange thing for Sylar to want to know, but now Peter saw it in a different light. A frisson of fear, or maybe just concern, passed over him similar to the feelings he'd had when he first came here, not sure what Sylar was capable of. _Is he trying to get me wasted?_ Peter looked at the bottle – he'd hardly drank any of it yet. He raised it nearly to his lips, looking past the colored glass to Sylar. "I never trusted Bob again after that thing at New Year's." _And I won't trust you if you show me I can't._

XXX

"You don't have to but you'll be the guy who wimped out of a perfectly good Dare. You're an adult now and are you really trying to make a connection between me and Bob Bishop?"

XXX

Peter hesitated a moment more, adding, "You're right. You're better company than he would be." He took a deep breath, tipped the bottle, and put it away in one, easy, prolonged swallow. In a way, he was giving Sylar a chance to show what he was made of.

"Your turn."

XXX

Peter's throat's gulping motions were hypnotizing. It was such a simple function, really. It was a human function. It involved soft skin and muscles, the need to ingest nutrition for survival…moisture and a tongue…Sylar blinked once to remove the image of the phallic neck of the beer bottle doing…_Okay…I didn't mean for it to do that_… "Dare," Sylar said again.

XXX

Peter wiped his mouth, making sure he hadn't dribbled from the numb area of his lip. The way Sylar had been staring made him wonder. "Keep up with me - that's the dare."


	67. Humiliations

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

Sylar couldn't help but smile a little, without teeth. Peter caught on marvelously quickly to his plan. That was practically delicious. He'd been discovered and the man still participated; it was very much like playing together now. "This won't be fair – I still have my liver function, Petrelli." _Ha! See, I can talk smack, too._ It was fair game because Peter himself had been the first to mention or admit to a familial (if rather obvious) alcoholism problem. Presumably things would be even if they both drank the same amount – they would at least be even on a battlefield if it came to that. Sylar hefted his literally untouched bottle, pushing aside memories of drinking Matt Parkman under the table, saluting his companion and assuming the position. It didn't go down as smoothly as Peter made it look. It was the aftertaste that came after every large, palate-washing mouthful. Sylar muffled his coughing, more determined than he was comfortable because no way in hell would he let Peter outman him at anything. _Eckgh_, he thought on finishing. The dregs were a weight in his belly now, his throat coated with the stuff, soon his head would begin to feel lighter than before. /Reality shifted and he remembered multitudes of endless nights worth of parties, wasting valuable study time just to blow off steam from the pressures of life and college.../ Swiping at his mouth, he proudly placed the bottle on the desk. _And now…it's a drinking game_.

"Ugh…" Sylar cleared his throat then burped, not particularly loudly. He did not apologize for that basic human function, so unlike his former self who would have tripped over himself to gain favor and acceptance. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter set his empty on the corner of the table, leaning forward to begin the process of disassembling his Battleship board. He'd gotten what he wanted in regards to the game; the board didn't need to be on display any more. He was buoyed way more than he thought he should have been that Sylar's concession had been both difficult for him to muster and relatively well-done. "Truth."

XXX

"What was the best lay you ever had on New Year's?" He knew Petrelli had at least a few to choose from – the little slut.

XXX

Peter snorted immediately, because that was really private and it smacked of a crudity Peter didn't attach to intimacy. _That is not fucking fair! What about the people I'd be talking about?_ He shot Sylar an unhappy, narrow-eyed glare over the top of his Battleship board, but it was short-lived. He went back to pulling white pegs from the various misses and thought about Sylar's wording. He didn't like picking and choosing words, but maybe there was a compromise. _(And what does he mean by 'what' was my best lay, anyway?)_ "I'm not going to tell you names." Flat. Final. No compromise. But ... "Are you saying you want a description?"

XXX

Sylar made his 'whatever' face before he thought it through. "Wait…unless it's someone I know…" _Unlikely. Shit, what if Nathan knows her? Or…him?_ Something about the timeline he was asking about seemed important. _Christmas…New Year's…_"It's not Elle, is it?" he asked warningly. There was no amount of alcohol or drugs in the world to make it okay to hear about…that.

XXX

Peter opened his mouth briefly, leaving it that way as he tried to think of who they both knew, other than Elle, whom he had or might have been with on or around New Year's. "No, it's not Elle." _He cares about her. Good to know. _With a slight shake of his head, Peter moved to pull the red pegs from the ships, thinking back a lot further than Elle.

"This isn't real easy. I don't remember things by dates. I was never one of those 'notebook guys' who kept a file of who and when, what position it was, and a stupid rating." He gave a quick roll of his eyes in disgust at the concept as he tossed the now-restored submarine into the ship compartment and picked up the patrol boat. "I remember people. People, and how I felt about them, sometimes more than what we actually did." The patrol boat was done, so he moved on to the destroyer. "Nothing in the last four years. At least not on New Years." The aircraft carrier was next. "Before that ..."

He finished and shut the game, setting the hard, plastic, red box to the side on top of Sylar's blue one. Once he had his thoughts together, he had to decide how he wanted to tell this. _He wants a story, like one of those paramedic stories, but … with sex. And me._ Peter smiled and looked down at the desk. Sylar wanted to know … about him. He leaned forward, putting both elbows on the edge of the desk, raising his eyes to meet Sylar's. His smile deepened charmingly (and he knew it did). He reached up and pushed his bangs out of his face with relaxed ease, using the lures to better pull Sylar into the story.

"Here's one I remember really well. I didn't have a date, wasn't even really looking for one. New Year's Eve isn't what I consider a good time to hook up – a lot of people are sloshed and a lot of the time, I was, too. Too much alcohol and getting laid doesn't go well together. But I hadn't had very much when I saw this girl sitting by herself. She looked sad – looking down a lot, shoulders slumped, like she was a million miles away. I went over to her. She told me she didn't want to talk and was just there because she wanted to be around people. I told her I was the same way and asked if she minded if I sat next to her so people wouldn't think I was by myself, too. I wasn't trying to put moves on her or anything. I think she got that. We sat together, not talking, through the next song on the stereo. I don't remember the song, but the one after that was Clocks by Coldplay. It was a big hit that year." His smile brightened and he chuckled, waving at the various timepieces around the room. Maybe that was why this particular story had come to mind.

XXX

Sylar remembered the song. It had been hard to avoid it was so popular. It had a nice beat that was clock-like, bell-like, very catchy but the lyrics had nothing to do with clocks, that he could remember and so it was a little disappointing.

XXX

"She thought the lyrics had a lot to do with her life, which was depressing. We talked about why, which led to talking about music in general and what it meant to people. Turns out she was majoring in it, violin, but she wasn't doing well. She'd been upset all semester, trying to keep a long distance relationship with her fiancé, who had broken up with her right before finals. Instead of spending the winter break with him, she'd been hanging around campus. Alone. She asked me to take her back to her apartment, so I did. Once we were there ..." Peter raised his brows and tilted his head, allowing Sylar to entertain the obvious, but incorrect, assumption.

"That's not when I got laid." He smirked at the shift in Sylar's expression.

XXX

Sylar frowned. _But she said…_

XXX

"We made some coffee and sat out on the fire escape in the cold, while she told me all about her ex, how her parents adored him so much they'd already made arrangements for the wedding in the spring, how her music instructor had implied he was going to give her seat to someone else, and how she was starting to wonder if she had anything left worth living for. I told her about how I'd felt when I thought I was going to have to be a lawyer, and how much that crushed me until I found a way to do things on my own terms. I asked her what she thought a life worth living should have in it. She said she wanted other people to stop making the important decisions about her life and for her to make them instead. I told her she was right and that's what it all came down to. We watched the sun come up together. I asked her what decisions she wanted to make. She told me she'd decided she wanted to go to bed with me." He smiled warmly, waggling his brows as he waited, again, for Sylar to come to the wrong conclusion.

"I didn't get laid then, either. We just slept." Peter had another warm smile, this time in memory of tired cuddling and her surprise that he was happy to be with her on her terms.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows went up. _Again? Did you get some at all? Then why are you telling me this story? _Was it a relief that even the high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli misread the signs of women and had struck out?

XXX

"When I woke up, I showered. Came out to get dressed ..." Peter gave Sylar another teasing, maybe flirting look before continuing, "and _that's_ when I got laid. She pulled me in bed, pushed me down, climbed on top, and fucked me so hard it felt like the room was spinning. She was _all over me_." He smiled a little smugly at how enthusiastic she'd been. "I saw her again that night … and yeah, got laid again. And the next morning … again." Peter's grin widened. "She told off her ex, told off her music instructor, broke the news to her parents, and changed majors from music to social work." He chuckled, glad that he could be the catalyst for such a change in someone's life.

XXX

_That was a bad question. _Sylar regretted his choice thoroughly. He made a firm mental note never to ask Peter Petrelli about his good memories – because the spoiled brat had plenty. And now Sylar had to remember that one. _I don't want to picture that. I don't want to remember that. I didn't want to hear that. That wasn't…what I wanted…Why can't he just…?_

XXX

There was a long pause before the inevitable 'what happened next' of the story. "I never hooked up with her again. She moved on." Peter shrugged, eyes darting to the side at that distant sting. Bitterness tugged down the corners of his mouth, dispelling his previously pleased expression. If he did his job right in helping people, then they didn't need him anymore – but that wasn't very soothing when he returned to an empty apartment or tried to explain to someone why he got dumped so often. He got to his feet, heading to the kitchen so Sylar wasn't looking at the emotions he knew were showing on his face. "I'm going to get another round. Pick Truth or Dare," he said, voice gruffer than it needed to be.

XXX

_I hate him._ Every reaction he knew stampeded through Sylar's body, settling on rage and murder. Everything the man said was…wrong, too much, out of line, sickening…Peter stole the task Sylar would have otherwise taken, "You do that," he sniped. He hadn't desired to break Peter's button nose using his own desk so badly since the nurse arrived. The man who'd premeditated raping his mind had a memory like that? What was worse, Sylar couldn't envision what that kind of event would be like. He refused to admit the idea was both arousing and terrifying. '_Hooking up' he called it. You…get them to talk then you wait for them to jump you?_ He felt jealousy, envy, in ways he couldn't explain. Maybe that was Nathan's reaction; he could hope that's what it was. Sylar stood, pacing around while Peter was absent. _Things don't happen like that. I bet he stole that from a soap opera or a porno. That's it: he lied. He made that up. He did that on purpose._ It had worked. That decided, his rage eased back from the tense, homicidal flood.

"Dare," he sneered, sitting after the medic. _Make it a good one; ideally involving my memory cortex and a wood chipper as a professional courtesy._

XXX

Peter returned, dropping off the beers and getting out his pocket tool to open them. He noted Sylar was in a bad mood now. Something that caused outright humiliation didn't seem like a good dare at the moment, despite how edifying he'd found the congratulations_. I'll have to come back to that and make him do the chicken dance or something else embarrassing. Hm. Can he dance?_ Peter leaned back in his seat, putting away the utility tool as his eyes became merry at the mental image of Sylar clumsily gyrating on a dance floor, not that the guy was clumsy normally (aside from concussions). _Hard to do that without music. I wonder if he can sing?_ "I dare you to sing me a song – a full one, not just a ditty or a jingle. Whatever you know all the words to."

XXX

Sylar's face was blank. _Was that supposed to be embarrassing or…what? _His eyes narrowed with suspicion briefly. That wasn't the kind of dare he wanted – what did that prove? "I'd…have to think." A whole song? There went 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars', not that he could remember it. "Um…okay." It was a long time since his choir-boy days and his voice had long-since broken, deepening to his satisfaction. Sylar wasn't shy about his voice (but he wasn't sure how it would sound after two beers), though he didn't advertise it. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer…had a very shiny nose…And if you ever saw him, you would even say it glows…All of the other reindeer…used to laugh and call him names…They would never let poor Rudolph…play in any reindeer games…" He forgot the exact wording for the next verse, but rallied for the rest. It was one of those annoyingly memorable songs, impossible to forget especially when he'd watched the movie growing up, viewing it so much it drove Mom to forbidding it.

XXX

_Hm. Okay. Not what I expected, but it's okay. He's easy to listen to._ Sylar had a deep voice that resonated and carried nicely, getting better as he went, warming to the task. It was untrained, as far as Peter could tell, but it had a good timbre and an intensity that projected even in such a simple song. Peter liked it; it was satisfying, somehow, to know this otherwise irrelevant detail about his companion. He wasn't thinking about why he wanted to know the quality of Sylar's singing voice. If he had, it would have been something vague about the piano or guitar and wanting the occasional accompaniment. "We could go carol the empty city," he suggested rhetorically, taking a pull from his beer.

XXX

"Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter licked his lips, then reached up to wipe at them, catching a nascent dribble on the left side. He looked at the moisture on his thumb and frowned at it. _Fuck. Maybe I should stop drinking._ He set down the beer, concerned he was getting drunk enough to be less than his normally meticulous self about the side of his mouth. _I guess I could do a dare. He just did one. I don't really want to tell another story. No telling what he'd ask._ "Dare."

XXX

"Let me touch your hair." Sylar smirked shamelessly.

XXX

"Eh ..." Peter blinked repeatedly, then did it again. _O-kay. No telling what he'd ask, all right. _"My …?" He reached up and ran his hand along the surface of his hair on the left side. It didn't seem out of place. _Why? Just … because?_ He looked at that expression on Sylar's face, remembering something weird about how the guy had handled his head when trying to show him how to do a physical exam. _Oh my fucking God, he's not … this doesn't tie in with cutting people's heads open, does it?_ Peter swallowed and recoiled from the desk, hands going to his lap, his gaze on Sylar sharpening to an alert stare.

XXX

Sylar stared right back, calm and collected. He didn't think Peter would wuss out (Sylar wasn't asking for anything perverted or wrong…as far as Peter knew), but the nurse might place restrictions on the act – this was all about pushing the guy's comfort zone, seeing where his boundaries were.

XXX

_All he asked for was to touch my hair. Calm down. That's all he asked for._ Peter's eyes went to his beer, trying to calculate if it was better or worse to be more inebriated for whatever was about to happen. Since he didn't know, he left the alcohol where it was at. "Okay," he said, voice a little shaky.

XXX

Standing, he made his way around the desk to stand behind Peter and the roller chair.

XXX

Peter remained sitting, hands in lap. He tilted his head up to give Sylar a wary, but also curious, expression – eyes narrowed, brows drawn together, face intent. He had to suppress his urge to pull away when Sylar reached for him; it manifested anyway as a twitch, but otherwise, Peter held still for it – for all of it.

XXX

Sylar smiled a little at that extra look, but he didn't say anything. Let Peter freak out about it. Lifting his hands, he paused before making contact. Peter kept quiet, not taking those last seconds to put rules in place. _Thatta boy._ Sylar began with petting over the top of Peter's head, down around towards the back of his neck, just to get a feel for the texture of his hair. It was quite soft, thick, but not heavy for all the volume the guy managed. "Hm," Sylar's hum of acknowledgement and slight surprise was brief. He rubbed the ends of Peter's hair between his fingers; maybe a little dry, in need of a haircut. _Perfect._ Behind the nurse, Sylar smirked to himself. This was completely forbidden, touching someone's hair, yet here he was, with permission, doing it, one of those boundary-crossing things he rarely got to do. It was…personal, really personal: hair, touching it, allowing it.

XXX

_Okay, that's … that's okay. I think._ Without being able to see what Sylar was doing, Peter was left imagining based on the sensations. The stroking he could follow easily enough and then Sylar was doing something different, maybe picking up a few individual locks of hair and … what? What was he doing? This wasn't the matter-of-fact handling of a stylist or the intimate caress of a lover. Far as Peter could tell, Sylar's breathing was still normal so if he was getting off on it, he was slow to show it. Aside from however Sylar felt, Peter didn't find the experience as upsetting as it could have been. Instead, it felt nice. Weird though the whole thing was, he felt the tension easing out of his shoulders. Touch had a tendency to do that.

XXX

Peter wore this little haircut around probably just to make people want to touch it – the hair certainly seemed to cry out for it. Sylar's next touch was with combined fingers to different parts of hair – temple, back of head, the part - testing for variations in texture (and reactions therein, if that happened). Cursory exploration satisfied, Sylar slid his fingertips from the man's forehead into his hair, as if he were giving him a scalp massage. Yes, this is what he wanted. _That's right, just checking on that…hematoma you had. _This way, his fingers embedded and intertwined, he could clench his hands, make fists and control and demand, if he so chose. Sliding his fingers through Peter's lovely dark hair several times, slowly with no reaction, Sylar decided to try grabbing it. His loose 'grip' of sorts, tightened, squeezing the hair with space between scalp and fingers. _Do you like that? Will you allow it? Hmmm…_

XXX

A little more odd touching of different spots made Peter move his legs restlessly, but he had no other response. Fingers stroking into his hair led him to shut his eyes and let out a deep breath despite how inappropriate all of this was. Maybe Sylar got off on this, or maybe it was some harkening back to cutting people's heads open – either way, Peter was buzzed enough from alcohol to find it easy to not care. He cared that it felt good and that was what mattered. It was a dare and he was just being … generous in not stopping Sylar. Right. He felt warm and tingly, letting his mind wander to the last time someone had done something like this …

\\He remembered a beautiful woman, tattooed, passionately running her hands into the hair at the base of his neck. He couldn't place her, or the situation, which seemed charged with an energy he couldn't identify any more than the person. He'd felt … betrayed?\\ "Hm?" _Who is she? _Digging further, Peter recalled the carnival with a familiarity to the scene that didn't fit; he'd never been there. \\Samuel had introduced him to her: 'Lydia, come meet our new friend. Show him around a bit, will you?' His own name wasn't spoken, the significance of which he hadn't grasped at the time-\\

Then a grip in his hair, both hands on either side of his scalp, changed everything. The daydream was obliterated by a different memory that Peter identified as his own much more readily, one of being jerked around by his hair, manhandled in a way that layered intimacy, violence, and coercion. He hunched defensively, drawing his body downward at the same time that he reached up with his left. "Nnn ..." His fingertips went to the side of Sylar's left hand and moved there in a mute hand-signal of concern, reaching across to probe restlessly at the right hand as well. "Let go," he said softly, his tone not so much a command but more like a question. Stiff fingers pushed against Sylar's wrists, urging him away, encouraging a release without demanding it. Tension spiraled through him, seeking an outlet.

XXX

Peter was surprisingly polite about getting Sylar's hands off him, not smacking at his hands or using language. Behind Peter, he made a face but slowly unclenched his grip, moving around to sit in his own seat again, across from his companion. He looked over the man's countenance to gauge just how upset Peter was about it. It didn't matter too much – Sylar had gotten to touch, with permission, Peter's tempting mane.

XXX

Peter leaned forward and away from Sylar, stroking his hair rapidly to self-sooth and chase away the feeling of being held in place. Memories he didn't want to have were safely locked back in their respective mental boxes. He gave Sylar a wary, hyper-alert look while holding his body as far away from the other man as possible. "You touched my hair. That was the deal. You're done." _Weirdo._ As Sylar moved away, Peter straightened, pulling his comb from his pocket and carding it through his hair, scraping it across his entire scalp. It felt odd where Sylar had brushed against him – a not uncommon occurrence and so Peter ignored it, trying to overlay the sensation with that of the comb, not that it worked very well. Not sure what he was supposed to do in response to hair-fondling-gone-bad or what could have only been a trip down Sylar's memory lane, Peter changed the subject. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

The grabbing wasn't the best idea, not because it had failed quickly, but because he hadn't done it with much valid purpose. There was little to gain from grabbing Peter's hair. Now Sylar wondered how long he would have been allowed to touch if he hadn't grabbed. He felt strangely territorial about the re-combing. The insinuation that Peter wanted to erase Sylar's touch was pretty clear. Maybe he just envied the comb – he stared at the grooming tool as it passed through Peter's hair where his fingers had been seconds ago. Or maybe they just had a bad history with combs. For now, Sylar still had another human being on his hands – faint oil, scent, heat. He wanted to smell his hands. His fingers felt awakened, tingling with the sensation of phantom hairs still passing by and his hands wanted nothing more than to be back against any part of that warmth. His head was light, headache diminished; buzzing happily whether he wanted it to or not, from beer or physical contact he wasn't sure. "Dare."

XXX

Peter relaxed a little as the power shifted back to him. He remained unsettled by Sylar getting grabby; more unsettled that he still responded badly to that after all these years. He'd had girlfriends grab his hair, even pull on it. Given the right context, it didn't bother him (and was sometimes really sexy). The context with Sylar was unclear – standing over him, motives unknown, touching him intimately – it was the same emotional feel that he'd sensed in Sylar's memory that he'd inadvertently tapped. The experience left him irritable. There might have been a little vengeance in his choice for Sylar's Dare, or maybe it was an insecure attempt to assert dominance. He put away his comb and gave Sylar a half-hearted smirk he was putting on for show. "I dare you to sing _and_ act, or dance, the little teapot song, three times in a row."

XXX

Sylar lasered Peter with a glare. For one thing, that dare wasn't funny; the amount was overkill, and for another, it was obvious why he was being given that dare – punishment. He didn't make any rules about it, vindictive little snot. "Hardly a dare. I thought playing this with a Petrelli would involve two beers and juggling chainsaws, you know, something interesting," he sneered, putting Peter's annoyingly effective dare into proper perspective as he stood decisively. Once upright however, with Peter's eyes on him, the dare was immediately placed back into the utterly humiliating category it truly was. Sylar hesitated, ignoring how the pause might make him look. He did not want to get started, everything about his pride was rebelling. _I _kill _people and this is what he wants me to do? Doesn't he know who I am? Doesn't he know what I can do to him?_ His 'big bad' image was already smarting. This was much more difficult than the consolation congratulations dare earlier and beyond simply singing.

Clearing his throat, Sylar glared again at the cause of his humiliation. _I'm never going to live this down. Maybe if I hit him on the head, he'll forget? Drunks forget things, too, right?_ Not bothering to sing, Sylar spoke the words to the tune in an uninspired tone of voice, half-assing the gestures. It wasn't like he knew the action parts real well, having only seen it a few times as a child. He'd never done it himself and doing it now felt awkward.

XXX

"Hey, it's interesting to me," Peter said with affected nonchalance. _Next time I'm afraid you're going to kill me, I'm going to think of this. Of course, this might be _why _you're going to kill me._ Peter mostly controlled his snickering. _Oh yeah, the horribly scary Sylar-as-a-little-teapot. Next time he points that finger at me I ought to say __something about his 'spout'._

XXX

Once that was through (hoping his face wasn't flushed red), Sylar quickly sat and pretended he wasn't completely embarrassed by staring through Peter's face and sprawling as casually as he could, instead of slouching, avoiding eye contact and squirming in place trying to be invisible. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

"Beer." Peter pointed at Sylar's so-far untouched bottle, and took a deep swig out of his own. He strongly suspected Sylar needed some alcohol to wash that incident down. "My dare earlier was that you'd keep up with me. Not just that bottle – all night." That was stretching it and he wouldn't fight much if Sylar refused, but Peter would certainly and pointedly end his drinking if Sylar wouldn't honor it. After waiting a beat for reaction, he said, "Truth," hoping to avoid having to make a similar spectacle of himself.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed for a few seconds. That was slightly dangerous because Peter could drink more than he could – the odds of Sylar getting drunker faster (and getting sicker) were greater. _Does he want to get_ me _drunk?_ He tilted his head in acquiescence, taking a few drinks. "Tell me your most embarrassing moment."

XXX

Peter stared for a moment, eyes large with a deer-in-the-headlights look as Sylar did him one better. Then he burst into laughter, his belly shaking as he leaned back and let loose. "Oh my God, that's good! I _totally_ deserve that!" He sat upright in the chair to stab a finger in Sylar's direction. "Props for a perfect revenge." He had the feeling this was a real game, more than he'd managed with any of the many other board and card games they'd gone through in the preceding days, more than he often managed with anyone. _This_ – this was give and take, and Sylar, to Peter's shock, was not shirking (well, he could have done the teapot thing with a lot more spirit, but Peter had picked it because he knew it would offend the hell out of the guy). He shook his head as the chuckling wound down and he started giving some actual thought to what he'd just been asked to tell.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair again, studying the ceiling. Random moments from childhood flashed through his mind – forgetting to get his parent's permission slip for a fifth grade trip to the museum and the teacher calling him out in class for being empty-headed, then having to go to the office and beg his mother come down to school in person, immediately, or else he would have had to spend all day doing nothing while the other kids saw all the cool stuff. It had mattered so much at the time. Or when Harry Belvidere caught him jerking off in the shower before sophomore year swim class, part of Peter's plan not to be caught with a hard-on (again) in the tight trunks everyone had to wear. Or when he realized his dad had gotten him fired from that fast food job he'd tried to work in college, and he had to pretend he'd fucked it up himself.

Peter slouched forward, putting his elbows on the desk and his face into his hands. He rubbed at his eyes and let all his air out. "You know," he said slowly, face still hidden, "the hard part is picking out which is worst." He lifted his face, cupping one hand within the other and resting them against his upper lip. "Most embarrassing thing that happened to me recently … Nathan … knew what happened, but I don't think he ever got what it meant to me." _And now he never will. Not that I think he would have, even if he was still alive. I don't think it was in him to care – not that way, not about _**me**_**.**_

Peter looked away, frowning. "I'd … just,_ just_ told Simone that I'd loved her from the first moment I'd laid eyes on her. I wanted to be with her. I'd watched her with her father, and I thought she was kind, fun, thoughtful, intelligent ..." He smiled softly at the memory, making a slight wave of one hand.

XXX

_Love at first sight? Really, Peter?_ Sylar thought dubiously and humorously. _He probably just wanted to sleep with her__. A__ll that stuff he likes is so general…_

XXX

"I'd just told her that when Nathan got everyone's attention at the campaign fundraiser we were at, one he'd roped me into attending that I didn't even want to go to. I went because," Peter rolled his eyes, "he pulled the 'family' card on me. So there I was, when he announced to everyone – reporters, my parent's friends, the parents of some of _my_ friends, Nathan's campaign workers, Simone ..." Peter exhaled heavily, "he announced that I'd been trying to kill myself. The powers, the being different, special, everything I'd been trying to talk to him about, what we'd proven, he was dismissing and framing up as a cry for attention, some sort of messed up, fake, family fault. And he knew it." Peter bit his lower lip, baring his teeth in the process, nose wrinkling in half a snarl. "He knew it was fake. He didn't care. Humiliate me in front of everybody – that's okay, right?" Peter shook his head. "Because that's my role: make him look bigger, better." Peter took another drink. "Make sure I knew my place in the family hierarchy. Make sure everyone else knew it, too. That was embarrassing."

And angering. There was a bite to his voice as he said, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows twitched upwards. Nathan had been blissfully ignorant of that but it definitely explained getting his jaw realigned by Peter's fist after that dinner. It was just Peter's feelings on the line, right? All the same, Sylar thought it was rather sadistic of Nathan to purposefully invite the unwilling Peter out just to scapegoat him (even if Peter had a hand in digging those holes – jumping off rooftops and professing love in public places – himself). _Yeah…that would…That just sucks._ He didn't want to contemplate how much utter shame that would have caused because he could picture it happening to him all to clearly. Sylar recalled what Nathan knew of Simone – stunning, a little too opinionated for Nathan, a little too mixed up in ideology and Peter, and now, she was quite dead because of Peter. It was still a bit sad, maybe a double blow to Peter because of her death.

"Truth."

XXX

"Tell me about the people you consider to be your family - or who used to be." He tilted his head slightly, eyes steady on Sylar. Peter was hard pressed to think of anything more critical than family, the people he would cut out his heart for.

XXX

"Nuh-uh. It has to be a question, Peter."

XXX

Peter snorted and pointed at Sylar. "Hey, don't you rules-lawyer me, buddy. I was trained by the best of 'em."

XXX

"If you'd learned anything, then you'd know better and phrase it properly," Sylar snarked his retort, "Because I'm no lawyer."

XXX

Peter frowned. "Your last one wasn't a question, either, and it's not like I answered it with 'October, 2006.' I tried to explain it." And it was so gratifying to actually have someone listen to that explanation. Just that, by itself, made Peter feel so much better. He looked to the side, trying to think of how to word it so he'd get the information he wanted. Hopefully, he'd answer Peter's intent, and not simply give him a list of names. "Here it is: When people are talking about family, present or former, who are the people you think of in those roles for you and your past?"

XXX

_He sure has a fetish for my family._ "I assume you're excluding any parent with a trust fund," Sylar stipulated, referring to the Petrellis. "My mom was a secretary, she raised me. My dad is…the guy with the Hunger and cancer. If you include former…there….was…" _my mother_, he tried to say but the words wouldn't leave his mouth. If he said it, then Peter would ask about her and he just couldn't talk about her. There wasn't much to say, nothing to interest Peter or anyone else. He frowned deeply, inhaling to cover the silence and regroup. "My uncle, he restored timepieces." That part he finished definitively. As far as he was concerned, that was his family in their politically correct, politely conversational, rehearsed nutshell.

"Why are you asking? Are you trying to find some kind of hereditary insanity mental defect or something…?" Sylar paused or trailed off, thinking about his own question before muttering, "Probably a good place to look," before he took another pull of beer.

XXX

Peter didn't understand the 'with a trust fund' thing right away, but he figured it out and frowned. Actually, he'd been very interested in how Sylar placed the Petrellis in relation to himself. Then Peter blinked. '… any _parent_ with a trust fund.' _He still thinks they're his parents?_But Sylar had moved on and Peter didn't want to interrupt. _He just skipped someone,_ Peter thought about Sylar's long pause before speaking of his uncle.

He smiled thinly in response to Sylar's questions. "No. It'd be a way different question if I was. I want to know about the people important to you." He assumed the topic was closed with Sylar's frustratingly vague and obviously incomplete answer, but he tried asking for more anyway. The worst Sylar could do was clam up. "Can you tell me more about your mom?"

XXX

"What do you want, her social security number and favorite color? She's _my_ mother, it's _my_ business to know, not _yours_." He realized his voice was defensive and he quieted. When Peter didn't say anything, just kept looking at him, Sylar caved, to get it over with. "Fine. Fine. She was short, thin, dark hair, brown eyes. I thought she was pretty, I guess. She was…" And then he hit the problem he always did when trying to describe his mother. Tell the truth, the partial truth or nothin' about the truth? Which did he want to tell? Which was appropriate, which was being asked after? Which was safe to say, which was he allowed to say? _And I'm half-way to drunk. Should I be talking?_ "Very devout. Socially conscious. Strict. Particular. Emotional." Sylar shook his head, shrugging. He realized he'd had to reference her more than he'd had to describe her all his life. _Am I talking too much?_ He glanced at his bottle, lifting it to try to read the label. Just his luck he'd get 'not marked for individual sale.' "Where did you find these, anyway? What's in 'em?"

XXX

_Wow. He's talking!_ Peter could hardly stifle his surprise at getting an answer, a series of cooperative utterances, and even if they weren't exactly what Peter wanted, they were close. He'd hit a vein, definitely. Ignoring the question about the beer (he hadn't really looked when he'd picked them up from the liquor store, although he remembered the brand from years before; they were strong and not legally 'beer'). "Tell me more about your uncle. Is he your mom's brother or your dad's?"

XXX

Sylar snorted. "Him. He was my father's brother. Never liked me at all, never pretended to, either. He knew I wasn't his kid and he didn't bother to treat me like I was. He got me into a lot of trouble, just because. He was….the one who taught me how to fix timepieces." Sylar shrugged. "It was a relief when he left but…he left…problems for me to deal with."

XXX

"And your dad?"

XXX

"You mean the few hours I spent with him? I should have asked him more questions when I had him but being threatened to get carved up like a taxidermy animal kind of ruined our bonding," Sylar allowed, sarcastically. "He looked like a hobo, completely filthy, bearded, dirt on him. Taller than my uncle. He looked…old, like he was old enough to be my grandfather but he wasn't that old. I could…see a resemblance, I looked like the younger, taller, darker version of him maybe. It's _so_ stupid, but that's what sold me – that we looked alike. Coming from…short parents with my features…I never..." Sylar shook his head. "Do you believe that? It's so…shallow. He was so pathetic and creepy, just…making the hair on the back of your neck stand up because yo- I knew what he could do but he was creepy before you know he has a power, before you know what he can do. You could just tell he knows…that he can see…things." Or perhaps that was their mutual power at work, allowing them to see inside things or the desire to. "Then it's ironic because he plays around with dead animals – father of the year award there," he took another drink.

XXX

Peter cocked his head, finding it immensely intriguing that Sylar's primary given reasons for disliking the guy were … yeah, shallow. What he looked like, what he did for a living (or maybe a hobby, Peter wasn't sure), his age. But he trusted Sylar's instincts, odd a statement as that was. He'd been there, met the guy. He had the Hunger. _Maybe there's something about the ability that makes a person creepy?_ He leaned forward even more, even more interested, because that might explain part of why Sylar wasn't as off-putting here, in this world, as he had been in reality.

XXX

"He understood…our ability but I think it drove him crazy. Or he was just a monster to begin with, I don't know. He's everything I thought he'd be but it was like looking at your own headstone." Sylar closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to Hiro's similar prophecy. It was like looking into an aged mirror alright and it still terrified him even as he practically lived that nightmare or prophecy now – isolated, forgotten, suffering forever until he died alone. "He gave me some advice even though he didn't really intend it that way, I don't think. I think he made the rest of it up," he admitted. "He didn't lie once…My dad…didn't lie once." Sylar looked at Peter, eyes narrowed with suspicion that wasn't aimed at the nurse, "That was the whole point of talking to him and I think he got around my ability somehow. I don't know how, I didn't even know you could do that. But I know he lied because he said he wasn't interested in more powers and he attacked me for one. Some of the other things he said didn't make a lot of sense, either, but he was the right amount of vague." After a pause to conclude, he asked, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

"Truth." He didn't even think about it. Peter wanted the dialogue to continue. He remained leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, very intent on Sylar. He'd been given so much more than he'd expected. He wasn't about to push it by digging further – one follow-up question per person and Peter had a lot to think about now.


	68. Strutting One's Stuff

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

"Tell me honestly how much you hate me. And what you'd do to me if you didn't think you needed me," Sylar said bluntly.

XXX

Peter's mouth fell open and stayed there for a few seconds. His eyes dropped to the desk and his mouth shut as his gaze shifted off to the side. He swallowed; his throat was dry all of a sudden, stomach churning like he'd been sucker-punched. He looked up at Sylar under lowered brows – not a glare, but a short stare, surprised and confused by the change from an engaging topic to one he found repellant. _Emotional whiplash. He feels like he can ask that of me?_ There was a brief mental pause while the situation rotated and realigned in Peter's head, seeing it from a different perspective. Much less defensively, he thought, _He feels like he can ask that of me. That's something. Honest. And he wants me to be honest. Expects it. That's … that's how it should be. Right?_

Peter remembered Sylar's many comments about being lied to. He swallowed again and blinked, looking away. Sylar had been lied to a lot, far as Peter could tell, and about important things, like his own family. _That's two questions, not one. Not that it matters. It's just a technicality. And he answered all my questions about his family. Probably honestly._ Peter shifted in his seat guiltily. He didn't have any moral wiggle room – at least none he was willing to use. He tried to smile, twice. It came out feeble and turned into a grimace both times. He gave up. There was no way to put a good face on this. None.

_My emotions are on parade, but that's the point, isn't it? That's what he wants to know._ Peter ran his hand through his hair and straightened. Sylar deserved at least … eye contact, tough as it was to manage. "I … hate …" He cleared his throat, swiping his tongue around his mouth like it had a bad taste in it. "I hated you enough to try to kill you." Peter's lips tightened, pulling back against his teeth but not parting. It was difficult to say this sort of thing right to someone's face. It would have been easier if he'd been angry, yelling, and attacking with his words instead of finding himself laid bare by them – his motivations made naked and vulnerable. "I tried to get rid of you." He looked away, down and to the side. "Mostly I wanted Nathan back, but I didn't care what happened to … No. I wanted you gone in the process." He looked up at Sylar sullenly. "That," Peter cleared his throat again, very unhappy about admitting this, "that was a … a desired outcome." He took refuge briefly behind stilted, semi-medical language before owning it. "I wanted that." He sighed. "Didn't happen. That's … probably for the best."_ Probably?_ some moral part of him was outraged that he was still ambivalent about whether or not it was okay to murder someone. But the ambivalence was there, whether he found it outrageous or not.

XXX

Sylar just…watched him. The honesty was a relief plain and simple, but the subject matter was painful, whether or not he liked Peter or wanted his approval. Being hated and wished dead was still a fresh agony he had to accept each time. How could hope exist facing that? Everyone he knew, save maybe two or three persons, agreed with Peter and felt the same way about him. Like he had a responsibility to off himself because he was inconvenient, unmanageable and dangerous and life was something he wasn't entitled to. His life was so worthless it didn't give people pause to take it. Sylar found it strange that Peter, who'd had his own memory carelessly erased, would equate that to painless, eternal death. Being 'gone' and being dead, Sylar knew, were not the same – being 'gone' was far, far worse.

'Probably.' That word ricocheted in his skull, hitting multiple emotions until he overloaded and couldn't react for the numbness. _Probably. My being alive is 'probably for the best.' Give or take._ He meant so little that even in his usefulness it was still a probability of odds that being alive was a 'good' thing. _That's it, isn't it? I'm only alive because I'm still useful._

XXX

"Now …" It was really, _really_ hard to keep his eyes on Sylar's face. It was like trying to force two magnets together, north pole to north pole. "Mostly, I just try not to think about it." He looked down in his lap, chastised by knowing the cowardice his words implied. "I'm really … still really angry at … I'm really angry." It wasn't just Sylar. Sometimes it wasn't Sylar at all, but that wasn't something Peter wanted to admit and luckily it wasn't what Sylar had asked. He picked briefly at the brace. "It just works better if I don't think about it."

"If I didn't need you …" he shut his eyes for several long seconds, "I don't know what I'd do." Peter's shoulders sagged. "I promised you I wouldn't leave without taking you with me. That means something to me." _Though I'd have to figure out how to put you in jail or a cell or something after we got out_. His lips pinched together. He didn't think he was obligated to explain that. Maybe rehabilitation was possible. He didn't know. "I … hope I wouldn't go against that. I gave my word." He looked up at Sylar. "If you're asking if I would try to kill you? No. There's no point. There's no one here. As long as I didn't think you were going to hurt me, then," he shrugged, "why would I? Revenge?" He snorted softly and waved a hand around the place. "Matt's beat me to it." Faintly, and with a resigned slump, he said, "Worse than what I was going to do."

Very quietly, Peter offered, "Truth or Dare." He hoped like hell Sylar didn't have any follow up questions for any of this.

XXX

"You didn't answer the question, Peter," Sylar intoned seriously. "If you didn't need me, you wouldn't be here. You know what you'd do if you saw me on the street somewhere – so what would you do?" He ignored the rest of Peter's placating attempt; that crap about not leaving him behind. The guy clearly thought Sylar should be here. (He doubted Peter's unnamed punishment would be easier than being here, apparently, which the nurse attributed to Matt.) Sylar didn't know what to think about Peter ignoring his anger, his issues and therein Sylar's existence because that's what it boiled down to.

XXX

Peter pressed his lips together and did an exasperated motion with his head. His voice was clipped, expression intent. "What? What are you talking about? Are you saying like, if I hadn't had the dream and none of that was going to happen, and then one day after a month or two I saw you on the street? Are you asking what I'd do then?" Would he do anything, at all? Sylar was a danger, a menace, but what if he was just standing there minding his own business buying a hot dog from a street vendor?

XXX

Sylar was equally annoyed. "Yes." _That's what I said._

XXX

"But … I'd …" Peter floundered. He'd only ever known Sylar as someone out to kill him or his, who needed to be opposed and stopped at all costs. What would he do if that didn't seem to be the case? "I'd want to know what you were doing, why you were doing it, if you were after someone. I don't know what it would take to convince me you weren't doing anything. And that's …" Peter shrugged. "If I was convinced, somehow, then ..." he shrugged again, feeling helpless and irritated by the feeling, "there wouldn't be anything to do." _I'd still hate you. Probably._

XXX

Sylar realized he'd not phrased his Truth question to get the answer he wanted and his lips thinned. As it was, unfortunately, Peter was answering the letter of the question and nothing more. The empath couldn't answer more with what he'd been given. It was his own fault and he couldn't change his question to gain the intended answer. He'd have to abide by the rules and settle for the limited answer he'd been given_. If I was harmless and a nobody you'd leave me be? You'd let me walk? _Sylar didn't believe that for a second. _Yeah, you'd ignore me. __I can't convince you. _"Yeah, sure, whatever," Sylar waved it away. After a moment, it was clear Peter was waiting on him. "Oh. Truth."

XXX

Peter sighed and took a long drag out of his beer, nearly emptying it. His impression was that Sylar didn't believe him. After a brief internal debate, he decided not to address it. Let Sylar believe what he wanted to believe. Trying to turn things to a better subject than hate, he asked, "What's the nicest thing you've ever done for anyone?

XXX

That was a painless question. "I died for them," Sylar said, not having to think about it. "For some people, I'd do it again."

XXX

Peter grimaced briefly at how tantalizingly incomplete that was. "I need more details than that. A story, a situation, something." He gestured across the desk. "An example. Tell me about one time you remember well."

XXX

"Pick one?" Sylar repeated. "Um…" His brain automatically tried to assemble the parameters of the question but the beer was remarkably inhibitory to that process. 'The one you remember well' stuck with him and that decided him. "I have a few," he said shyly, "but the one I remember, probably the first one actually. It was during the eclipse." /Hazy memories of a dark, heavy jungle, gunfire, worrying desperately about Peter, the slave girl, his family and his father's plans for the world filtered through him, bringing back memories of being a soldier./ "Uh…" he shook his head to clear it, enjoying and not enjoying the sensation of being buzzed and dizzy. "We were in California, on a mission from…/Dad/, from Arthur, to bring Claire back to Pinehearst. Bennet and I had tried to bag-and-tag this guy, Canfield, at his house – he made black holes…I saved Claire from getting sucked into one. Anyway, I knew Bennet would hide Claire there. Our powers were gone and ran into trouble, Claire got shot…Bennet left her to…Um…" Here he skipped over the sex Peter apparently already knew about. "It was one of those times when your life falls apart completely…" he trailed off. He'd lost a lot that day, parents, a friend, possibly a mate, certainly someone who knew him. "But long story shorter, my shoulder was dislocated and Elle was shot in the leg. We were both kind of concussed but we made it to a supermarket to get medical supplies then hid in the loading bay when Bennet showed up. We…_we_ weren't going to make it so I shoved her into the loading elevator, held the door down and pushed the button so she'd be away." The sound of Elle's voice calling his name, his real name, lingered hauntingly, jolting him and twisting his insides, 'Gabriel, no! Gabriel!' "And I attacked the guy with the gun. He won; I was just stalling." Sylar shrugged. "He cut my throat. No powers." It sounded so much more heroic than it had felt at the time. Even so, it was nothing compared to the daily heroisms of Peter Petrelli.

XXX

Peter listened raptly, leaning forward and very engaged just as he'd been when Sylar had talked about his family. He struggled with the timeline, though. When Sylar was done, Peter looked down, thinking it through. _They were on a mission to get Claire, but they stopped to bag and tag some guy? Who's 'we'? Noah and Sylar? But Noah hid Claire from Sylar and … oh!_ Peter pulled in air. _Elle. Sylar and Elle were on a mission to get Claire for Dad. That makes sense. The other stuff must have happened before. It's just how he knew where to look_. He gave a short nod to himself as he worked out what Sylar had said.

Now that he knew the context, the rest fell into place. He remembered the dream his (or Sylar's) subconscious had inflicted on him only a few weeks before. Sylar's shoulder pain made sense now. That Elle had had sex after being shot in the leg was hard to believe, but Peter wasn't sure he understood the sequence. There had been shooting at the end of the sex, he recalled. _Maybe she got shot then._

He remembered the tenderness and affection Sylar had shown Elle in the dream Peter had had. It had been so jarring, rattling around his view of Sylar as someone who didn't indulge in the softer side. He'd had the same paradigm shift after realizing Sylar had broken his fall from Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for him then, too, and been killed for it. Even though he had regenerated, he couldn't have been certain he'd have the chance. He'd known the risk he assumed by tangling in Arthur's plans and had done it anyway. Dying for Elle, during the eclipse, showed even more nobility.

Peter wanted to ask so much more that it ached. "Have you ever played Truth or Dare before?"

XXX

Locking eyes with Peter, he said, "No. But _he_ has. Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter's head pulled back, lips tightening and eyes narrowing. He shut them. The warmth he'd felt, the hope, the possibility, the surprise at seeing the good side of Sylar's soul was all doused by the reminder of his latest murder. Or at least, the latest one Peter happened to know about. Sylar had a habit of leaving a trail of bodies between him and whatever he wanted. That he treated life so carelessly diminished the worth of him sacrificing his own.

Peter opened his eyes, finished off his beer, and swished the flavor around. "Dare."

XXX

"Give me a lap dance," Sylar leered shamelessly.

XXX

"Uh … what?" They'd talked about shame, family, hate, and love, and now Sylar wanted a fucking lap dance?! Peter's mind didn't shift gears that fast.

XXX

"C'mon. I know you know how. I'll even let you keep your clothes on." Because he was magnanimous like that. Or more likely that he'd be uncomfortable with a naked man rubbing his naked junk all over him.

XXX

"You're really asking for that?" Peter made a nervous laugh of disbelief, glancing around the room. _No._ Before blurting anything out, he thought about it. This was a game. He didn't _have_ to do anything, but failing to accept a challenge was a loss of face. Peter didn't like to lose respect, especially Sylar's. He made an unhappy noise at his dilemma. "There's … there's no music. Do you know how hard it is to do a lap dance without music?" He tried to visualize what he'd do based on the few strip clubs he'd been in. The idea of Sylar's hyper-critical eyes on him while he tried to pretend to be sexy … "I don't know what you think you know, but I've never done that, aside from stripping for someone I was with, and that was as a joke." Well, sort of a joke. The sort of joke where the punch line involved happily tumbling into bed and making love. The punch line for what Sylar was asking for might be months or years of snickering. That was what decided Peter. Better a smaller loss of face now than a continued one forever.

"No. Pick something else."

XXX

Sylar huffed. "Fine. Take off your shirt, hand it to me and flex for me." Much more literal payback for that fucking teapot stunt. No way was Peter getting his shirt back.

XXX

Peter waited a long beat. _That's it? Um … okay. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned stripping. I kind of brought that one on myself._ He pushed his bottle towards Sylar. "Get us another round. I'm going to use the restroom." He stood up, testing his balance. The room seemed steady enough and it wasn't like he was going anywhere tonight, but he still figured the next drink should be his last.

XXX

_Is that a 'yes'?_ Sylar raised an eyebrow in general question – beer and bathroom were somehow necessary to the process? He wasn't even sure how being ordered around fit in either, but if it got the job done. Sylar rose and the world tilted. _Oh, good. Another beer. Let's do that, yeah. That'll be good._ He tried to keep it together in case Peter was watching (in case this was a test or his survival depended on balance and awareness); he thought he only did fairly at making it to the fridge and back without running into anything or swerving too badly. Sitting was a relief, even though the world was still jumping around and his head thumping internally.

XXX

His favorite roommate during college had been a body builder named Kevin. He'd shown Peter around the gym, helped him get a workout routine set up, and gave a lot of pointers on how to bulk up. Peter, at that point, had been hopelessly under-developed. There were fourteen-year-olds more mature looking than he was and his slender frame had attracted a predatory interest from certain people. Kevin had been a big help.

In the bathroom, Peter belched, urinated, worked his stomach and belched again. He washed his hands and gave his face a quick wipe down, then made one last effort to make sure he had all the gas out of his stomach he could get out. Thus satisfied, he walked out. Standing between the desk and couch, Peter set his feet a little more than shoulder width apart. He watched Sylar's face with a semi-resigned smile. Sylar wanted to look at him – Peter could handle that. This was very different for him, mentally, than doing something directly to arouse him. This was something Peter could accept.

He shifted his jeans on his hips and then pinched up the fabric of his shirt on either side. He tugged out one side, then the other, smiling as Sylar's eyes followed the motions. Peter remembered how eye-catching he'd found Sylar's peek-a-boo strip of exposed flesh a few days ago, when Sylar'd worn a shirt way too small for him. Peter's smile broadened at the memory of how silly Sylar had looked … and how much Peter had wanted to look. He pulled up the shirt in silence, the rasp of the cloth across his skin the only sound. He raised it on one side at a time, keeping it taut between his hands so as to see-saw it over his stomach, then his lower chest. He knew Sylar wanted him. He also knew Sylar wasn't getting what he wanted. Peter chuckled lightly.

He flexed, stomach tensing and rippling a little as he brought the shirt over his chest, and then in a steady motion, over his head and off. His left arm slid free of it; his right was next. He started to set it aside.

XXX

_Only stripped once, my ass_, Sylar thought to himself. He didn't have to censor his thoughts, just his words. The world was dead quiet, the only noise came from breathing and his heart beating rhythmically. It left him nothing else to focus on but Peter's movements. He stared intently, not watching his expression as much as he should have been. _I'm drunk, I can stare, especially if he's doing that. _Peter's tummy came into view. Slowly. Firm and soft-looking. Sylar glanced at Peter's face, wondering if the stalling…the teasing, was on purpose. _Is he…making this sexual?_ That was both understandable (that's what one was supposed to do when stripping, right?) and confusing (there was no negative stimuli involved to make Peter pretend to be sexy, so why do it, for Sylar of all people?) He expected Peter to hide behind every technicality of the game and…

"No," he croaked, his voice drier than he thought. He leaned forward, gesturing. "Gimme the shirt."

XXX

Peter snorted, but he wadded up the garment and threw it in Sylar's face. _Okay. What else was I supposed to do? Oh yeah, flex. Hm._ He tried to remember the poses Kevin had shown him. Peter had been surprised at the time to learn there was some real showmanship in professional body building. It wasn't just a matter of standing there looking tense and while his current circumstances didn't allow him a chance to prep properly, he could at least strike the right poses to show himself off.

XXX

Sylar was slow to react. It was like his body had decided to mutiny or his brain had subconsciously done it on purpose (he didn't know which he found more disturbing), but Peter's shirt planted itself on his face, where it had been directed by Peter's throw when Sylar's hands had risen too late. _Christ_, was all he could think. Peter's smell was soaked into the shirt and that shirt was draped over his face. _(He is not getting this back. Ever)_. He took his time dragging the shirt away, inhaling the seductive, masculine aroma as it passed. Yes, it was weird to be sniffing another man's clothes, but he couldn't help that it instinctively smelled good. His hindbrain was fuzzing out, separate from the effects of alcohol and he cursed himself for wanting to rub the damn shirt onto his skin. So much for it not being sexual…

XXX

Peter sucked in his stomach as much as he could with multiple beers working their way through him and brought up his arms for a double bicep. His feet ended up more correctly centered under him. With jeans on, he didn't have to bother with his legs aside from positioning. He flexed what was bare and didn't feel ashamed of it – Sylar's expression was like pure candy to Peter. He grinned. This was fun.

XXX

When the shirt finally fell to his lap (how convenient), Sylar's eyes were heavy, a little heated, still intent on the show. Half naked now, Peter's upper body was flawless as far as Sylar could tell, and that was saying something. Trained to look for flaws and fix-its, not a single blemish, hair or wrinkle marred Peter's form. It was all tight, smooth skin, defined, fit muscles, the odd mole or two. With a chest and arms like that, Peter was very capable at heroing and being a paramedic – images of Peter caring for the sick and injured and alternately thinking he was doing the right thing by beating and punching Sylar were distracting to say the least. Individually, one could dissect Peter – arms, chest, stomach, sides, neck, face, hair, hips, etc. Each part would be textbook, together they were…quite perfect, overwhelmingly so. Whether or not Sylar felt desire for men, his eyes didn't lie in telling him Peter Petrelli was a very fine specimen of masculinity. A healthy one, too. Peter's grin reminded him of his purpose with this. The medic was entirely too comfortable with this. Pointedly, Sylar looked the man over like the piece of meat he was. He then whistled that insulting, derogatory sound full of objectification - the wolf whistle. He remembered not appreciating it from his female shapeshifting adventures. "Yeah!" he called out, clapping briefly. Besides, maybe it was something one might do to strippers…

XXX

He wasn't that good on a front lat spread, so Peter gave the pose only a few seconds – fists on hips, shoulders down, chest tensed. He didn't have the flexibility to carry off the true upside-down triangle torso. He lingered more on the side chest pose, showing off his right side with his left hand holding his right wrist just above the brace. He laughed a little at Sylar's appreciation. He liked being looked at. It made him feel sexy. As he turned away to do the back double bicep, he tugged up the waistband of his pants and shifted his hips side to side, wagging his ass at Sylar and feeling the crotch of his pants ride up against himself._Oh yeah. Bite me, asshole._ He put his arms up, flexing, wondering if Sylar was more an ass-man or a front-guy.

XXX

Peter working his brace into the posing was amusing. Then Peter did it…shaking his ass at Sylar. It was suggestive at the least, teasing, or inviting. Sylar's weakness was in interpreting those kinds of social cues. If they had come from anyone else, he might have considered the possibility that the person was interested, for sex. As it was, his mental faculties spasmed in confusion as his body reacted to the mere improbable possibility that that little wiggle in his direction meant something more when he knew intellectually that Peter couldn't mean it in any of those connotations. Sylar exhaled through his nose quickly, feeling his face and body heat up. It was such a well-formed butt and Peter's jeans were marvelously tight…Here he had Peter's shirt in his lap, the man himself half naked and acting…Did it matter how Peter intended it? "That's it…" slipped from his mouth. Even he didn't know how he meant that, either – mocking or interested.

XXX

Peter turned for the side triceps pose, leering over his shoulder at Sylar. His brain was trying to figure out which of the seven poses Kevin had taught him that he was missing. Not that it mattered much – what mattered more was earning more applause from his audience. The cheering made him feel fantastic, tingly and warm and maybe even aroused. He tucked his right arm behind him, reaching across the small of his back with his left to take his right wrist. He leaned back, his right leg crooked back to support him as he puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach. This was a great pose for showing off the line of his body.

XXX

The last side angle of Peter was impressive to say the least, the lines of his body were classic. It was the arching that caught Sylar's eye. The raised chest led to twisted, brawny arms (looking wonderfully submissive in his pose, already behind his back, wrists together); Peter's tight ribs and waist, thin stomach, tempting illiacs, jeans…penis…Sylar stared. _That's his dick._ _He's hard. Is…is that the beer? No…Is it me? No, why would it be me? I'm looking at him and he's showing off and…/__Recollections of nannies and caretakers having a hell of a time keeping clothes on Peter as a child, then Ma telling him, Nathan, to give Peter a talk about waltzing around naked in the bedrooms and bathrooms of the Petrelli estate, being relieved the kid didn't make a habit of jerking off with the doors open; the swim team; Peter would have modeled if anyone asked him to…__/_

After what was surely staring for too long, Sylar raised his eyes to check Peter's reaction. Peter was giving him a look. Maybe it wasn't 'come hither' or outright sexy, but it was close enough. That look, and what the situation meant, was fantastic. Sylar began to chuckle. _Oh my God. Oh my God!_ "Oh…Oh, Peter." He didn't know if he was supposed to be embarrassed or flattered or what. There was a word for that, whatever was opposite of 'voyeur'… "Oh my God, that explains everything!" He leaned back, laughing now, genuinely amused. The things he could do with this! Molesting Peter was going to be that much easier now. The smile dropped from his face and he quieted, giving Peter his most penetratingly dark stare as he leaned forward, "Oh, you are a filthy little pervert, aren't you?"

XXX

Sylar's tone for 'Oh, Peter' was so drop-dead sexy that for a moment, Peter thought it was just more appreciation. Then the laughter started. Sylar's previous stare, which Peter had imagined was at his gut, his overly-alcohol-saturated brain now placed a bit lower. He straightened, realizing the fullness in his groin was making a visible bulge in his jeans. He thought about hiding in the bathroom again, as he had after Sylar had walked in on him jerking off, but that seemed cowardly and pointless. He'd been caught; the damage done. He retreated behind the desk instead, sitting and putting the solid bulk between them.

Peter blushed furiously as he rapidly phased through different emotions: anger and embarrassment at himself for getting a boner, and at Sylar for laughing at him, regret for accepting the stupid dare to start with, and dread that Sylar might take this as a signal of interest. It didn't have anything to do with him, as Peter well knew. He felt very exposed and not just in the physical sense, but he had to wait until Sylar quit guffawing to ask for his shirt back.

Peter's face screwed up in anger at Sylar's 'accusation'. He wanted so badly to defend himself, but what Sylar was saying wasn't really … an attack. He assumed Sylar meant it that way, that much was obvious, but Peter wasn't about to be defensive about possessing a sex drive, functioning genitals, or a proclivity to be aroused by adoring attention. It was normal! Or so he insisted to himself. He blew air out his nose and snapped, "Gimme my shirt, asshole."

XXX

_How am I the asshole, here?_ Sylar chuckled again briefly. "Nope. Nothing in the rules about that."

XXX

"What? It's _my_ shirt!"

XXX

"Not any more. You gave it to me." Simple rules, possession was nine-tenths.

XXX

Peter's chest was heaving a little, eyes darting between the denied article of clothing and Sylar's face. It didn't take but a few seconds to come to a decision – he wasn't going to pick a fight over a fucking shirt, or over being laughed at. He'd had worse, and Sylar wasn't taking any other action based on the now-entirely-faded hard-on. Peter slumped back in the chair suddenly, staring off at the ceiling to the left as he ignored Sylar for a few moments, arms crossed defensively over his chest and breathing slowing – long enough to calm down. Options of stealing one of Sylar's shirts or snagging a blanket from the nearby bed ran through his mind, but he wasn't actually cold and he felt that was admitting defeat somehow. He sighed into the quiet. "Truth or Dare?" he asked, finally looking back at Sylar.

XXX

Peter was…more upset about the loss of the shirt than anything else? _That's fucked up,_ Sylar thought blearily. The man literally gave him the cold-shoulder of ignoring, pouting or something so Sylar let him have that much (not sure of what else he'd be allowed). "Truth." No way was he inviting a reciprocated Dare of the body-comparing nature.

XXX

Peter was still very annoyed and that was what was responsible for his next question: "What's the question you most don't want me to ask?" Sylar had a lot of outs – he could never pick Truth again, he could quit the game if Peter asked it, or he could call the question off-limits. But Peter still wanted to know what the ultimate hot button topic was.

XXX

It was Sylar's turn for the wide-eyed look of shock. He'd been thoroughly suckered. There were so many ways Peter could (and likely would) abuse the confession, because that's what it was – a highlighted, spotlighted, signed confession of vulnerability and discomfort. Peter wanted a pressure point. Whether it was a fair exchange for the vulnerability of knowing the medic's little proclivity wasn't the point. Sylar felt it beyond the pale. The medic wasn't asking what subject he should most avoid, no way; not in this context and not with the previous Dare hanging in the air. When he recovered somewhat, he frowned deeply, his head reared back. _I don't want you to ask me if I'm gay. I don't want you to ask about what happened to my mom. I don't want you to ask me about Elle. I don't want you to ask why I kill people. I don't want you to ask how I got this way. I don't want you to ask anything about Nathan._ At some point, his head had dropped down as he panicked through his thoughts, working his way to thinking about his options.

"That's not fair," he hissed, eyeing Peter from underneath his brows. He could feed Peter some lesser 'disliked' answer but it wouldn't be the Truth; it wouldn't be following the rules and parameters of the game. He'd be cheating and he'd been holding his own thus far. Wasn't he just talking about 'rules-doctoring'? Hell, he'd gone for Truth because of Peter's reaction to his own damn fault of popping wood in the middle of an otherwise normal Dare. He doubly couldn't back out and ask for a Dare now! Now he had to pick the worst thing Peter could ask of him and reveal it. "You're going to ask it," Sylar managed to sum up. He didn't know how or when, but Peter would trap or force him to answer. (Or maybe, just Peter knowing was the worst part; the actual act of confession and admission itself and the knowledge that someone else knew something). "That has to be against the rules." The dodge was worth a try.

XXX

Peter gave the slightest exhalation at Sylar's point about fairness. He would have made more of a snort, but it was obvious that Sylar was considering his question very seriously. "It's not against the rules," Peter said, but that was an evasion. Basically, questions were allowable if they agreed they were allowable. That was it. Usually the game was held in a group and there was more of a consensus to leaven opinions that might otherwise seem purely self-serving. If Sylar rejected the question, then it was rejected. He didn't _seem_ to be rejecting it, but he didn't seem clear that he could, either. Peter could have explained that – it might have been a sign of fairness and honor and being a big man if he did. But he didn't, because he wanted to know – not the information itself (in fact, the question was idiotic because it ruled off an important area from any honest, future discussion), but whether Sylar trusted him that much. That was the real answer he was after. After humiliating himself, he wanted that ego stroke that he was okay and Sylar thought so, too. "I won't ask it in the game. I promise."

XXX

_But you'll ask it outside the game? Where I don't have to answer it. But what it you make my life hell until I answer? I know how that goes._ Were there any benefits to this disclosure? Keeping Peter Petrelli's interest, maybe. Sylar grit his teeth. Prioritizing the worst question was difficult. _I'm painting a red flag on something…_He exhaled a sort of sigh. "I don't want you to ask…" The rest he mumbled quietly, looking away as he did.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, then said, "It only counts if I can hear you. I couldn't hear that."

XXX

Sylar looked straight at him, enunciating, "I said: I don't want you to ask where my mother is." That wasn't the most accurate phrase Peter could ask to inflict damage, but with what Peter knew (or rather, didn't know) this was the worst question he could ask. His face felt hot and loose and he realized he was angry, backed into a corner, humiliated whether or not that was the intention. And he was so, so nervous, like he was afraid of being caught over the body of someone he'd murdered all over again. Back when he used to care, back when prison might have meant something. He clenched his jaw rhythmically, breathing faster before hastily uttering, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter blinked a little, feeling the ridiculous but very human urge to immediately ask about the forbidden topic. He kept his mouth firmly shut, urge or no, and made a slight nod to respectfully acknowledge what had been said. He watched the range of emotional reaction Sylar was showing – very raw, very genuine, terrified that Peter was going to press him on this. _He told the truth. He trusts me - that much. Fuck!_ Peter was blown away by that, enough that it took him a few moments to register that Sylar had asked him a question.

"Um, Truth." He supposed he had to. He needed to give Sylar the opportunity to ask the same in return. Since the question wasn't immediately forthcoming, Peter offered, "There's two things I don't want to- well, three, actually, things I don't want to talk about, but my mother would have to be the top of that list. Kind of funny, or ironic or something, that we share that." His lips pressed together, thinning. He'd given that one to Sylar for free, intentionally, without making him use a turn to find it out. _That_ seemed only fair.

XXX

Sylar frowned at the unprompted 'admission' he supposed it was. That Angela was a no-fly zone was no surprise; Peter had said as much before. Sylar had ignored the seriousness of it because, well, it didn't seem on par with his own issues and Angela had done damage to him and Nathan, not just Peter. Therefor, he had some right to invoke her name and talk about her. _That's nice, but not what I was after._ "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

XXX

"Um." Peter's face tried to look surprised and discomforted at the same time. He ended up doing it in sequence – brows alternating up and down a couple times, mouth gaping and then frowning. Caitlyn, not exactly innocent, but depending on him, relying on him – there was a crushing weight of unresolved feelings there. "The worst … I, um, I-" _can't figure out how to answer that. I want to, but he's going to want details._ He swallowed, shifting in his seat and drawing in on himself. _Simone. I could talk about Simone. But she wasn't the worst. And he didn't lie to me. I don't get to lie to him. Not that I should anyway, but …_ He shook his head, staring down at the desk_. If I keep thinking about it, I'm going to get upset, more upset, and- _He shook his head again, the movement stiff with tension.

"I can't tell you that," he said roughly, coughing to clear his throat of the sudden difficulty he found in speaking. He wanted to answer. He knew he should. It wasn't like Sylar had had an easy time of it either, but he'd managed. "I mean I-" He winced and shrugged, but kept his eyes down. "I let someone down. B-betrayed them, maybe? I don't want to talk about it." He didn't think he _could_ talk about it. His chest was occupied by one huge, hard knot of tension that was starting to make it hard to breathe. _Early stages of a panic attack?_ some portion of his mind observed with detachment. _I can't let that happen._ "You have to ask something else. A dare maybe." With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the desk to glance at Sylar, then away.

XXX

_No, you won't tell me that, you little prick._ Sylar's lips thinned at the lame cop-out in it's fantastic entirety. Mr. Conscience couldn't immediately list his worst deed? Of course, Peter probably thought he wasn't capable or that he got one of those 'free passes' because he was…pick a feature. _I answered your tough questions. Wuss._ It was time to up the ante. "Let me tie your hands behind your back." It wasn't a question.

XXX

Peter let his eyes drop slowly back to the desk. _Fuck_. He couldn't back out twice in a row. It would make it look like he'd asked his question with a spirit of vindictive manipulation and was now going to demand a pass from anything inconvenient Sylar wanted in return. Sylar probably didn't know how much being tied up would bother Peter – or hell, maybe he did and he was asking for that precise reason, because Peter had gone too far in what he'd asked, and so Sylar was turning it around on him. Peter had established, clearly, the rules they were playing by. Now he had to play by them. _I should have told him he didn't have to answer it. I should have told him he could have refused it just like I did. I should have, but I didn't, because I was so stuck on the idea of making him give me something I could hurt him with, so I'd be all 'big hero' when I didn't. _The self-serving nature of his question weighed him down. He sagged in his seat, demeanor shifting to guilty resignation. "Okay."


	69. Chain Reactions

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

_Good_. Sylar got up and went about searching for a loose chain he'd had lying around. Literal chain. It was part of a clock's pendulum that he'd been repairing before Peter appeared. He located it and dug about in his desk drawers for wire to tie the chain ends around Peter. As he did, he wondered what, if anything, he should be feeling about this opportunity, this situation.

XXX

_He's going to untie me after a little bit, right? What's he going to do? Should I tell him what to do? But will that matter? Because once I'm tied up, it doesn't matter what he promised, and that's the whole point. He wants me to show him I trust him. Can I do that?_ Peter was breathing harder already, a little bit of sweat damping his brow. He got to his feet, uncomfortable and trying to squelch his desire to fight back or run away, by taking some other action. He moved around the desk to sit in Sylar's chair. He told himself he didn't want to be restrained in something that had wheels on the bottom, but mainly he was just doing something so he had some feeling of control.

Peter held his hands behind his back, letting Sylar position them however he saw fit. He sat up straighter at the sight of the chain – not that he would have been any more able to escape from rope, but the unforgiving metal was a reinforcement that he wasn't going to be going anywhere. He dipped his head and stared at his knees while Sylar restrained him, trying not to be nauseous.

XXX

"Take my chair, will you?" Sylar joked after the fact. The move made no sense. Aside from moving without permission or direction, it wasn't going to pose any problems to the plan. Sylar made to kneel, wobbling slightly, then went about wrapping the chains (_clock_ chains, _how kinky_) around Peter's wrists. He slid the wire into the loops of chain, twisting and tying efficiently at the backs of Peter's hands – away from fingers and palms that could free the man. The nurse would have to work (or negotiate) his way out. He thought Peter's hands might have been shaking but he dismissed it as that pesky eye-motion of being drunk. All the same, he smoothed the man's hands out straight, just to feel them (a little clammy), before standing, lingering unseen behind him.

XXX

Thoughts of other bindings slipped through Peter's mind. The most parallel incident was being tied up in Ireland and then repeatedly beaten to a pulp by whatever degree of violence three very frustrated, hardened smugglers had wanted to visit on him. That was quite a bit of violence, as it turned out – broken bones in his face and jaw, no telling what else as he'd blacked out a few times and been rudely awakened. He would thank God for regeneration, but brown-haired Claire from the future had shown him how easy it was to torture someone who had that ability. He'd been tied down for that, too. Just like waking up powerless with his father, or handcuffed to the inside of that cargo container, or strapped down in level five, or helpless on a gurney as Mohinder came at him with a syringe. It had been Sylar who had released him then. He seized on that thought, turning to look at his captor with wide eyes and pale features that showed a lot more of his fear than he wanted them to. He tried not to think of all the reasons Sylar had to hurt him, but he still flinched back from him involuntarily, his expression shifting to an angry snarl to cover his anxiety.

XXX

"Stop that," Sylar said parent-like, patronizing the snarl, tapping Peter's cheek as he passed (assuming, testing that the man wouldn't try to bite him). Seeing Peter tied up and combative…well, it reminded him of more sadistic, necessary times. Like confining and torturing Agent Simmons, a probably-attractive man who made a similar expression, spitting and holding out…Sylar paced around his catch, admiring the angles, the helplessness. Silly Peter. Once again he failed to set limits on his own Dares. Sylar had purposefully made them vague as part of the test and Peter…took it wholesale. It was brave and stupid. He didn't speak, just circled. After a few rotations, he sat against his desk in front of Peter, looking at his face (it took extra effort not to cross his arms and lean like Nathan). He could smell the fear coming off Peter, who wasn't trying to hide it; at least, he wasn't doing a great job of hiding it. "Wo-ow…" Sylar slowly slurred facetiously before commanding seriously, "Relax." Of course, he said that after he'd let the guy sweat it out. It was like good imagination training for Peter, picturing all the ways Sylar owned him in this moment.

XXX

_Just shut up._ This was a spectacularly bad idea, on par with getting carried away showing himself off and getting turned on by it. Peter did not always make the best decisions sober. What he was beginning to regret even more than letting himself be tied up was getting drunk to start with. If Sylar kept this up, the regret would extend to ever trusting him in any capacity. He glared ferociously at Sylar, chest heaving more than he wanted it to be doing as he pulled in short, rapid breaths through his open mouth. He kept up near-constant eye contact, thoughts wavering uncertainly between Sylar taking the opportunity to beat the crap out of him or perhaps kill him, or just scaring him a little and then letting him go. That he wasn't getting any signals either way made him think Sylar probably hadn't made up his mind. The perception of Sylar having an ambivalence that wouldn't rule out murder or torture made Peter very, very jumpy.

XXX

"This is usually the part where I tell you everything I can do to you while you're helpless. It's _almost_ pointless now, huh? You never expected to be in this position, did you?" Sylar tilted his head to observe his companion. "Obviously not. You don't set any limits and tha-at…" he lilted his voice, canting his head the opposite direction now, "leads to temptation." The trust (or stupidity) was inviting trouble. Sylar didn't know whether to honor it because being trusted was a sacred event, something he yearned for as a rite of passage to being respected, worthwhile, treated normally…Or if he should abuse it and teach Peter a lesson that offering himself up like this would have consequences; the empath shouldn't presume upon Sylar's self-control.

XXX

_Are you honestly saying you haven't had the opportunity before now? And people say _I'm _slow … I've been aware of how helpless I was the entire fucking time I've been here! Any night I want I could bash your brains out or poison the milk and you could do the same to me. _Peter would have intensified his glare if that were possible. As it was, his expression morphed into disgust. People were fragile – an elementary lesson Peter had figured out a very long time ago.

XXX

Sylar moved forward, straddling Peter's legs, fairly close until the chair blocked his knees. This put him face to face with the shorter man who inhaled and leaned back. Peter was sweating and that wouldn't do. Sylar's head slanted at that. "What are you trying to prove?" he asked, curious, reaching for Peter's confiscated shirt, bringing it up to dab away the sweat at Peter's hairline. Perfect. It was like an autographed shirt now.

XXX

Peter pressed backwards in the chair at Sylar's untelegraphed approach, startled a second time when the guy literally sat on him. He restrained himself from shifting his knees under Sylar's buttocks, carrying most of Sylar's weight now. Bucking him off, kicking him, head-butting him – Peter didn't feel as helpless as Sylar implied he was. It wasn't like he was tied to the chair, which left him a lot of mobility, should he need to use it. Peter was still placing his bets on Sylar not getting carried away. He twitched his head back from the shirt coming at his face, but it wasn't enough to evade Sylar's reach. It jogged his mind into replaying when Caitlyn had performed nearly the same function, showing him a kindness that he had seized with desperation.

"I'm trying to prove I wasn't wrong in coming here."

XXX

Sylar paused at everything but thinking for a moment. There was that expectation that Sylar had to meet to make it worth Peter's while. If he didn't play along, go along, do what was required of him, he'd have 'brought it on himself' and the effort to...find him (that was the best he could call it) would be worthless, the same as he would be. He would be responsible for Peter regretting finding him. It wasn't like there was a reason besides desperate need that Peter would come looking for him, as much as he caught himself wishing there was. "And I still don't like your reasons for doing it."

Finished with cleaning him, Sylar threw the shirt away for safekeeping, then dropped his hands to Peter's throat. His palms and fingers flat against the soft column, his thumbs idly traced circles into the flesh without pressure. Hell, even Nathan agreed this was an attractive feature of Peter's. Lazily, he sent a checking glance to the Italian's eyes, which avoided his. His captive was tense and unhappy. A pity. It angered him but he couldn't see a better, more mutual solution, so he ignored it with effort, but not after threatening by wrapping his hands lovingly around Peter's neck in a stranglehold. It was light; he just wanted to make a point and defuse his anger.

XXX

Peter might have said something in response to that, but then Sylar's hands were on his throat. Was the guy cold enough to calmly choke him to death, or until he passed out, simply because he could? Peter had little indication that he wasn't. That he was even hinting at it, given Sylar's record and Sylar knowing that Peter knew of that record, went beyond 'fucking with you' or 'scaring you a little' and well into sadistic. Although again, Peter had that impression that Sylar hadn't made up his mind yet. Kill Peter/Don't kill Peter – it was just an interesting question in the mind of a sociopath. One line in a story he'd read about sociopaths had stood out to him – a teen had drowned a neighbor child in the pool because he was curious about how long it would take him to die. Was that what was going on with Sylar? Abstract curiosity about how much he could abuse his companion?

Peter pulled his head back, looking away and continuing to look away. Sylar's face, utterly lacking in empathy, revolted him. Peter made a couple throat noises in protest, swallowing and starting to twist his neck one way and then the other in a vain attempt to evade the contact. Sylar had grabbed him there before – during the fight, wasn't it? Peter bared his teeth, face hard. His anger was starting to overwhelm his fear.

XXX

The reaction helped. Sylar wanted other reactions, more of…something – more protest or invitation, interaction, something. It would have to do. "Shh," was all he said, doing no more than flexing his fingers harmlessly before releasing and moving on. His hands slid down to the man's shoulders, testing them with familiar squeezes. This was an overtly Petrelli gesture, one he'd performed (successfully!) before. It was…comforting. Maybe it would help relax Peter as well. His hands traveled over clavicles to pectorals. These he pushed, not to shove Peter back into the chair, but to test…what, firmness? He didn't know; he just did, following his instincts. Peter's nipples were hard, his flesh prickly with goose bumps. Interesting… Sylar bent a little to view them better, circling the tight oval buds with his fingertips. He wasn't sure what to expect for this.

XXX

Sylar moved on from the dangerous grip on his throat. Peter let out a tense breath at the shoulder squeeze, wondering what that was all about. The normally-friendly motion stopped the upward spiral of his rage. His eyes went back to Sylar's face, but Peter still wasn't getting what he wanted there, or what he needed. The guy was back to being a pain in the ass and a problem, pawing Peter's chest now in a manner that was damnably stimulating. Peter gritted his teeth, feeling his skin prickle in involuntary response. Sylar stared at Peter's nipples like he'd only just noticed them. That look and presumptive touch that followed it made Peter want to punch him. He squirmed, flexing his arms against the chains. They were firm enough and unyielding, the metal pressing into his skin at the pressure. No easy way out there. He pulled his feet back, shifting his center of gravity.

Sylar didn't seem to notice, as he teased around Peter's nipples with exploring fingers, oblivious and inconsiderate of the desires of the owner of those sensitive parts. "Hey!" Peter barked to get his attention. "_**No**_. The dare was you could tie me up, not molest me."

XXX

Sylar looked up, an eyebrow raised in question and curiosity. _This is molesting you?_ "You're the one who didn't put any limits on it in the first place." He didn't appreciate being given limits now, so he pinched the protrusions to be a jerk.

XXX

_Okay, that's it!_ "Get off of me!" Peter stood up, dumping Sylar on the floor. The guy had placed most of his weight on Peter's knees rather than any closer on his lap, so it wasn't that hard to get up and let gravity do its work on him. Peter had recovered a lot of mobility in the last week – he didn't limp at all anymore and he didn't need to use his arms to stand. As he stood over the man, he snarled at him, "I don't need to put limits on it! Unless you plan on _killing_ me, you're going to be dealing with me tomorrow, along with the consequences of what you do tonight." He said the last through bared teeth.

XXX

One minute his hands were on Peter, the next Sylar was up-ended on his ass. Mostly he was confused as to how he got there – Peter had lifted his whole weight using his knees? He certainly failed to predict any attack other than verbal from his supposed-captive. That captive was now upright, looming over him, bare-chested with his arms tied behind his back, looking extremely volatile. _I did not see this coming, didn't plan for it. Oh, crap. _Sylar could really only manage a stunned expression, staring up at Peter with wide eyes. He was going to be kicked, he didn't question that. It took him far too long to respond. "Then how do I know where the limits are?" Petrelli's logic made no sense. His tone perplexed, Sylar clarified, "So I need to kill you in pre-emptive self-defense?"

XXX

He crowded Sylar threateningly, discouraging him from getting up with the implication that he might kick him if he split his attention enough to attempt it. "You don't like my reasons for being here? Fine! Give me some better ones. Tell me why I should have dropped everything and flown across the country to set my brother's killer free so he could go on doing the same thing he's been doing for the last few years – ruining people's lives, or ending them, or maybe just tying them up and scaring the crap out of them – whatever happened to make you happy at the time. Tell me why I should care about someone like that."

XXX

Sylar found his back against the desk, his body way too close to Peter's boots. There was no space to stand up. He would have to move right and slither around the corner of the desk towards more space…Already, he was in motion to do just that, anything to get away, awkwardly lifting and backwards crawling his retreat. It was the words Peter hurled, more than the threat of violence, that angered him. "Well, then I guess your only reason is my usefulness! That's the only reason there ever is! I never asked you for anything!" Sylar spat his reply, making it clear that Peter was here of his own free will and that Sylar hadn't overstepped himself in requesting, demanding, pleading for something above his worth. He couldn't give Peter a better reason and he couldn't decide who to blame more, himself or Peter and the rest of the world. His eye line finally dropped from Peter's upper body, mostly his face, to target the man's legs, giving serious consideration to the idea of kicking, even maiming Peter with a kick or two as his expression lifted into a snarl. Impulsivity and reactive, unprocessed anger won out and he kicked at the floor near Peter's feet to make a statement that he wasn't taking this or any other shit; in doing so, purposefully swatting the bee's nest, pulling the tiger's tail, knowing that and doing it anyway. _Get away from me!_

He was around the desk now, so Peter would have to follow him. As it was, Sylar was managing to sit up and make it to hands and knees; feeling like his vision wasn't working right because the world was blurry. He was trying to hurry and having mixed results given his balance. If he could just stand, he'd have the advantage.

XXX

Peter stayed on top of Sylar as the man retreated, weathering a few flailing blows at him in the process. For a little while, he could keep to the side of Sylar's long legs, but when Sylar got around the desk and ran up against his bed, chair off to the side, Peter had no choice but to back off. He didn't want to hurt Sylar (he'd never so much as started to kick him), but he'd sure encouraged the impression of immediate danger. Now he lashed out verbally. "You want more! If you didn't want me to have other reasons, then you wouldn't resent the ones I have!" Backing up a little, he jerked his chin up challengingly and demanded, "Give me better reasons, Sylar."

XXX

As he stood, Peter stopped advancing, but he didn't stop talking. Sylar looked down and off to the side. 'Give me a reason to save you,' that's what Peter meant. The answer was still the same: his skills and scientific value were the only reasons for preserving his life, the only things keeping him alive. Petrelli knew it and insisted in rubbing his face in it. _What do you want me to say? I already basically admitted I'm worthless, barely useful for the moment._ The message he was getting was he couldn't wish for more out of this or any other situation; laid to rest was the idea of getting help. Accept it and be grateful even though it's wrong? That made him so hopelessly angry; he had no grounds for argument, no bargaining chips, no favorable history. He wanted to defend and advocate for himself, tell of his great, special worth he knew didn't exist; he wanted to beg for mercy so he could be accepted again because he had a feeling Peter was right but he was disgusted, loathing himself, feeling more anger for that cursed instinct. How had everything gotten so out of control? Peter was totally vulnerable and here he was making Sylar feel like this.

"Sit down," he croaked, separating the words as best he could. It was all he could think to say. He wanted Peter seated so he wasn't a threat, he wanted to regain control, and he still, stupidly, didn't want Peter to leave. The game had been fun, for the most part, until now. He didn't want to release Peter or change his behavior to suit the man in any way, but if the medic was going to be this mean and moody, Sylar would untie him, lest Peter inevitably find him at fault in yet another way. "It's not your turn yet," he snarled. Peter would have his chance soon enough.

XXX

Peter milled around the living room uneasily, keeping his eyes on Sylar nearly the whole time. Peter was still tied up; Sylar was on his feet now. Sylar looked awfully unsteady, but Peter had just chewed his head off. Sylar looked crushed, frustrated, and angry. One favorite way for people to deal with such emotions was to beat down the source of them. When would the retaliation come? Peter wasn't sure what he could do about it when it happened – running away wasn't a good option. Getting the front door open while being attacked would be impossible; counter-attacking was going to be pretty rough and his attempts so far to slip his bonds weren't going well. He'd obviously managed to get his bluff in on Sylar after dumping him on his ass, but it was a play he probably couldn't run twice. When he wasn't watching Sylar, he was glancing around the room, taking stock of his options. They didn't look good.

XXX

"Sit your ass down so I can untie you, you ungrateful punk," Sylar snapped, scraping his hair back with an agitated hand, waiting for compliance.

XXX

_You're going to untie me? _Peter gave Sylar an uncertain, breath-holding look, waiting to see if a second shoe would fall. There didn't seem to be much combat advantage to Sylar getting him seated again – Peter felt just as easy to beat up on his feet as he would sitting. He moved to the chair slowly, sitting down sideways on it, facing away with his bound hands proffered hopefully.

XXX

When Peter sat, Sylar crouched down to see where the wire connected. "It's so convenient that you're the only one who gets to judge and you won't trust me or give me any chances to prove myself. Your system doesn't work; it never has and it doesn't work here," he sneered, freeing the man's hands and stepping back in anticipation of an altercation. "I suggest you stay put or I'm not going to take it well," he said as a warning. With that, he walked back to Peter's previous seat, the wheeled chair that belonged to the desk, keeping his distance from Peter as he did. He sat with his arms across his chest and a depressed, watch-your-step glower.

XXX

Aside from turning to sit properly in the chair, Peter stayed put. He regarded Sylar with curiosity, frankly surprised the episode was over. After a few seconds of silence, he started to speak. "I don't-"

XXX

Sylar turned to him and held up a hand, "Shut up. I don't care, I don't want to hear it. I pick Dare."

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. _I don't get to speak; don't get to explain myself. Okay._ He glanced down thoughtfully, rubbing at the impressions the chain had made on his wrists. _He's comfortable enough with me to tell me to stuff it and expect me to do it. Three weeks ago, I think he'd have gotten more upset, listened and reacted. We're … I think we're getting better with each other._ Peter shook his head. "I'm not going to play anymore," he said quietly. "I'm tired, we're both drunk, and this is getting really serious. Let's get some sleep." _Before something happens that we can't walk away from._

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes and pursed his lips in an effort to control his outburst of rage and frustration. He wanted to tear every hair from Peter's head, preferably in clumps. At that same time, nausea rose up in him, protesting his churning stomach and it's alcoholic contents. He turned green, breathed harder to keep things smooth…to no avail. Sylar dashed for the bathroom, making it in time to vomit into the toilet in misery. His mouth was sour, his stomach was sour, he was sure his soul was sour, too. Feeling brittle, bitter and embarrassed, he spit and swiped at his face, pushing his hair back with his other hand. What did any of it matter? He was worthless and in addition to wanting to die, he felt like he physically could now.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's expression darken, then shift, right before the guy fled to the bathroom. The door was left open in his haste; the sound of emesis turning Peter's stomach a little in sympathy. He waited a beat before rising. He announced himself as he entered the small bathroom. "Sylar, I'm coming in. Stay put." He pulled down the hand towel next to the sink and wet it, crouching next to Sylar.

Peter balanced himself by his left shoulder against the door of the cabinet under the sink. He reached out with his right slowly towards Sylar's face, brushing the hair out of the way with his fingertips. He followed it with the dampened hand towel, repeating the motions Sylar had used on him only minutes earlier to dab away frightened sweat. In a calm, neutral tone, he said, "You proved yourself just now by untying me, and doing that _after_ I'd blown up at you. Someone who was mean and liked hurting people wouldn't have passed up the opportunity, especially with the excuse. But it's not your first instinct. I see that. You're giving me better reasons, Sylar, even when you don't think you are." He reached past Sylar to toggle the toilet, flushing away the foul.

XXX

Sylar sat still, caught between protesting and melting into the caring touches. He couldn't help the feeling; it felt good to be babied a little. He could help his reaction and that was what he had to control; he just wasn't sure what, if any, reaction was appropriate or expected. Surely being neutral about it wouldn't get him into too much hot water…Slowly Peter's words penetrated his mental fog. _Not my first instinct? How…? But…? It is, though. _The depressive wave drowned him again at the remembrance of his own nature_. I don't take care of things; I'm not nice; why would he think that?_ It felt wrong to let Peter walk away unscathed after making those comments and assumptions but Sylar rationalized it with his own unfit condition. _I'm…tired. I'll get him in the morning._Stomach feeling somewhat purged, drowsiness was his next state of being. He wanted to cling to Peter with very little reason. _(I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted…I don't know what I wanted, something stupid probably)._ His defensiveness demanded that he make a statement, "I'm drunk and drunk people do stupid things. Mercy is not…a permanent character flaw. The Dare was just…over." _That's all. (Don't excuse my behavior. If you give me an out, I'll take it and that's the problem. I'll pay for it later when you expect more of it or something)._

XXX

"Mercy is not a character flaw," Peter said softly. He glanced over Sylar, not seeing anything in particular that needed cleaning, but a cool cloth and a pleasant distraction could do more for nausea than most medicines. He wiped one side and then the other of Sylar's face, offering him the towel to see to his mouth. Peter sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, legs bent. He was tired and his stomach a little upset as well. They hadn't had anything to eat for a while – nothing to buffer the alcohol and the near-fight didn't help. "Let's get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

XXX

Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing the terrycloth to dab at his face was soothing, his breath starting and stopping at the simple sensations. _God, you're pathetic._ No sooner had he thought it than Peter handed the towel off and made to move away. _Is he leaving? Nooo…_ Sylar reached out and caught his fingers in Peter's jeans (what little grip he could get in the tight, unyielding fabric). The other man sat to his relief. _Stay; yes._ "No, we won't," Sylar said grimly, self-assured. "We won't talk about it tomorrow or any other time. Even if we do, nothing changes tomorrow or the next day…It's just…nature and nature continues itself." He gestured, his elbow still propped against the rim of the toilet. Faking a brilliant smile for a few seconds, he slurred his way through, "Shh. It'll be our little secret." _Nothing has to change. Change is scary and you don't know what you're talking about._

XXX

Peter watched Sylar talk more than he listened to the words. _You look really sad that we won't talk about it. I wonder what it is he doesn't want to talk about?_ Peter smiled at Sylar's smile – even if inauthentic, it was still a nice smile. And the 'it's our little secret' …? He decided to take that one as a joke, even if Sylar seemed creepily serious about it. "Yeah, a secret no one else in the whole world knows about." Peter chuckled, looking away to stare ahead, which put the bathroom door as the only thing to see. Sylar was more interesting, so he looked back and rambled helpfully, "We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. You know. Pretty much. Within limits, I guess."

XXX

Drowsiness turned to sleepiness, his head feeling heavy, body lax and warm, Sylar had the random and ridiculous urge to slide into bed around Peter. He wasn't thinking that his bed was a cot, hardly big enough for the two of them and the fact that Peter wouldn't be caught dead sleeping close to him. _He'd make the perfect teddy bear – he's so soft._ "Come," he meant 'come on,' but he simply forgot the last word, his mouth wouldn't form it or something, and was too tired or lazy to include it. He indicated for Peter to rise and follow him as he stood. "Come," he took an unseeing, loose hold of some part of Peter, jeans, body, it didn't matter as he reached back, trying to lead his companion to the mattress.

XXX

Peter got to his feet, the rise from floor to standing more difficult to keep his balance through than the transition from chair to feet. He waited while Sylar passed him, getting tugged along by Sylar reaching back and gripping at his forearm. It was only a few steps to Sylar's bed and he'd made two of them before he realized Sylar wasn't trying to direct him to sit in the office chair or lead him over to look at something on the desk. Peter stopped, slipping free of Sylar's loose hold. A wash of wariness swept away some of the inebriated exhaustion that had started to fog his thinking. It wasn't nearly as fogged as it needed to be for _that_ to work on him. Peter would have been madder about being led to the guy's bed if he'd thought Sylar was more sober. He muttered something in the negative and went to the couch, picking at the folded blanket and sheet set off to the side at one end.

XXX

Peter moved away and left Sylar watching from his seat on the bed with a crushing loneliness as Peter set up his sleeping area on the couch. It was close, they were in the same room, but it wasn't close enough and he didn't want to let it drop. "Can I sleep with you?" he blurted, not intending to say that at all. It was truthful and sure to be shot down.

XXX

_That sounds so sad. And pathetic. And what would it hurt? _Peter hesitated, blanket partly spread across the couch, mid-glance over at Sylar as a reaction to the words. Wordlessly leading him to bed got Peter's back up – it was presumptuous, irritating, and scary. But asking? His shoulders sagged and the edge of the blanket slithered out of his fingers. Asking worked. Sort of. "No, but-" Peter stepped over to him, gesturing at Sylar's bed. "Lie down. I'll … sit next to you for a little bit."

XXX

No. Of course it was 'no.' Despite it being time for bed and his tiredness, Sylar didn't want to sleep, not alone, not so far away. What he needed was so vague he couldn't label it; he just knew falling asleep near or against Peter would content him. The alternative was, just as vaguely, frightening; something about the lights going out and being alone and defenseless against what was coming. He glanced up hopefully at the second part of the sentence. _Really?_ It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it would help. _What is wrong with me? Trusting Peter Petrelli to sit over me while I try to sleep? What good will that do? _He turned, lying down and began to situate himself, looking up at the suddenly very tall medic. _I wonder if this is a bad idea_, he ruminated blandly, unworried about the probability or even possibility. _Do parents do this? Is that…I don't know._

XXX

_I've seen futons wider than this._ Peter helped drape the blanket over Sylar and then nudged at his hip to get him to scoot over. It was barely enough space to sit on. He looked at the chair and considered rolling it close, but didn't. He could already feel a little of the warmth of Sylar's form through the thin blankets and he liked it. Peter was cool and still shirtless. He glanced around, but he'd missed wherever Sylar had put the shirt. He assumed it was on the other side of the desk, probably on top of the pile of board games. That seemed impossibly far away at the moment. It was easier to look at Sylar's face than consider where the shirt was. It was such a handsome face.

XXX

The assistance and nudging, the implied soon-to-be-reality contact caused Sylar to give a hum of pleasure. Peter wouldn't bother with all of this just to hurt him, so this was safe to feel. He could feel sleep creeping closer to him; for now he lazily watched Peter look around the room before focusing on Sylar again. Peter looked at him and Sylar looked back, enduring a welter of reactions, reasons and emotions about it. He felt warm and fuzzy as he enjoyed the attention; he would have been completely satisfied, fulfilled even, if Peter lay beside him. Perhaps that's what he was trying to convey with everything tonight.

XXX

The allure of lying down right here was strong. They'd managed to get through the evening without beating each other up; many truths had been exchanged, secrets shared, trust built. Sylar was right here, human, warm, trying to be friendly, and succeeding wildly at not being offensive or threatening. He was clothed; Peter was at least wearing jeans, so nothing would happen, right? Peter was about as drunk as he could be and still walk straight. Looked at soberly, the evening was a collection of increasingly poor decisions – telling things he probably shouldn't have, stripping and being turned on by it, asking invasive questions, and letting himself be tied up. But he wasn't sober.

Peter pulled his eyes away from Sylar's, looking vacantly in the direction of the couch. He was struggling to organize his reasoning as to why it was okay to sleep over there but not here, especially when he was already here, and there was someone who wanted him to be here. It was really hard to do. One location seemed very equal to the other and he felt so tired. His limbs felt leaden and the trek back to the couch looked so tedious. It had been a long time since he'd been slept next to someone. Well, other than that time a few days ago when he'd woke humping on Sylar.

He twitched at the memory, still embarrassed and angry about Sylar's intrusion. _Oh. Yeah. That. Yeah, okay, I need to go over to the couch then. _He patted Sylar's forearm in a friendly fashion and then stroked it in a fashion that was quite a bit more than friendly – because it felt good and he assumed Sylar would let him and he was sort of saying he was sorry he wouldn't sleep with him while copping a feel of his arm. It was complicated. Peter didn't try to make sense of it, nor of the surge of tingling warmth he could feel suffusing his entire hand. He just pulled himself to his feet and meandered over to the couch, having come only one stray thought from joining Sylar for the night in his tiny bed.

XXX

Still Peter lingered and still Sylar gazed back at him in a disgustingly besotted, seductive, relaxed way. _Don't leave. This is really nice. Apart from the taste in my mouth…_The younger man began looking for escape as was inevitable. Sylar felt his face twist as a retroactive reaction to Peter patting his arm 'good bye/good night'. The budding protest he primed was swallowed upon feeling his arm being stroked. It tickled his brain it felt so good. His eyelids drooped and he felt high, aroused maybe, but not erect. The nurse pulled away and Sylar realized then that he'd stopped breathing_. I don't even care why he did it right now. Or ever, maybe._ It was enough to allow Peter to leave his side, even though he allowed his fingers to try to grip at him briefly, sliding over skin with reticent longing as Peter moved away. He was happily dozing before Peter settled into the couch.


	70. Hungover

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

_Oh … ow._ That was an understatement. Peter didn't happen to know any words to describe how he felt, not even the vulgar ones would do. There was a crushing pressure in his head, a roiling sensation in his bowels, and the thing that had woke him from the fitful, distressed sleep he'd been suffering through – an urgent need to relieve himself. _**NOW.**_ "Uff!" He was up and off the couch in record time, bare feet getting him to the bathroom while his sphincter made one last argument with his brain. _Why the fuck am I still wearing my jeans?_ He never slept in his pants, because doing so left him exactly as he was now – sweaty, clammy, and having to peel himself out of them. He struggled through it, weathering another surge of 'I have to go NOW' from his body. But he made it. That was all that mattered. A few moments later, he had the presence of mind to reach out a foot and nudge the bathroom door shut. Thankfully, Sylar hadn't made a peep.

Much later, literally drained, Peter washed up and then stumbled into the kitchen to rehydrate. Water and painkillers went down the hatch, prompting another hurried visit to the bathroom. After round two and Sylar still hadn't stirred, he went over to look the guy over. He was pale, definitely breathing, and smelled … sour. _That's reassuring somehow. I was starting to worry that he smelled good to me all the time. I think I'm just … really getting used to being around him._ Peter fetched a glass for Sylar along with a batch of pills, then retired to the couch with the feeling that his energy reserves had been completely depleted by the small tasks. He laid there in his underwear, the sheet flipped over him, vaguely considering past hangovers and the events of the previous night during the periods when his body deigned to allow him enough brain power to think.

XXX

A sense of throbbing pain invaded Sylar's sleep, increasing in awareness to the point where he could slumber no longer. With a gasp and a groan, Sylar felt himself enter the land of the living – supposedly. "Oh, God…" he moaned without thought, thinking he was alone, because surely Peter had left after…Oh, God, but the world was too bright and his creature comfort clocks were too loud; his head was too heavy and hurting, his gut and bladder…_I'mgoingto-!_ Followed by wordless images and sensations of what unpleasant, embarrassing bodily functions, plural, his body was going to perform with or without a bathroom. Yanking himself out of bed sent his brain once again sliding around in his skull. If he could have cried out or fussed in some way at that moment, he would have. As it was, he made the mad dash to the toilet to puke. This time it was worse, half-digested and stale (or maybe that's how he currently felt). He spat copiously to rid himself of everything about it – the idea, the memories, the taste, the impression it made on his senses.

XXX

Peter waited while the worst of the vomit noises passed. _Where the fuck are my jeans? I woke up in them earlier. … Shit. They must be in the bathroom. He better not be puking on them._ He got up, feeling seriously underdressed to be performing nurse duties. _This is like one of those weird __dreams__ where I show up to work naked. Oh well._ He went in the bathroom anyway, the door still hanging open, and got down the hand towel to wet it. His jeans were on the other side of Sylar, wedged between him and the tub. He gave a resigned sigh to the situation and was thankful this hadn't been one of those days when he went commando, which was more often than not.

XXX

"Ah, fuck. You," Sylar's voice was so rough he made a drag down a gravel road sound inviting. This was Peter's fault. Dumb idiot had gotten him very drunk on top of the head trauma he was also accountable for. "What were you thinking," he croaked, "making us drink like that?"

XXX

"Right. 'Us'. Made us both do it." Peter squatted down and made to wipe Sylar's face like he had last night. The guy had to be feeling worse than warmed-over crap not to have taken the opportunity to remark on Peter's state of undress. But he was still complaining. As they said in EMT training, the louder the patient was, the less you needed to worry about their health. "I was just evening the score. You were the one trying to get me drunk, the way I figure it."

XXX

Sylar lifted his head away indignantly, very much like an infant refusing baby food on the spoon, but Peter followed with the cloth, wiping his face anyway. _Shit, go easy. My head feels like…Just go easy._ He clutched at Peter's arms as he worked, panting a little from waking up and standing up too quickly for distressing purposes and the tenderness of his head and eyes. His function may have improved, but his headache symptoms from the concussion weeks ago was still very present below his apparently self-induced issues. Peter went for his forehead and Sylar growled at him, tugging the man's hands away. What was with that continued pressure to touch his damn forehead? Did he think Sylar was that stupid? Right now he couldn't remember who was at fault for the resulting hangover (Peter was most definitely responsible for all concussion problems); were they both at fault? Did it matter right now? Right now Sylar badly wanted to blame Peter for his pain, blame him for anything, really. "Of course I did," he sneered bitter and sarcastic. _Blame the psychopath. Funny how I'm the one hunched over the toilet, puking up a lung, no matter who's fault it is._

XXX

Peter let Sylar's grip on his arms be his guide. Hanging onto him was fine and told him that the contortions of Sylar's face at the touch of the towel weren't anything to be worried about. When the grip tightened and pushed him back, though, Peter desisted. _Forehead._ His mind went back to the first head-to-toe exam he'd done on Sylar and how he'd been prickly about it then, too. _Wasn't last night, but he was drunk then. _Peter pulled away and stood to rinse out the towel, leaving Sylar to collect himself.

XXX

It was then, when Peter moved away, that Sylar noticed his state of undress_. Uuuh…_his mind provided helpfully as he stared. The only other time he'd seen this much of Peter was during their medical exam, a week or so ago. _Not that I'm complaining__,__ but didn't I leave him with his pants on? Did I…? What the hell happened last night?_ "You better not have pissed my couch, Petrelli. Where are your pants?"

XXX

"You wouldn't give me my shirt back last night and now you've got my pants." He gestured at the garment with his right hand while his left half-heartedly tried to wring out the towel by itself. He gave up with it still sodden and wiped his own face with it, forehead included. "I hope you're not married to that toilet, because I'm going to need it myself after a while." A trickle of water ran down his chest and his gut churned at the unexpected sensation. That one cold line down his front was too much to process with everything else – the smell, Sylar's proximity, his head, his stomach, the chill sweeping over his skin. He left the bathroom, needing the distance. "I'm going to borrow your pajamas."

XXX

_I have your…? Oh. There they are. Why are they here and why do I have them? I'm sitting on his pants so he can't get them, ha. He still didn't tell me why he's not wearing pants. Is this another showing-off thing? When we're sick and it makes no sense…_Sylar gave him a weak glare about being married to the toilet. "Whatever," he muttered about his clothes being appropriated without permission. Truth be told, Sylar wasn't sure watching Peter prance around in only underwear was helping him feel better anyway. He stood, bracing through the wave of nausea and head-pains to do it, and kicked the door shut but not closed. It blocked the view and that was all Peter could bitch about, or not, while Sylar relieved himself. It was amazing how swollen one's bladder could get in one night, one of those freaky human body things of nature.

XXX

Peter adopted the new clothes – pjs with legs too long for him, a t-shirt that fit him okay – and sat on the couch. The thought of breakfast revolted him enough so that after Sylar vacated the bathroom, he used it again. On his way out, tired and wrung out, he offered the water and pills to Sylar. Painkillers on an empty stomach weren't a good idea, but his brain was too fogged to think of anything better. "You need to drink as much as you can keep down. Sip it slowly. Your stomach will handle it better that way. Take the pills. I know you must feel like shit. I do, too." With that, he laid on the couch with his forearm over his eyes, bare feet buried in the tangled sheet, and went back to letting his brain fuzz out.

XXX

"Thanks," Sylar managed when he was once again horizontal, sloppily spread over his cot with an eye towards Peter…if he chose to open it and do so. Only time would take away the roughness in his throat so his voice was still a croak. The water helped and he downed the pills without comment even though the drink caused his guts to roil. Unfortunately, he stayed mostly awake and his thoughts mostly avoided the previous night_. If I don't think about it, I don't have to…I don't know, expend energy and when Peter asks about it (which I know he will), I can answer honestly that I don't really know. I don't want to worry about it right now._ It actually worked in his favor that Peter felt just as bad. Sylar wondered if he should feel guilt for supposedly causing Peter's pain. It sucked to have his nurse and roommate out of commission (even though Peter was handling it better, so it seemed – was that due to past alcoholic experience which Sylar lacked?); but it was also nice, in a sick sort of way, to share something. It was a physical pain, self-induced, stupid, but it was an experience Peter certainly could relate to.

XXX

Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before an idea popped into his head, one he didn't know why he hadn't thought of before: _Zofran_. It was followed quickly by: _IV fluids_. "Ehhhn." He levered himself up. "I got an idea. Be right back." He got to his feet and went out in the hallway, rummaging through the bags on the seat of the wheelchair. There were indeed two IV bags left, along with plenty of injectable nausea relief.

XXX

Sylar cranked an eye open to watch Peter…leave? _Wait…He's in no condition to…_"Where are you going?" he rasped after his companion, considering levering himself up to follow. Seconds later, he heard noises in the hall that confirmed Peter's location. _Not another board game, you idiot. Maybe no more games in general._

XXX

Peter returned, arms full of IV bags, tubing, tape, syringes, and bottle. He set it all down on the desk and flopped into the office chair. "This will take care of all of our problems." He paused, looking at Sylar, then down at himself. "Most … um, some … a few of our problems." He shook his head as he separated the equipment out into two sets. "It'll make things better, I promise." He set it up first for himself, then found himself stymied. "I either have to do this with two fingers and a thumb on my right, or I have to do it left-handed." He frowned. "I never had much practice shooting up anyway." He'd done it once and hadn't enjoyed it at all, which was why it was a 'once' deal and never again. "Can you do this?" He looked at Sylar dubiously. Even people _with_ medical training often had trouble dropping a line. "Wait, never mind. Let me do you first. You watch what I do, then you'll feel better after – hands steadier, that sort of thing."

XXX

Immediately, the nurse's proximity was a comfort, even if it was a loud comfort. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, then moved to sit on his cot, legs hanging off the side because it was easier on his stomach than sitting Indian style. At the mention of shooting up he thought about the time he'd had to 'shoot up.' It had been life-and-death, not a loser's pleasure cruise. He tried not to remember all the other needles in his life, ones used for torture, revenge and abuse. Sylar nodded yes to the question of his competence, "Yeah, I can." He nodded, "Okay." Sticking Sylar first made sense. _I've got steady hands anyway, one little- one big headache isn't going to screw up my aim that bad. _Peter installed the IV line, hooked the bag on the shelf above the head of his bed, and injected Zofran, presumably, into the port on the bag.

XXX

Peter watched the drip for several minutes, which was about as long as he could put up with. The idea that he'd have to wait most of an hour before getting his own relief was too much. He moved on to setting up his own situation – opening packaging, drawing up the Zofran, swabbing his arm. "I'm going to try this anyway." He did – try, that is, and missed. The all-encompassing headache and slightly shaking hands didn't help at all. "Fuck." He tried a second time – except instead of just having a slowly bleeding hole like the first time, he also managed to blow out the vein. It was now bleeding under the skin, giving him a swelling hematoma and making further attempts on that arm futile. "Fuck!" He set the syringe aside and covered his elbow with the alcohol swab, applying pressure as per procedure, even though what he wanted to do was fling it across the room and throw an undignified fit. Staring at the ceiling, he huffed. "Sometimes I feel like … the whole fucking world … every time I try to do something - shit blows up, people die, the future ..." He shook his head. "I can't even give myself a fucking IV!"

XXX

_But we just said…_Sylar almost stopped him, because it seemed like a bad idea and they'd just agreed to do the opposite. He watched as Peter botched it. _I should find this hilarious after all the times he's handled needles for me and for patients. Maybe it's a good thing he has no practice doing it fucked up and hung over. _Understandably the failure quickly 'got under Peter's skin' and he began to fuss. Loudly. "Shh, shh, shush, Pete," Sylar said in a mix of reactions, part begging, part demanding, though he didn't do it to console his partner. He just wanted him to shut up. He reached out and patted the man's now-clothed shoulder and that was for Peter's comfort. "I know how to do it. It will be easier on someone else, actually. 'Kay?"

XXX

Peter gave him a sharp, narrow-eyed look for calling him 'Pete'. Was it intentionally mocking him for acting childish? Was it unintentional because Nathan often called him that? Was it just a common shortening of his name (although Sylar should have known better than to call him that)? Thinking through the possible motives hurt his head. Sylar patted his shoulder and Peter sighed, face relaxing. _You only get to call me that when we're both hung over,_ he thought grumpily. He nodded to Sylar's question and went about fixing the tourniquet to his other arm.

XXX

When Peter gave sign of assent, Sylar took the needle and Peter's undamaged left arm. "You make your job sound so hard," he mused, both as affectionate mockery and general observation. "I've had to do this after someone used me for a battering ram through a glass door after she shocked me like a wet finger in a wall socket after being powerless and sick for weeks after being stabbed through the chest with a samurai sword."

XXX

Peter grunted in acknowledgement, thinking he should have some questions or something to say about that sequence of events. All he could muster was something half-formed about having wondered what happened to Sylar after Kirby Plaza. He abandoned trying to finish the thought in favor of making a fist to make his veins more prominent. It was part of what had gone wrong on his right arm – unable to make a fist with his right, he'd been poking at ill-defined targets.

XXX

Sylar leaned in close to look for veins, or rather, a good large vein because they were plentiful on Peter's lovely arm. "Needless to say, this should be a walk in the park." He pulled the skin taut and slid the needle in at an angle so as not to go through the vein, and it had a better chance of getting in, as he understood it. Given the bloody feedback in the tube, he'd got it in one. "Hmm," he grunted his success, looking to see if he had impressed Peter.

XXX

Two things: Peter realized he should have given some advice, and the other was that even without it, Sylar had done the job perfectly, first try, with a hangover. That was amazing and Peter's pair of surprised blinks conveyed it. "Good. Hold it right there." He struggled to get past the cotton in his head to get the tape he'd laid out, fixing the plastic piece in place. "Now turn it a little and pull it out. The syringe - that thing there." He pointed helpfully and Sylar followed directions like a pro, detaching the needle to leave the plastic shunt in the vein. "Then I'll attach the line and tape that down, too." Peter managed the rest, shooing away Sylar's hands, which seemed determined to cradle his forearm now that they weren't engaged otherwise. Brushed off, Sylar watched for a moment, then laid down, head on his folded arm, looking up at Peter. Once set up, Peter sprawled in the chair, elevating his feet by way of propping them on the far corner of Sylar's tiny bed. In a half hour to an hour, the fluids should have done their trick of restoring hydration and knocking out the worst hangover symptoms. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait.

And think. Maybe it was just a placebo effect, or the continued, gradual waking, but he already felt like he was thinking better. The first thing he dwelled on was Sylar's steady, unhurried hands in finding the vein. Most people were afraid of hurting the person they were working with and that manifested as hesitation, second guessing, or hurrying – sometimes all three – which worked together to make them as lousy at the job as Peter had been on his attempt at his right arm. Sylar didn't have that. There was no 'I'm sorry I hurt you'. Even when he'd looked up after stabbing Peter in the arm, his expression hadn't been concern. It was more like approval-seeking, without regard for the possibility Peter might be upset about having a bit of metal poked into him.

That was … interesting. Kind of unsettling. Very practical, and it made sense given Sylar's past, Peter supposed. He'd been told that the best surgeons were really scary people precisely because they had no compunctions against slicing into folks. Sylar … well, compunctions against cutting into people seemed to be lacking. He glanced over at Sylar, who was spending his time staring at Peter. He wasn't sure what to make of that particular feature. Was it a deficit? Or just a trait? Was it something his ability and experiences had driven out of him? Or was it something that had never been there to start with? Certainly the lonely past Peter had been able to put together for him wasn't the sort of thing that would nurture normal responses to people.

_Does he even know how to be normal with someone? No roommates – he's already said that. No friends – said that. No siblings – said that. No father part of the time, hated him while he was there. Biological father – only knew him a few hours, hated him. Mother … there was something weird about the way he talked about her, the stuff he's said about her before, too, and now she's off-limits to ask about, assuming she's even alive. So … mother at most and I'm not sure how that relationship was. Has he ever been with anyone else for any length of time?_

_There's Elle. Something happened with her. He died for her, made love to her at least, and he really was making love to her. That wasn't just sex. He didn't die because he didn't care – if he had, he wouldn't have said that was the most noble thing he'd ever done. Then there was Luke. They were … friends? Yeah, friends. But it sounds like they only knew each other for a few days, maybe off and on for a few weeks. Hard to tell, because he really leaves a lot of gaps in his explanations. It's like … it's like he's never had to explain anything to anyone; he doesn't wait for directions and it's like he doesn't expect any. Fuck – I might be the most meaningful and long-term relationship he's ever had, and coming on the heels of three years alone, that's … it's an explanation for awkward. For him - no roommate Kevin, no Hesam at work, no brother Nathan, no girlfriend, no patients, no friends in high school and then different friends in college and different friends still in nursing school, all plus the kids of my parent's friends, or the maids. Not even a fucking dog._ Peter's mind boggled at how narrow that made the world.

A surge of wanting to be there for someone ran through him, hurrying Peter's breathing, making him swallow and look away as he tried to quash his feelings. _This is stupid. Sylar is a murderer. I'm not even sure if he understands, really, that what he did was wrong, or what was wrong about it. And Nathan …_ Peter shook his head, forcibly drawing his thoughts away from the subject. "What do you remember from last night?"

XXX

Sylar inhaled and let it out heavily, calming his stomach as it clenched, and to buy time. _What do you want me to say, 'I remember everything' or 'I remember nothing'?_ Licking his lips, he looked upwards but the light from the window was too much. "Um…I remember playing games. Truth or Dare." His eyes briefly roving over Peter's form said how much and what he remembered of the previous night. _I remember finding out just how naughty you are and getting to touch you._ It was then he took in the fact that Peter was dressed in his clothes. Sylar remembered feeling a strange proprietary surge at seeing Elle wearing his black button-up shirt after sex. It was probably not a good idea for Peter to have chosen of his own volition to don Sylar's clothes. _He'll smell like me a little, maybe._ The shirt was too long, but tighter and the pants were much too long_. (He's not sending a message__.__) I don't care. He's wearing my clothes; not just my clothes, my fucking pajamas for God's sake. He's __responsible for himself, throwing his pants at me, giving me his shirt. He should have thought of that before he did it. I'm not responsible for what happens after. _Seeing Peter like this had little logical reason to be sexy, but there it was.

XXX

_Another non-answer._ Peter huffed at the annoying evasion. "What do you remember specifically?"

XXX

"Is there something I should be forgetting?" Sylar shot back. He didn't care for the implication that he should forget things when it was convenient for others. He'd had enough of that. "I remember all of it. You're a kinky little bastard," he smirked. _And a tricky one who got me to do things._

XXX

That was … warming. And not in a way Peter was really comfortable feeling at the moment, coming on the heels of other less-than-antagonistic thoughts about Sylar. The way the guy had looked him up and down just now hadn't gone unnoticed, either. Peter cast a quick look down. The fly of the pajamas wasn't gaping open or anything like that, but then again, Sylar's eyes hadn't stopped at any particular place, which Peter found even more flattering than if he'd focused on one thing. He felt a low-level excitement hum through him, which left him wordless for a moment.

He finally managed a defensive, "Well, I remember everything, too." Going on the offense, he added, "Should I go get you some _tea_?" He waved in the direction of the kitchen and shifted his feet a little on the end of the bed, but made no actual motion to get up._ If I have to deal with what I did, then you're not getting away with yours, either._

XXX

_Wh- oooh…_Sylar glared as best he could, knowing it was weak. That was uncalled for. After his glare reached its expiration date, he thought up a reply through his overheated brain, "Sure, if you can do it in your underwear, Boner Boy." He chuckled, partly for effect. _And I thought I was the horny one._"Maybe you should moonlight as a stripper. You have the paramedic uniform," Sylar chuckled some more. As good looking as Peter was, stripping was kind of waste of his talents. Something in him strongly disapproved of the mere idea, found it insulting, degrading and felt that Peter should be protected, if not for himself, then for…His laughter wound down and he cleared his throat. "Do you always do that with booze or…I mean, how does that work? Why does that do it for you?" he asked, genuinely curious. He had no information on it or Peter so…why not ask? The arousal clearly wasn't stimulated just from the average stare (because Sylar had stared Peter down plenty, granted, never with his shirt off; Nathan had had opportunities and never noticed any lower region action. Peter was good looking so he'd definitely been ogled before), so there was something to it, another factor he couldn't account for at first glance (no pun intended). It didn't make a whole lot of sense to him, you know, being looked at as a turn on? There was one potential reason he didn't mention, yet, because it was so unlikely it was quite impossible: Peter liked the source of the attention – Sylar.

XXX

Peter ran through a lot of reactions in short order – affront and anger at Sylar's comeback (accompanied by pushing the rolling chair half a foot away from Sylar's bed, but he didn't take his feet off the end), sneering disgust at the suggestion he disgrace his position as a paramedic by involving his uniform in a strip routine (a wrinkled nose and a glare served to convey his feelings while Sylar laughed), and then narrow-eyed suspicion at Sylar's semi-honest-seeming questions. He snorted strongly and frowned off in the direction of the kitchen.

_My head hurts too much for this. Is that an honest question with a bunch of defensive bull up front, or is that a sarcastic/rhetorical/fake question and the bull is how he really feels?_ Peter sighed, still looking away. _He didn't suggest anything all that bad, really – that he thinks I look good and he thinks other people would think so, too._ Peter breathed out heavily again, glancing back at Sylar with a sour expression on his face. _He likes how I look … _Peter tried to ignore the pleasant, tingly way that made him feel.

"Are you serious?" He said it like a threat or a challenge, throwing it out with a matching forbidding expression on his face just in case Sylar was full of it. Peter watched him sharply for cues, or at least as sharply as he could with his head pounding and gut feeling queasy.

XXX

"Yes," Sylar prolonged the word slightly; narrowing his eyes a little because of the disbelieving look he was being given.

XXX

Peter tilted his head, eyes still narrow, but none of that helped him think. He was too keyed up for this and he hadn't had enough drip yet from the IV bag to endure it. He leaned back into the chair, relaxing a little in posture and face. "Booze doesn't have anything to do with it – just that I wouldn't be dumb enough to strip for you unless I was drunk, which I was." _So there._

Having established (he hoped) his disinterest, Peter moved on to the main question, his voice getting much smaller as he took a sudden apparent interest in the IV tube. "I like it. I like the attention." He opened his mouth to say more, but then shut it. He didn't know which words to use and didn't want to say something Sylar might use against him. _'It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!'_ Those words rang in his head instead, engraved there by having rehearsed them prior to Nathan's arrival and the adrenaline rush of the leap that followed. He toyed with the clear tube, rolling it pensively between his fingers, and looked over to see Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar was surprised and happy to get an answer at all. At least it ruled some things out even if it wasn't descriptive. In a leading tone, Sylar probed deeper, "Attention…gets you off?" Again, it was obvious it wasn't that simple but it would be very nice if Peter was that easy. He frowned a little from confusion.

XXX

"It's just a thrill, you know?" He looked at Sylar, but wasn't getting any indication he did know. And besides, what was there to 'know' with what little Peter had said? He looked down at his lap and frowned, then shook his head in frustration. "It's the attention, yeah, but not just any attention. I'm not showing myself to strangers in the library, after all. You're into me. Or at least I think you are. That's the difference. People who think I'm hot looking at me … it's hot. Some people are turned on by looking at others. I'm not. At least not so much. It's why I was always out where other folks were instead of holed up in my bedroom with a porn mag. I wanted people looking at me." He gave a long pause, then added the more important point, "I wanted to matter. _That's_ what does it for me."

It was a lot bigger deal than just how it manifested in his sex life. Peter knew that even if he didn't like thinking about it. Feeling defensive and too vulnerable (pointless, extra, overshadowed by Nathan, ignored by his parents in favor of their golden child, always second-rate or also-ran no matter what he did), he shifted the focus. "This is not a weird kink. I'm sure you have ones of your own. Everyone does." Not that Peter had thought about what turned Sylar's crank. He looked over at him speculatively before pulling his thoughts away from that. _I do not care about what gets Sylar off._ It didn't take long for his subconscious desires to make an end run around his conscious mind, suggesting, _Actually, that's a much better topic than him asking more about what I like._ "So what are you into?"

XXX

Now came the descriptions. It was…a lot of information to process. Sylar listened intently, trying to make sense of it because it was obviously important to Peter for whatever reason. He was being given answers but he had to translate them – the answers themselves were key. Then Peter gave him gold; something resonated in him and he didn't know why, 'I want to matter.' That overwhelmed and eclipsed anything else Peter might say and everything he'd already said. Sylar understood that that was a very big deal. Before he could dissect it, Peter was busy making insinuations about him. _I don't like y-!_ It was halfway off his tongue before he stopped himself. Denying his interest would be shooting his chances with Peter in the metaphorical foot – the man wanted interest. _Let him think I like him. He doesn't care if I have feelings for him, or if he does, he's still wrong. _Then there was the rest of it: _I have kinks? Everyone does? _As Sylar knew it, kinks were kinks because they were odd sexual obsessions – odd because not everyone shared them or they would be commonplace. Peter stopped everything in its tracks with his unforeseen, highly personal question. Sylar froze, stunned and probably showing it. _What do I like? You think…I can like things? Is that allowed? Well…shit, what do I say? What will work with him? (Do I say I like watching him? Why is he asking?)_ Once the immediate reactions were out of the way (for now), he began to formulate a response, hopefully one that would work.

"I'm into sex," he said simply, face dull and blank.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, but that was all Sylar apparently had to say. He noted the sudden loss of expression – a dead give-away that Peter had hit a button, probably an insecurity because Sylar was into something he didn't want to confess. Which was okay. Peter mostly just wanted to make the topic of conversation something other than himself. Still, his curiosity was piqued now. "Yeah…? What specifically?"

XXX

"Sex is sex," Sylar shrugged, desperate to blow this off and simultaneously convey the idea that he was easy, without complications or demands. "I'm more of an open-book; I'm not picky. I don't really have 'kinks.'" _Or if I do have them, they're not going to bother you, that's for sure. Why would he even ask that?_

XXX

_You either don't know what I'm talking about because you're inexperienced, or you're into something awful enough that you won't admit it._ Peter didn't have enough to go on to decide which was in play. Did Sylar genuinely not know himself? Surely even if he hadn't been around much he'd at least know his preferences for porn. Or did he know and wasn't telling, in which case why not just lie? Peter wouldn't know the difference, although he had to admit Sylar had shown an astonishingly surprising penchant for being truthful.

Truthful, but evasive – annoyingly so, and a lot of the time the evasion didn't even seem intentional. Crankily, Peter snapped, "If we're going to talk, then you need to give me better answers. If I'd answered you like you just answered me, you would have asked why that did it for me and if I were answering like you, then I'd only say 'booze didn't have anything to do with it' or 'guess you'll just have to find out on your own' or whatever and _nothing else_. It's really frustrating to try to have a conversation with you, Sylar!"

XXX

Sylar could feel his stress level ratcheting up at being cornered. _But I don't know…._he mentally whined. More accurately, he didn't know what to communicate and what to leave unsaid. "I don't see what it matters, Peter," he managed to grate out. "You already said you don't like talking to me – whenever I do talk, you want me to stop. People don't ask and I don't tell, I already told you that." And he had; something to the effect of not involving himself with people for a host of reasons. "My 'kinks' weren't in question last night." That was even more of a provable outright lie than 'I don't have kinks': he'd practically fondled Peter in several places last night, mostly the guy's hair. With any luck, Peter wouldn't remember it in that light or he didn't notice at all.

XXX

"If I didn't want to talk to you, Sylar, I wouldn't." Peter started to go on in that argumentative vein, his mouth even open about to do so. Then he stopped. "'Whenever you do talk.'" Peter's head pulled back and his demeanor changed from irritably quarreling to paying close attention. Wonderingly, he said slowly, "We're not talking right now, are we? Not really. Not what you just meant. What is it I want you to stop ..." He looked away for a moment, thinking. "Nathan, the murders, my family. Are those the things you want to talk about that I stop you?" It hit Peter how much Sylar probably did, desperately, want to talk to someone about all of that. What Sylar had done was confusing, dehumanizing, frightening, and soul-wrenching. He'd almost certainly never had anyone he could talk to about it, and Peter had neatly declared every damn bit of it off-limits.

XXX

_What did I mean by that? I meant…uh…_Peter continued, getting closer and closer to the thing making Sylar anxious to the point of an aneurysm. _(Do I need to talk about that? Do I need to talk about anything?) I have no idea what you're talking about. _Sylar swallowed roughly, needing relief and needing it fast. His voice wavered and caught, but he managed to demand, "How about that tea?" He was readying his acting chops to play the most needy patient Peter had ever seen. He wanted out, he was scared, not sure why, and ready to do whatever it took to get out of it and away from it. _No, clearly, I don't want to talk about it. Just some nice tea, calm my __nerves…calm __the__ urge to puke, calm all these headaches you insist on giving me – this is perfectly normal, Peter._

XXX

Peter continued looking piercingly at Sylar, feeling like he was really seeing into the man for the first time, or perhaps simply seeing him as he was for the first time. _Tea? He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't want to talk about it. I don't think I should push him on this. I was just thinking about how honest he usually is. If I make talking a condition of … us, me, me being here … wait, does he think he has to do whatever I insist he does?_ That was mind-boggling. Peter nodded. "Tea. Sure." He got up out of the chair carefully, bringing his mostly drained IV bag with him, and headed off to the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar heaved a wavering breath, slumping as soon as Peter was out of sight, shutting his eyes for a moment. _Why am I so upset? I want to talk to him, don't I? He's the only person here; he has to listen to me._ _He's the one making all these rules…_Then it dawned on him. Peter was indeed setting rules and setting precedents. What's more, if Sylar strayed onto any topic Peter didn't like, Peter would cave his skull in and punch him with little to no warning. The man was completely volatile. Not that Sylar had a glass jaw, low pain tolerance or aversion to pain, but he knew (and could guess) from experience what repeat offenders were punished with. Even the night before, when he'd been messing with Peter, the nurse had gone completely overboard without warning. That decided him – he did not want to talk about anything with Peter fucking Petrelli. _And they say I'm crazy? _He covered his face with his forearm, chuckling to himself, but it had more than a touch of hysteria lacing it before he wound down. Sylar certainly had no need to talk anyway. There was no 'help' for him, as his last attempt had shown. He'd had to abandon the hope, the idea. _This is my life now and no kooky Petrelli is going to mess with my head._

XXX

Peter returned with a cup of plain tea, bag still steeping in it. He offered it quietly before sitting, fiddling with the IV bag to make sure the last of the fluid made its way into his veins. _I don't think I want to listen to him talk about any of that. But I'm going to have to eventually. This is like me for the last year … never able to tell Hesam or anyone else about abilities, not talking to anyone, just keeping it to myself. _He could see where this was going, but for the moment, he sat quietly and let sleeping dogs lie, not extending any invitation for Sylar to speak about the forbidden subjects and not revisiting the issue of kinks, either. He didn't think he was ready to be the sort of listener Sylar needed.


	71. Peter Petrelli's Nipples

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

"Thank you," Sylar whispered, taking the cup. He didn't know how his stomach would handle the new visitor but the warmth of the cup, the gesture, were comfort enough. Sylar didn't look at his nurse, he pretended to be engrossed in the tea, unable to engage in conversation and Peter…left it alone. After long enough, it became clear Peter wasn't going to say anything about it or say much of anything else. _Why does he ask all these questions? He's supposed to leave me alone._ When the silence settled and it was clear he could introduce another topic, probably another undesired question for Peter to deny and disallow. "Why did you ask about the worst question you could ask last night?" Sylar assumed Peter felt the need to have dirt on him, some vulnerability to exploit, or try to, but he didn't put words in the empath's mouth. Peter's questions seemed focused on his mother and he wanted to know if the content was coincidence or planned (though how Peter could do that with such supposedly limited information was beyond him). _Does he know something and he's not telling? Is he looking for a confession? He said he didn't want to talk about the murders, though._

XXX

Peter looked over at him from squeezing pointlessly at the now-empty IV bag. _I thought I wasn't supposed to talk about that? That's not what he's asking of me, though. He wants motivations, not for me to ask about it._ He started detaching the IV, considering what angle to take in answering. "I wanted to scare you," he said quietly. "I wanted you to think I could have been asking worse stuff than I was." He pulled the tube from his vein and put his thumb over it for pressure. "I wanted to see if you'd trust me with something like that. I won't ask. I wouldn't have last night and I won't now."

XXX

_Trust? It has nothing to do with trust. Well, I trusted his promise. Shit. I did trust him a little. I was…drunk. _The creases around his eyes crinkled, Sylar's way of showing amusement without smiling as his mouth twitched at one anyway. _He won't ask now? He can, does he know that? I know something you don't know. Let him think that – he might behave better if he thinks I trust him._ "It was a game and you suckered me into that one. If I chose Truth again, without your promise – the one you didn't include – you'd have asked it next. If I chose Dare, you could have made them so horrible that I'd have to chose Truth or risk losing. Even now, I doubt you'd tie me up and beat it out of me. It's not that important." While some of that was leading, hinting to see if Peter really had no clue he could ask (but Sylar might not answer or do it truthfully), the rest of it was pointed and deceptive – Peter had a history of beating him up (and talk of his mother was important, at least to Sylar. He couldn't follow how something important to him mattered to someone else). The phrasing was close enough to something he'd rasped before, mid-fight, when he was laid flat on a plywood table in a dusty, reconstructed hospital room: _/'What are you gonna do; beat him out of me? Do it! Kill me!'/ Ah! _Sylar grimaced and made a move to touch his head as more pain twisted inside it.

XXX

Peter stood in concern at Sylar's groan, setting aside his tubing and bag, but then catching himself before moving to Sylar. Something about Sylar's posture and choice of words stopped him. _I'm not dealing with a standard patient here. I'm dealing with a guy who is violent, traumatized, and he and I have a history. Be gentle._ Peter put his hands out to the sides, palms toward Sylar. In a calm, even, and honest tone of voice, he said, "You thought all that through, huh? That's better than I did. You got me. But you know what? I'm still not going to ask unless you tell me it's okay, and if that's never, that's okay, too. No beatings. No nothing." _It's obviously important or you wouldn't be so desperate to tell me it isn't. Which just reinforces that you told me the truth and there is no way I'm breaking that._

Peter made a slow motion towards the hook for the IV bag on the shelf above Sylar's bed, taking it down and setting it aside on the chair. "Let me see your arm and I'll take that out for you." He gestured, but didn't move closer.

XXX

An exhale that wanted to be a sigh followed his spasm. Peter had confirmed it, on his own. _He really won't ask. (Why do I feel a little…disappointed?) We're not talking_. Sylar puffed a few amused breaths as he settled back, "Sure, right," he intoned, voice heavy with disbelief, but light enough to keep the current mood. _You would have let me walk right into that trap in the game if I hadn't made you promise. But he's not asking now so…I don't know what that means._ "Hmm? Oh, is it…? Yeah." Sylar looked partially behind himself to see the empty IV bag and proffered his arm, watching his partner-slash-nurse with low-lidded interest. The pats on his arm were wonderful and far too brief. _Didn't he…didn't he do that last night, too? Yeah, put me right to sleep._ Peter set the used equipment on his chair, immediately striking Sylar as a bad place to put it – sitting on a used needle? _I could always band-aid his butt, no problem. _Without permission, he reached out, gathered it up and tossed it onto the desk.

XXX

Peter glanced over at the rearrangement of stuff, taking it as unusual politeness on Sylar's part, and an unspoken desire for Peter to sit down and hang around. He took the seat, but kept his attention on Sylar, trying to figure out what had just caused the display of pain. "Is your head still hurting you?"

XXX

"Always."

XXX

Peter frowned briefly. "Must be the concussion, not the hangover. How bad is it?"

XXX

"Bad enough to still be a problem. I suppose I'll live." _I wonder how he feels about that…_

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily, eyes tracking over Sylar's forehead, then to his pupils, which looked fine. They were, in turn, fixed on Peter himself. "Far as I know, there's nothing much I can do about that except make sure you take painkillers, stay hydrated, and try to hold down the stress." Before he could dwell too much on the miserable failure he was at achieving that last condition, Peter moved on. "Are you still feeling nauseous?"

XXX

"It's better," Sylar shrugged.

XXX

"Okay. I'm gonna go make some breakfast for us." Peter rose, heading off to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asked, "Toast sound good?"

XXX

Sylar made a hum, barely loud enough to be heard over Peter's departure. Again, even that much separation made him…anxious. He sat up, toying with an edge of his sheet. "How are you…doing?" was his awkwardly thought, awkwardly voiced question because he'd though three different variations to the question and mixed them up a little when he spoke. Plus, it was unfamiliar for him to have to ask about someone else's well being, usually he got only as far as 'you okay?' but he wanted specifics since Peter had been specific, nurse or no. On top of that, his voice was still rough, dried from the alcohol and sleep so it didn't carry as well as it should have.

XXX

Peter got out the bread, picking off and eating a bit of crust because no one was in there watching him, then stuck the slices in the toaster. He moved the dial over to very dark. _Burnt toast is better for nausea, right? Wish I remembered … but meal prep was never part of the paramedic stuff and not really hospice, either._ "Oh, I'm … " He double-checked the toaster setting and went to get plates out, the sound of his own voice seeming to echo around the room more than he liked. "I'm okay. My electrolyte balance is probably off. You lost everything out the top; I lost it out the end. Getting fluids helps, but it doesn't make up for that. I think I should take it easy today." _Not that I've been getting the level of exercise I should be getting, but whatever._ He still had a few lingering sore spots from their fights and of course his hand was still broken, but functionally he thought he was fine, although Peter had a track record of over-estimating his body's endurance. The hangover's worst effects were already mitigated by fluids and medication – headache faded, nausea vastly reduced, the cotton-headed, nasty-mouthed sensation was gone. Well, actually the nasty-mouthed feeling was still there. _I need to brush my teeth._ He settled for rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar grunted again. "Why did you freak out when I pinched you?" he called out, leaving it for Peter to figure out what he meant. "Is that another one of those…Uh, I don't know, sex things?"

XXX

_Pinched me? Wait, what?_ Peter went over to look out at Sylar, but Sylar was coming to the kitchen already, and what he meant was clear from the rest of what he had to say. _You're asking about that? Now? What, are we gonna have a debriefing of everything?_ "Last night?" Peter scoffed, leaning backwards against the counter next to the toaster, facing Sylar. "Maybe you were too drunk to notice, but I was freaking out before that, too." He lifted his right hand to stab a finger once at Sylar. "By the way, drunk or not, I don't buy that 'I don't know where the limits are' bullshit you tried to pull. You knew damned well where the limits were because _I told you_ and you understood what I said. You repeated it back to me – something about it being too late for me to set limits, which means _you knew_ what I was doing. Remember that?" Peter tipped his head down, brows rising, skewering Sylar with his gaze and calling him to answer for being an ass. _You do not get to bitch about 'freak-outs' you caused. _Considering all the bad stuff he had in his past involving restraints, Peter thought he'd been pretty mild in his reaction.

He glanced over at the toast that had just popped out. "Get the butter. We probably shouldn't put anything else on it."

XXX

Sylar stopped short when the finger aimed at him. _What did I do now? _The body language alerted him before the words specified his crime; one he apparently didn't know he'd committed. _Of course it's bullshit. You don't even know but it's bullshit. Of course. Wait, what did he tell me? But he didn't set any limits! He had plenty of chances!_ "You-…The…That was…?" _That was molesting you? (Yeah, remember normal people? Remember how much they looove being touched by me?) Fuck. I didn't mean to, I didn't even know…That's why he should have said-!_ Sylar contemplated an apology for something that was, as usual, only half his fault, a question he'd probably tried to communicate and had failed, then screwed it up true to form. "Are they like-" he began a clarifying question despite Peter's ball-breaking stare. The sudden, sharp, grating pop and twang of the toaster signaling completion startled him badly and hurt his tender senses, "Ah!" he hissed, moving away before Peter gave him a command. _Butter again. This just isn't my day_, he thought, setting the butter dish near Peter and the toast station at arm's length then clearing out. His face, not that Peter could see it, was one of distaste. "Fine. Have it your way: no more questions." _This is exactly what I was talking about earlier._

He got glasses of water (because Peter mentioned fluids but disagreed with flavors) and sat at the table, waiting patiently. _Bread and water, too, how fitting._

XXX

_No more questions? You get called on your behavior and that ends the conversation, huh? Must be nice to just __bail whenever it's inconvenient to you!_ Peter's blood was up and the desire to pitch this minor thing into a full-scale conflict simmered in the background as he buttered the two slices. Sylar, quite wisely, left him the hell alone so that by the time Peter brought their very simple breakfast to the table, he was at least calm enough not to immediately snap at the man.

_Calm down. He got the water. He got the butter. He's right there. You were just talking about how you needed to keep the stress level down … but damnit, I don't want to let this drop! _He slid Sylar's plate over with the untouched piece of toast, keeping for himself the one that he'd already torn the top crust off of. Deciding not to reiterate the point about limits, he went to what Sylar had started stammering out before he'd stifled himself. "Are they like what?"

XXX

Sylar's nerve to ask was gone. Besides, the question sounded bad and it was sure to insult and get him into more hot water than he was already in. _Just ease the frog into the boiling water – the frog is very used to it,_ Sylar thought bitterly. He shook his head.

XXX

Peter took a few small bites of toast, mostly due to uncertainty about his stomach, but a little because his jaw still hurt him sometimes. Especially if he was prone to clenching it, which at the moment he was having to resist. The chewing helped. _If he thinks he has to do what I tell him to do …_ "Answer me."

XXX

"Nah. It was another stupid question, guaranteed to piss you off, so…" With that, he occupied his mouth with food.

XXX

"I'm already pissed off and this is what you get." Peter gestured at himself, pale but with anger-spawned rosy spots on this cheeks and across his nose, hair unkempt, dressed in Sylar's pajamas. He didn't think he could possibly be intimidating like this, not that he was trying. "I'm good at stupid questions. Tell me what you meant."

XXX

"Al-right…" Sylar exhaled the word dramatically, petulantly, "Are they like a woman's? Did it hurt or something?" Maybe that was why it was unacceptable, molesting behavior for Peter.

XXX

Peter blinked at him. That … wasn't what he'd been expecting. He took another bite of toast and calmed down a little. "You're asking about pinching me?"

XXX

_Either that's good or he's going to give me his real reaction in a minute…_"Yeah."

XXX

Peter thought back through the conversation. "You're back to asking why I freaked out." He put his toast down and reached up to scratch at his left temple, chewing his lips a little as he looked down for a moment. He was internalizing the possibility that Sylar really was clueless here. "You don't get it. Okay." Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair, realizing too late that it might have had toast crumbs on it. He glanced at it surreptitiously (clean-looking now, but that didn't mean anything), then focused on Sylar. A few crumbs in his hair was not important. "I _tol-_" Peter cut himself off, took a deep breath, held it, let it out. His tone of voice had started to come out harsh. It wasn't what he wanted. In an even voice, he started again. "Okay. Here's the sequence: I was already upset about being tied up. You were teasing me, circling me, telling me how helpless I was. _I don't like hearing that_." Peter tried to lock eyes with Sylar for a moment. "That's the reason you were saying it – to upset me. You succeeded; I was upset. Then you sat on me. I didn't like that either. When you started touching me … sexually … I told you to stop. You knew I was telling you to stop. You repeated it back to me and told me, essentially, that no, you weren't going to stop. That told me that defending myself verbally was off the table – you wouldn't negotiate or discuss things. Then you pinched me, taking things a step further, continuing what I'd already told you to stop, and daring me to do something about it. So I did. That's why I 'freaked out'."

He cocked his head a little and asked, "How far were you going to take that, anyway?"

XXX

Sylar just looked back at Peter while he spoke. _And you tell me how worthless I am; I don't like hearing that either._ Okay, he'd kind of known he was upsetting Peter just by sitting on him. That was intentional, inebriated or not. _That was…sexual to him?_ Sylar's brows furrowed a little in a muted frown as he thought back to his own intentions for the act(s) in question. It was…skin – soft and so warm; it was a human being; it was a captive, enduring, emotionally wired human being and people were by nature objects of revulsive fascination for him. He'd wanted to see how Peter worked, explore, and that included sexuality as just one topic of many he had interest in. Peter didn't look like he was in an understanding mood, no matter what he said about therapeutic communication – Sylar felt he had an explanation, at least, a possible valid reason for ignoring Peter's supposed cry of foul play. He wasn't going to bother with it. Instead, he looked mournfully down at his toast, all the better to keep his nose out of trouble and keep it intact.

He glanced up at the return query. "What do you mean? If our positions had been reversed – you were here for three years and I needed your help and couldn't get it and I was the one tied up – what the hell do you think you would have done? No, that's-" He waved his hand to negate the question portion. "If you had me tied up after being alone for three years, you would expect _me_ not to be upset by what I did to you." Sylar gave a checking look to see if he'd followed along. When Peter made a face, any face other than comprehension, Sylar sighed and spoke plain English, "I wasn't going to do anything, not…anything real bad, nothing intentional." He had been drunk, after all. There was only so much he could account for.

XXX

Peter couldn't stop himself from visualizing what he'd do if their roles and positions had been reversed: he'd have fallen on his knees in front of Sylar in grateful appreciation for his presence, and wept. Then he would have untied him, because a reversed-position Peter would have no need of a tied up Sylar. He would have never frightened or molested him, precisely for fear of offending the object of his attraction (assuming he were attracted – he wasn't sure how much the hypothetical role reversal encompassed, but attracted or not, he would be appeasing, not annoying).

This wasn't an entirely unfounded speculation. Peter had had the experience of having strangers break him out of a cargo container after weeks alone and tortured by deprivation of all kinds. Despite all manner of powers at his unconscious disposal, he'd defended himself only out of reflex and allowed them to brutally and methodically beat him nearly to death, because he would not dare alienate the only people he knew. He fell in love at the first sign of kindness and pledged to join their gang despite how they'd treated him and knowing they were just using him. He hadn't cared. If their roles were reversed, Peter was pretty sure he'd see Sylar as an agent of God. Three years alone, instead of three weeks? Yeah, totally divine. He'd be on his knees in supplication and he wasn't embarrassed to admit that to himself. _Assuming I were even sane._

Peter stared at the table, knowing he wasn't getting Sylar's exact meaning, but thinking he had it well enough to follow the gist. _We're really different. I wouldn't lay an unwelcome finger on him. _He lifted his gaze at the end of Sylar's words. "'Nothing intentional'? What do you consider what you did? Are you trying to say you weren't in control of what you were doing?"

XXX

Sylar paused in guiding his toast to his mouth. Then his face fell. He'd slipped up and Peter caught him, highlighting and hyper focusing on his mistakes, drilling him on it now. He'd talked himself into a corner. "Does it matter?" he snipped, dropping his toast to the plate. Part of him really wanted to know the answer to that. "I mean, what do you wa-" he began, stopping himself short to take a breath, release it and shake his head. 'What do you want me to say?' he'd almost said aloud but that was an unforgivable admission. Control made him better; control was power. "I have plenty of control. I have more control than you." Only after his angry reaction and his usual claim of control could he relax enough to lighten up and tell the truth. Something of it anyway, "I meant the beer, alright? I don't…I told you I never really drank much." _I never played Truth or Dare before, either_. "Does that work for you?" he asked it with sarcasm and a bit of taunting.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and pulled it back, an intent expression forming on his face. "No. No, I don't think it does. I made a lot of stupid decisions last night, but _I_ was the one making them. It sounds like you're telling me the beer was making some of yours. If that's the case, no more beer for us." He eyed Sylar judgmentally, not appreciating whatsoever the attempt to brush off bad behavior on the alcohol. _Is that how he deals with having killed people? 'It was the ability that made me do it?'_

Thoughts of murdering Nathan in the future, driven by his newly acquired ability from Sylar (well, actually, Gabriel) floated through his mind. Peter grimaced and frowned, releasing his body language and going back to eating. _It matters, and control is something he thinks he doesn't have. Asshole. _Peter rubbed at the soreness behind his temple.

XXX

Sylar glared. Once again he had either trapped himself or been trapped. "Then what is going to cut it for you, Peter? You gave a very crazy person a lot of beer last night and that was after you tried to cave his skull in. Maybe I am kinky after all." He went back to his toast for a moment before thinking it over, discovering something more to add, "You have this thing..." Sylar waved his hand, "where you think that people play by the same rules as you. Do you know that? You jump headfirst into seriously dangerous shit and you...expect or hope it will all just turn out okay. You don't even consider shit hitting the fan. If you agree to something, you'd better know what you're getting into or stuff comes back to bite you. Since you won't trust me, this is what you have to deal with - a deranged psycho who likes tying up drunk idiots. Interested in round two, baby?" he purred over his toast, "I'll be nice and spare your sensitive nipples."

XXX

"Sylar, I _was_ trusting you last night. Don't you realize that's what was going on there? You were the one who pointed out I was trusting you back when you taped up my finger." Peter made a small wave with his left hand, displaying the digit in question. It still featured a reddish line of forming scar tissue where the force of some punch had split the skin. It was okay though as long as he didn't punch anything with it until it was fully healed. Sometimes that seemed less possible than others. "We've already established you're not crazy," _or at least that I'm not to treat you that way, _"so you're not going to get anywhere with me now by pretending you are. If we're not playing by the same rules, then you'd better clue me in on them. Tell me what I'm getting into." He put his elbows on the table and took a casual bite of toast, settling in and being comfortable with the conversation despite the subject and the person he was having it with.

XXX

Sylar's head canted at that. _That makes a lot more sense, if he was trusting me. But why would he do that? I mean, I just said he sort of shouldn't trust me and he did and I…He was upset just to do it he said. That's the point, isn't it? He did it anyway. No, Peter, that obviously wasn't obvious._ Sylar frowned and his lips pursed next. "So I'm…normal, then, if I'm not crazy, right? You're saying _I'm_ normal. _And who the fuck said I was pretending?!_" he barked because yelling would use his headache to kill him. A pointed finger locked onto Peter, "Keep that bullshit up and I really will tie you up again. Quit with the psych evaluation." Sylar chuffed a sigh, poking at his toast. He knew he was contradicting himself, demanding to be treated like he wasn't crazy, probably or apparently acting crazy, Peter saying he wasn't crazy when he obviously thought Sylar was. So Sylar was…trying to convince Peter, or himself? Insanity wasn't a defense because it excused him nothing – clearly; insanity was instead an explanation for his actions and it was the only one that had ever fit. The accusation of being a pretender bothered him. How could he pretend to be something he felt, something he acted on, something he'd been labeled? The evidence was all there except…sometimes he didn't feel the largest crushing pressure of insanity – of course it was easier now, without the Hunger, but in other ways the emptiness of his world was just as bad. Now Peter was here and everything shifted on its head. With more than one person in his head, Sylar felt sanity was a distant memory, something Peter couldn't understand. If he was going to be insane, he felt it should work as a defense some of the time; there had to be a perk in there somewhere, if not, he'd make one.

XXX

_Okay. Talking about sanity __**at all **__sets him off. Check._ Peter exhaled evenly and continued eating, watching while Sylar worked through his reaction. He wasn't pleased with the threat of restraint, but as intimidations went, it didn't hold much power over him. For Sylar to do it without Peter's cooperation would be quite the fight. What Peter registered instead was that mental health was something Sylar found very triggering. _So, don't talk about it – not something I was burning to discuss with him anyway, but I wonder where he got this strong of a reaction? I need to make sure that in future, I talk about the concussion in purely physical terms, not so much mental._

XXX

More sedately, Sylar explained, "Those are the rules, Peter: you think things through. You don't plan so you get into things then you blame me for not…I don't know, holding your hand and walking you through everything? No, you either expect the worst or you get the crash course. You act like-like I should pull my punches when you clearly won't." His voice grated some, "You keep reminding me how I'm the unpredictable one, how I'm not your brother, not your friend, not your anything, so why should I give you the cheat sheet?"

XXX

"Sometimes we all need a little hand-holding," Peter said so quietly it was almost a murmur. He regretted it immediately, getting up from the table and going to refill his only half-empty glass of water. It implied both a weakness he didn't want to show and an awareness that Sylar got less help than he needed. It wasn't where Peter wanted the conversation to go. He turned and shot Sylar an unpleasant look, the sort of expression that usually preceded angry conversation. Instead, he frowned, sighed, and looked away, sipping at his water as he cooled down a little.

XXX

Sylar's lip turned up at the far less than joyous expression aimed at him. _Some of us more than others_, he thought but didn't speak, considering how…toothless it was as a bitchy retort.

XXX

"Well, I'm pulling my punches right now. I don't want to expect the worst from you all the time, Sylar, and I _don't_, or else I wouldn't even be in the same room with you. I expect _better_." He sounded petulant and he probably was. His tone evened out a little as he looked back at Sylar and went on, "Regardless of what you've been before, we're here together. I'm not buying the 'you get to do anything you want' thing, especially with the 'it's Peter's fault if he's not smart enough to figure me out ahead of time' part. That's not fair. Those aren't rules I'm willing to play by."

XXX

Sylar had since folded his arms across his chest, an eyebrow steadily creeping upwards in disbelief. '_I expect better,_' he internally mocked – God, that was so familiar. _You_ demand _better, you think I owe it to you because…I'm me and you're you. _That was the extent of the reasoning Sylar had ever understood about it – other people were better, sometimes special, at least more productive, useful, often times others were good sons and daughters…In any case, Peter's statements left a lot to be desired and already he was digging his heels in against cooperating. _Funny, now we're together, when you want to make a point of it._ A brief frown crossed his face, _How does that work, 'I get to do anything I want'?...It goes that way because it IS your fault, Peter! Stupid little asswipe – he thinks he can 'opt out.' He thinks he's too good for the rules._ Frustrated now, Sylar exhaled with some force, "See, this is wh- It's not just me. You do it for everything, Peter. You don't figure it out. I don't understand how you expect me to know something you haven't communicated. It's not my fault if you didn't think something through. You didn't even ask questions. You agreed to a Dare and you didn't set any limits," Sylar raised a hand to forestall any comeback, "for whatever your reason. Besides, you freaked out enough and got your way anyway." It didn't sound like Peter's trust was too broken. He couldn't remember the point (if there was any) of the conversation or what his argument was so he shut his mouth, filling it with now-cold, bland toast.

XXX

Peter glowered at him and retook his seat. He felt, not for the first time, that he and Sylar were having very different conversations.

XXX

Several chews later, it came to him. Looking up, Sylar added, "Those rules are the same for everyone, for the most part, Peter. So why do you think you deserve some kind of cheat sheet? I've earned what I know – you haven't." His head was still killing him, in fact, becoming more of a permanent fixture; the light and sound sensitivities of hangover remained but the nausea had gone down. Inner torment roiled in him when he felt the urge to play sick or manipulate a rather short-sighted, somewhat stupid Peter into cuddling until his headache felt better.

XXX

"What rules? That I have to figure things out without any help? I know how the world works, Sylar. I also know it doesn't work the way you're implying it does, without anyone helping anyone else. That's seeing only what you expect to see. People _do_ help each other; they _should_ help each other more." He sighed and stared at the table, shoulders sagging in resignation. "I've had this argument before with …" _Nathan, my dad_, "a lot of other people. Really, Sylar," he looked up with a concerned, imploring expression, "you're just making it clear to me this is a one way street and you have no intention of … reciprocating." He shook his head and pursed his lips, trying to think of a better way to put this. "Even from a completely mercenary standpoint, if you do not give me a 'cheat sheet' and help me sometimes, then I'm not going to be very motivated to help you."

_But maybe he doesn't think I've done anything to help him. _Peter snorted softly and took another bite, hunching over his plate. _Maybe he doesn't recognize any of the things I've done as me going out of my way for him. I haven't done anything that a decent person shouldn't have done anyway – nothing special, nothing heroic, nothing he should be grateful for. Is that what I want, after all? Him to thank me? (It would be a nice start.) Seems kind of self-centered._ Depressed suddenly by the anticipated rejection, frowning, and eyes going anywhere but at Sylar, Peter finished his toast and stood up, snagging his plate to put next to the sink.

"I'm going out." He felt lousy, tired, and emotionally shut out. The physical wasn't nearly as important as the social. _He doesn't want me here. I should leave. It's not safe here anyway. I gave him a limit last night and he ignored it. Now he's telling me he's going to keep ignoring them. I should move back to my apartment. He doesn't need me anymore. Maybe that's what this is all about._ Peter headed off to the bathroom to swap Sylar's pajama bottoms for his own jeans. He could get a new shirt at home.

XXX

_No. No. No._ Peter pulled away and announced that he would be leaving; possibly not coming back for all the certainty his declaration gave. Sylar felt the flood of red anger then the low tide of despair and creeping loneliness. All he wanted to do was claw and grab Peter back, hold him until he stayed (and maybe after that). The fact that they'd just been arguing (or something) was obliterated with disgusting, uncomfortable ease at the mere idea of being abandoned. So he waited outside his own bathroom for Peter to show his face. When the door opened, Sylar pounced, "No. You said you want to talk, that it's okay for me to talk, then I want you to answer my questions: what makes you so special that you get inside information when I have to work for it?" Apparently Peter really needed this spelled out. "How on earth could I be 'normal'?" He exhaled; feeling smaller now he'd stood up to the giant, so to speak, expelled the words and said his piece. "And…" he hesitated, uncommitted, "what kind of stuff would you want to know?" Sylar was not promising anything – he didn't know what little self-secrets he was being asked to provide – and what's more, he wasn't sure he knew himself that well or knew how to disclose those things. Doing it at all was massively dangerous; it was the reason he didn't ever do it. One hair out of place, one indecent preference, one I'd-rather-not and his life was hell. Or, more Hell, in this case.

XXX

Peter opened the bathroom door and pulled up short. Sylar was blocking his way, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, looking imposing. Peter's eyes darted around the room alertly, not so much in alarm, but definitely checking to see if there was anything more to the ambush than Sylar. Not that Sylar couldn't be enough of an ambush all by himself. Peter looked back at him as he started speaking, his attention staying there throughout the speech.

When Sylar was done, Peter tilted his head and said sullenly, "I didn't get 'inside information', Sylar. My mom, my dad, my brother – all had abilities. Not _one_ of them talked to me about it." He swallowed roughly, leaning against the bathroom doorframe for support, because that familial betrayal was a hard thing for Peter to talk about. "Nathan denied it to my face. Even when I threatened to jump, he _still_ denied it." Peter's brows climbed and he tilted his head down, looking up at Sylar. "I had to _fall_ before he flew." He waited a beat for that to sink in – that only Peter's imminent death had caused Nathan to use his ability. "And even then, when I woke up, he still lied about it. My mom ..." Peter shook his head and changed the subject, because that was too painful altogether to talk about. "I didn't get any 'inside information'. I ran into Claude by accident when I was on my way out of town to live in the freaking desert for the rest of my life," he made an angry gesture with his left hand, "to keep people safe from me blowing up. He acted like he had some answers, but all he did was beat me up over and over and then throw me off a thirty-story building, when I didn't know how to fly or heal or do anything on purpose." Peter straightened again, heart pounding at the memory, breathing speeding up, angry now. That had been a murder attempt – Peter was sure of it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened a little at first. _He's only talking about abilities? We…weren't talking about them before…He still wants my hard-earned knowledge for free but it's about something I can actually talk about even though he said he didn't want to talk about abilities. _Their situations were vastly different – Peter was surrounded by specials who could have (but didn't) share their knowledge; Sylar had access (sometimes) to geneticists and had been on the receiving end of what brain surgeons looked and tested for. Of course Sylar never pretended to be 'normal,' except briefly, to get close to a target.

What Sylar couldn't wholly understand Peter's situation in 'coming out' as a special – Peter had been stone-walled and treated, quite literally, like a crazed person by his own family. /Nathan had ignored his own ability so thoroughly it had taken a scene like Peter almost killing himself for him to use it – out of necessity. That didn't mean they had to talk about it and bond over it as Peter had wanted. Of course Nathan had denied it – because how the hell was he going to explain to their mother how his baby brother had tried to jump thirty stories and had somehow _lived_? How could he tell Heidi how he'd walked away, nearly unscathed from the accident that crippled her? It had still torn at Nathan's identity to live one life and have Peter know or strongly suspect otherwise, knowing and digging at the secrets of his life and encourage or demand he be open. Peter's life was simple, Peter's life was open, he had that luxury, but Peter would never understand the role and responsibility of the eldest son /. Sylar experienced assault when he'd tried to tell his mother about his powers, and he'd killed her. There was no more deception, anxiety, no more void of acceptance to fill with efforts to please and belong – he just ran away, leaving home, mother, corpse and a sick scene of depravity.

XXX

"Get out of my way." Peter pushed Sylar aside firmly and went to sit on the couch, over his shoes. He looked at them briefly, then pushed them aside and looked back to Sylar. "What I said was that you weren't crazy. And you're not. There's not that many days go by as a paramedic where we're not picking someone up for psych reasons. I've seen crazy. Whatever you've-" _I'm going to get into trouble with him about this. I know it. But I've got to say it._ "Whatever you've done, horrible as maybe it was, is not a sign of insanity. Who knows? My dad's maybe done the same thing, maybe even worse. People in war … Just because you've killed people doesn't mean you're insane."

_I don't know what I want to know. I just want to be … safe? Okay? Understand you some so I'm not thinking I need to take a knife to bed with me? I don't 'get' you. _He looked up at Sylar, brows drawing together, and said nothing for the moment, giving Sylar time to respond to what he had said.

XXX

Peter set his shoes aside and Sylar's nervous hovering eased. He felt like he took a breath finally. The stress came right back with Peter's words. _You don't know what I've done, you say so yourself. So how can you judge? _"You know no one agrees with you on that. I'm a psychopath. Why should I believe you? You think I don't know what kind of head-games you people play – tell me one thing, do another? I don't think you know anything or you wouldn't be asking questions. I thought you didn't want to talk about abilities." Sylar pointedly dodged the subject of murder. For one thing, it sounded like Peter might be excusing it and he didn't know why, couldn't see why or how that was even possible. If it wasn't insane…then what was it? What was he – something better, something worse? Where did he fit? Why would the collective heroes define him incorrectly – what did that serve? Should homicide be excused? /Nathan remembered Peter specifically, firmly stating that he didn't want to know about Nathan's missions in the military. Peter was a gentle pacifist and couldn't handle the idea of death – what an odd career move, then, to watch old people die/.


	72. A Mile in Sylar's Shoes

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

Peter leaned back, groaned, and shut his eyes, face tilted towards the ceiling. _I don't want to argue about this. Not this. There's no way I can win on any of this and there's no point to winning on it, anyway. All I'm going to do is piss him off. _A moment later, he reached up and rubbed at his forehead. _Go. Just go_. He sighed, straightened, and reached down for the socks hanging out of the side of his shoes. He hiked one foot across a knee and brushed the dust off with his hand. "You're right, Sylar. I don't know anything. That's my point." He put on his sock, shaking his head slightly as he did it. "I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a therapist. All I have is a bunch of college courses and having watched people. You're less crazy than a lot of people who are considered perfectly sane."

XXX

_Uh-huh, there it is. LESS crazy._ He didn't know if that angered or relieved him. Sylar felt bipolar, torn in different directions, what he wanted, what he was, and what he had to be (then the whole Nathan thing…) Perhaps if he could pick one, stick with it and make it work…He knew the trouble with that would be slaughtering and repressing the other instincts, whichever those were.

XXX

"And I _don't_ want to talk about abilities," Peter snapped as he swapped feet, brushing off the next one more vigorously than the first as his mood coiled in an ugly direction. "You want to talk about how you got yours?" Peter snorted, thinking briefly about his sudden attack and murder of his brother in the future. "I'll bet your initiation makes jumping off a building look tame." If Sylar's ability could move Peter to attack his own brother, then the reason why Sylar didn't want Peter asking about his mother seemed pretty fucking clear. Peter reached for a shoe. He wasn't here to address Sylar's problems or his past or any of those things Sylar wanted to talk about that Peter didn't want to hear. It was the future that mattered and Sylar clearly wasn't going to help in that.

XXX

Sylar gaped. Peter was leaving, that was a concern, but he still focused on the words being spoken. _Killing someone is…tame? That's not __right__. I think he's just…upset. _That upset transferred to Sylar, who didn't know if he was the cause or reason for it in the first place; upset was around him and Peter Trouble Petrelli was definitely readying to leave which was Sylar's cause for upset. He was so helpless to stop it – if there were only words or deeds to bind and bond and keep someone close…

XXX

"I _don't_ want to talk about it. I don't want to _think_ about it." His voice picked up speed and roughness, frustration coloring his tone. "I want to get out, get away, and not have to worry about things, like you and your fucking rules and how you don't act like I've done anything worthwhile for you." He stomped down his foot, having worked himself to a head of steam one shoe too early. He was at the point, emotionally and in his diatribe, where he wanted to storm off angrily, but doing it with only one shoe on would be ridiculous. He yanked up the other – a thick-soled, black leather, ankle-high, medium-duty work shoe – and started putting it on in silent fury.

XXX

Storm clouds gathered over Sylar, the helplessness washing away as he matched Peter's mood. "You're the one who brought them up! You are nothing but a spoiled, pretty boy if you think 'my fucking rules' don't apply to you." He stopped short, running out of words but also surprised. _He thinks I owe him something?_ The first shoe was on and it looked every bit like an act of cruel, rude defiance aimed directly at him, Peter thumbing his nose at him, thinking he could walk away and get away with it without consequences…_No_. Driven to acts of spite (and possibly to keep Peter here longer and show he was serious), Sylar darted in, sat beside Peter on the couch and snatched the irksome, remaining shoe, holding it at arm's length on the other side of his body where Peter couldn't reach it. "That's another thing about 'my fucking rules,' Petrelli: I didn't ask you for anything. Maybe I'd do a better job bowing and scraping if you hadn't concussed me in the first place!"

XXX

_Pretty boy?_ Peter had no idea why his mind arrested on that, but a moment later, Sylar was sitting next to him and stealing his shoe, playing keep-away with it in a bout of supreme childishness. _I'm being ridiculous_, flashed through his mind with the instant understanding that his own bout of temper had caused Sylar's, his mood infecting another just as theirs so often affected him. Ridiculous or not, realization or not, he was still pissed and Sylar, sitting to the right of him, still had his shoe.

"Hey!" Peter shoved at him with his right and punched him in the shoulder with his left fist. All things considered, it was a rather light blow delivered without leverage, across his body. He scooted back and away from Sylar's efforts to fend him off and possibly grab him. He retreated to the corner of the couch nearest him, coiling his body somewhat by raising his foot as if to kick … but Sylar wasn't pursuing. He lowered it and switched to venting, voice raised. "Your fucking rules _only_ apply to me, Sylar! And I don't give a shit what you asked for! That doesn't have anything to do with it!" He knew it did, but he didn't care.

XXX

Sylar took the mostly unexpected blow without a sound, maintaining his prize. Peter could blow wind chimes out his ass for all the talk of peace and do-good-unto-others and non-violence he preached but a simple act, like taking his shoe for God's sake, had Peter throwing punches. _And he calls me violent and unpredictable?_ He frowned when Peter thought he'd attack. He probably should, but it was so stupid it would be serious overkill. It wasn't like Peter wasn't asking for it, either. _He picks fights and blames me._

XXX

His eyes darted past Sylar's face to his shoe. His shoes were really important to him. As far as material items went, given the world he was in with Sylar, his shoes were the firmly in the top five valuable items category (and maybe the top of those). There wasn't much here he considered 'his', but the things he'd showed up with were among them. Plus he needed them. The idea of hobbling around town in the freezing weather looking for a decent shoe store was not appealing. _He's trying to keep me here_, came another flash of insight. "If you don't want my help, then give me my shoe back and I'll leave."

XXX

"Yeah, I know you don't give a shit what I asked for but it does matter," Sylar addressed first, exasperated with his reactionary companion. Peter was eyeballing him (or rather, his shoe) which meant he had the man's attention. For now, he ignored the stupidity of the logic Peter displayed – ungratefully, he wanted Peter to leave, so he took his shoe to…aid the process of leaving. Right. (_Is this like one of those primitive cultures where 'I hold the shoe, I'm king of the mountain, I get to speak and make the rules'?_ Somehow that was hilarious to him: that they'd both devolved so quickly to caveman). How Peter jumped to the harebrained conclusion that Sylar was ungrateful and disinterested in fucking _help_ was beyond him. How it wasn't obvious that he needed help, in any sense of the word, was equally incomprehensible. "The rules apply to everyone – everyone, Peter. What's the first thing to drive people crazy, do you think? All that stupid crap you want to know about. I mean, look around you…" Sylar gestured. _I'm such a crazy/not-crazy mess because the rules apply to me. (And I try to make them not apply). He needs to get with the program – he's not exempt. (He won't do it). Fuck what he wants. _"Why are you leaving anyway? You said you wouldn't." That was…a shot in the dark. He didn't know, with certainty, how Peter intended that promise of sorts. It would be better, easier on him if he could get Peter tied down to that, or anything, really.

XXX

Peter looked around the apartment when directed to do so, then back to Sylar. His anger faded to puzzlement. _What the hell is he talking about?_ "I'm not … I am getting out of here to take a walk, cool down, and get away from you. And I'm going to do that whether you give me my shoe back or not." He huffed and straightened on the couch, putting both feet on the floor in an orderly fashion as though he might actually get up and leave. The toes of his merely sock-clad foot scrunched up a couple times with nervousness, but he kept talking instead. "I never said I'd stay in your line of sight at all times. That's ridiculous." He batted his hair back, turning his torso to face Sylar. "Half of what you say doesn't make sense to me. What do you mean, 'what's the first thing to drive people crazy?'" He shifted his weight uneasily, blurting out, "All that stupid crap I want to know about is _you_!"

XXX

At first Sylar's eyes narrowed at 'get away from you,' then Peter called him and his desire/preference/whatever 'ridiculous' and his mouth pursed. He still held the shoe and now had to consider if Peter was bluffing or not, and, if so, what he'd do about it. _Keep him talking._ "Exactly." He was prepared to leave it at that. It made perfect sense to Sylar but it was immediately clear Peter didn't get it, any of it most likely, so he elaborated, "The first thing to drive people crazy is all the stupid crap about themselves. If you want to know about abilities that's pretty harmless because we don't have any; but you want to know about _that_. There's nothing there – you know that. You spend all your time trying to get rid of me…" his voice trailed off as he thought about it. Peter had more interest in him now then he had when Sylar had been his brother how many times. "Is that what this is about? Trying to find some way to get rid of me and bring _him_ back?" Sylar was horrified and betrayed despite knowing better. It left him in shock a little, to this day. It was the definition of personal, his personality, his mind and memories, and that was Peter's target; it had to be, it was the perfect motive. Some part of him still couldn't handle the idea that someone could or would torture and hate him to that extent.

XXX

Peter's face became stony at the mention of Nathan – brows lowered, eyes narrowed a little, lips tighter, otherwise impassive. What he was getting from the rest was that Sylar didn't consider his ability the reason why he'd killed people – he blamed … something else: his life, himself, whatever 'there's nothing there' meant. Either that, or perhaps Sylar was talking about 'crazy' in regards to something other than killing people. Peter wasn't sure which he meant, so for now he pushed it aside and stayed focused on Sylar.

XXX

Shakily Sylar stood up. "It doesn't work like that," he managed to get out, feeling like he was arguing for his life, reasoning or pleading with Peter to keep his mind and prevent it from being taken away, his body used as cheap housing for someone just as worthless. "Maybe you didn't have to deal with it because you're so fucking special but using the little stuff doesn't work either!" his voice rose with his terror, giving him cold sweat, rapid heartbeat, tight chest and throat and tunnel vision. His only weapon was Peter's own shoe, which he clutched hard. He felt abandoned and cornered in his own apartment, sick at the thought of becoming nothing or someone else again at Peter's whim.

XXX

Peter got to his feet, his expression shifting to resentful and angry at the mention of him being the recipient of extraordinary favoritism (again). He felt uneven in more ways than one, but primarily he didn't like standing there with only one shoe on. It made him feel like an idiot for letting Sylar grab it out of his hands, and there right in front of him was Sylar clinging to what Peter needed to be balanced. Peter wanted to throw down, get his shoe back, and beat the crap out of Sylar for having the … the … whatever he had for taking it in the first place. _Oh yeah, he's afraid that I'm going to leave and he'll be all by himself for … forever._ Someone being afraid wasn't an acceptable reason to start a fight with them, shoe or no shoe. The anger drained off Peter's face, leaving him merely unhappy looking.

As Peter saw it, he had two clear choices with Sylar: 1) talk him down, calm him down, take care of him, or 2) blow him off, walk away and leave him to his own devices. The fear was baseless and the best way for Sylar to figure that out was for Peter to … talk him down, calm him down, and take care of him. _That's not much of a choice. Fuck_. It certainly wasn't the choice he wanted to make, but contrary to Sylar's take on things, Peter didn't feel his life had, or even _should_, hand him good options to pick between. Most of it sucked and it was his job to do his best even when he didn't like it, like now. He exhaled slowly and sat back down, curling his lips into his mouth and chewing at both of them as he bit back his anger. With an effort, Peter arranged himself on the couch, leaning back, the shoeless foot crossed at the ankle over the knee of his other leg and defiantly sticking up in the air as if to call attention to itself.

Foot twitching a little, speaking in a low but clipped voice, Peter said, "I'm not trying to get rid of you; I didn't come here to get rid of you; that's not how I'm spending my time." He sighed. "I'm trying to get to know you because you're the only one here and I'm … _lonely_." He wasn't sure whether to admit that. He wasn't sure how true it was. He hadn't been able to be away from Sylar long enough to get stir crazy, if you didn't count the first couple days. The guy was clingy, which made it hard to be 'lonely' and was part of why Peter was currently jonesing for some time apart. A more accurate description of Peter's motives would have been curiosity or even just basic sociability. The first might be taken as threatening if Peter were digging for information to harm him; the second seemed unlikely to be understandable to a life-long loner. But Peter expected him to relate to loneliness, so he used that.

XXX

_(If he came to get rid of you, he'd be doing a much better job, _he helpfully pointed out to himself)_. He's lonely? Peter's lonely?_ Sylar supposed that if Peter was (fairly) normal and normal people got lonely, it shouldn't come as such a surprise. Peter hadn't answered /his/ - Nathan's – phone calls, still lived in that rat-hole apartment. Now here he was, cut off from all his friends and family, including his girlfriend – Peter, who wasn't used to being alone. Sylar didn't know what to say. On the one hand, he was being offered a great opportunity, a bond, a connection he otherwise wouldn't have. But it wasn't much of a choice for Peter, who had no other options, the bonding was mandatory, random, forced, he wasn't…special (but at the same time, he was, in a way). Sylar could love or hate the circumstances that brought them together and made interaction possible, but he couldn't make Peter _choose_ to be with him. "I'm all you have," he said slowly, lilting the words almost as a question. _He needs me, not just for his girlfriend. He needs me alive and in decent health._ That gave Sylar leverage, it made him feel better, too. It was almost like being cared for, looked after, sought out. "Then why are you leaving?" _It's those things he does after saying stuff like that, 'I need you' then he tries to kill me; 'I'm lonely' then he leaves. How can I believe him?_

XXX

Peter tilted his head in quiet agreement to Sylar's first statement. Sylar was the one he'd seen in the dream. Angela's implication (and she was presumably much better at reading precognitions than he) was that _only_ Sylar could do it. He was, yes, all Peter had and yet Peter didn't have him at all because Sylar refused to help. It left Peter in a frustrating holding pattern. As for Sylar's implication that Peter needed him on a more personal level – it was probably true, but Peter didn't want to think about it more than necessary. Instead, he addressed the question, "Sylar, I'm _trying_ to be friendly, but some of what you say comes off really insulting and I don't like it. It doesn't matter how lonely I am – there's going to be times when I need some space."

XXX

_I don't like some of what you say, either, but that's just tough luck for me, isn't it? (I want my cake and eat it, too)._ It struck him that he wasn't okay with either/or, that he wanted both and it wasn't possible to have both polite conversation and walk away to send a message if Peter said something he didn't like yet still keep the man's company. It was that same struggle for…respect; he'd never managed it, he was too extreme. "What did I say that was insulting?" That was news to him. _No wonder I can't understand people. I don't even see where I insulted him? Or he just…thinks I insulted him or feels that I did? (Maybe he made it up?) I mean, who decides if I actually insulted him? Does intent matter?_ "You never needed personal space /bef-ore/…" the word tripped from his mouth, realizing he was referencing Nathan's life and Peter's childhood. /Peter had been a tag-along, small shadow, a darling little stalker; clingy, if he dared use the word, ever hopeful and needy and it had boosted Nathan's ego like none other (those big hazel eyes offering up love, hope and forgiveness at every turn), so much so that it continued to work even into their adult years/.

XXX

Peter gave another head tilt at the personal space bit, deciding consciously to leave alone the question of why Sylar felt entitled to comment on Peter's past habits. And besides, he'd been living estranged from most everyone for years now, not that Sylar (or even Nathan) had known or cared. "A couple things you keep saying that I find insulting – that I had it good. Or I had it better than you and that makes you better than me." He waved his left hand demonstratively before clasping his knee with it, the one that went with the shoeless foot, "Or that I _am_ better than you." He drew in his chin. "None of that matters. I'm not better than you; you're not better than me. Maybe I had it good compared to you – how the hell can I know that with what little you've said? But what I do know is that what I had sucked. And I'm pretty unhappy about it. So you telling me that I got off easy pisses me off. Kind of like how I figure you'd be pissed off if I took the attitude of, 'Well, you know, you're here now, so it couldn't have been too bad, just get over it already' and just dismissed everything that's ever happened to you." Peter frowned up at Sylar, trying to will the message to sink in.

"And for another thing – I told you why I was upset last night, why I 'freaked out' as you put it, and all you've done since is argue about it. I don't need your arguments, Sylar. I know how I felt; I told you how I felt. You can be unhappy about that, but I'm not going to agree it was okay. Nothing excuses it. I'm angry you keep trying to convince me there's something that makes it right for you to do things to me I don't want." Peter rubbed at his knee restlessly as he watched Sylar, glowering a bit with his foot still twitching back and forth. His tense body language probably wasn't helping anything (and certainly not his head, which was starting to give him a full-fledged headache), but he was at least sitting and not escalating things.

XXX

Sylar was quiet, wide-eyed and listening. The whole talking thing was so strange – he could ask questions and get actual answers, Peter didn't blow him off or make him feel like crap just for asking. He almost didn't know what to do with the information; it was so shocking to have in and of itself. It was a relief as well, like Peter could…see and hear him. That was how he came to stand there and drink in the sound of someone else's voice, deigning to form words for him, almost regardless of their content.

When Peter finished, Sylar took a handful of seconds to absorb it. "Don't you think you're better than me? You don't ask to come in, you treat my things like crap and you don't know if I'm a good houseguest because I've never been to your place. And that's just the recent stuff, Peter. I am…I was your brother – do you remember what you did? It's not just…you; it's your whole family on that count. You think I'm scum for lots of reasons, don't you? So whatever you do to me is okay. But that's not the point. I'm not talking about abilities right now – because /I didn't even/-_he_ didn't even know some of the stuff you've told me here. I'm talking about your home life – about _you_ – because you say that's what you want to know about me, right? You _do_ have it good, or…had it good, whatever. I _know_ because I was _there_." He knew he was digging himself a very deep hole, but Peter wanted to paint them as equals yet refused to adhere to basic fairness and that, more than anything, pissed him off to argue and keep arguing. Peter thinking he could just bounce in and out of his life, his apartment at will, heedless of what it did to a severely fucked up person like Sylar…

XXX

_What the hell is he talking about?_ That was the repeated refrain as Sylar talked. Peter's foot dropped to the floor at the 'I was your brother' bit until his brain pointed out Sylar was probably talking about when Angela and Arthur had declared him their son. It wasn't about Nathan, so he kept his seat. But then a few sentences later, Sylar was speaking unmistakably _as_ Nathan. Peter wanted to be outraged by that, but the rest was coming too fast as he was trying to remember what exactly he'd said, when, and what time and place Sylar was referencing. He was left staring, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees, gaping a little. Something his father had liked to say (and occasionally repeated by Nathan) came to him: 'If you can't convince them, confuse them.' If Sylar wanted to be understood, then he was perfectly capable of being understandable. So it followed that this was just another tactic. Baffled, frustrated, and depressed, Peter leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and looked fixedly at the floor.

XXX

Sylar snorted a breath, "'Just get over it,' isn't that what you're here to tell me? Isn't that what you always say? You don't need my arguments, you don't need my excuses – well what about yours?! Where do you think I learned it, huh?! Just keep convincing me you have a really good reason for doing things _I_ don't like. I am _not_ always at fault. You play fair or you don't play. So if I have to get over it, so do you. Of the two of us," Sylar gestured betwixt them before pointing to himself, "I never said I was a good person."

XXX

_I don't say that. I don't say any of that. He wants me to argue with him. He's goading me, on purpose. I'm done here – I can't help._ Mentally numb from the verbal assault, Peter stood up and walked over to the closet. His coat was inside of it, but he ignored that, bending to retrieve Sylar's shoes. From rough visual assessment, Sylar wore a size or two bigger. They'd probably fit. Even if they didn't, he'd have Sylar's shoes, which was mean of him and petty, but he was going to take them anyway.

XXX

"Oh, what? You don't like that I talk now? Does my voice insult you now, too?" Sylar followed Peter around, staying within arm's reach but far enough back that he couldn't easily be hit with much force. "You don't like hearing a list of your faults either, Petrelli? I know how much you heroes hate having your own bullshit thrown back at you. Well, some of us don't get to walk away! You've got normal life to go back to but what have you left for the rest of us, huh?" Sylar could feel the horde of negative emotions rising up to choke him but he reacted with anger because…that was all he could do. Feeling them made him angry, knowing the regret, loneliness and helplessness would return made him this way. Once talking, he couldn't stop. "Now you're stealing," he said of the shoes, "Don't you dare try to judge me for the same shit you do!" /'And don't come back! If I find you again…I'll kill you,' he'd snarled through his unbidden tears at a powerless, special teenage, motherless boy for daring to spy on and speak to him/. Desperate and out of words, he expelled, "You're just proving my point."

XXX

Peter opened the door and walked out, having not so much as looked at Sylar since he stood from the couch.

XXX

Then Peter was gone, probably for good and Sylar was alone with his feelings again. He felt gutted but still wound up and so angry – not all of it about Peter but the guy worked as an excellent trigger for who knew what else. Sylar wanted to flop on the bed dramatically and mope; he could take a shower; he could do all sorts of things Peter wouldn't approve of (or care about if he found out, most likely); Sylar wanted to pound the shit out of something with his fists, he wanted a reaction, pain, something! But as usual, just like before, like always, there was nothing: empty quiet. _He took my shoes! How dare he? Everything he says is a lie. And he gets so upset with me? I was 'insulting,' saying he was better, had it better than me, but he expects me to grovel and act like scum anyway which means he's still better than me! What the hell does he expect? What does he want from me? (An apology?)_ That would require knowing what specifically he'd said or done and understanding it even though he didn't technically have to mean it if it was just to keep the peace. _Doesn't he have it better than me? He said it himself, how would he know? He said he's…lonely and I'm partly crazy. He stays and…treats me at least because he's lonely aside from everything else. So how can I use that?_

Sylar milled about his apartment, anxious and ultimately quite pointless. He nibbled on some saltines but didn't feel up for much more. Fretting about Peter's return came on faster than he thought. He dug out Peter's shirt, desirous to either molest it or shred it out of spite. _He was real, then, if his clothes are still here – well, a shoe and a shirt. _He did nothing with the shirt other than stare at it on his desk. The shirt was a hostage, less so than the shoe, but he didn't want to enrage Peter further if he could help it, unless he had to. He then fussed about trying to talk to Peter because it never ended well with anyone_. I should…just let him talk. He likes to talk. I like for him to talk. It's…nice. _Of course, he would have to ignore how good it had felt just to 'vent' about something, at least, that was the common word for what he thought he'd done. _But…I guess he's insulting, too. Neither of us…know what we need to know yet. What he wants to know is total bullshit! It's not important. I haven't done a damn thing to him and he acts like I'm going to fly off my hinges at the drop of a hat! He's the one who does that! Why do I have to put up with it? He…acknowledges it and then doesn't change it._ Sylar sighed and gave up thinking, resolving to be on better behavior next time (if there was a next time) and keep his mouth shut even about the bullshit because that was the only thing that worked. He gave up not thinking about thinking and eventually read a history book.

XXX

Limping unevenly, Peter nonetheless took the greater number of steps that the stairs involved, ears pricked to hear if Sylar's door opened again. There seemed to be no pursuit, but he took precautions anyway. When he came to the landing for the second floor, he walked well out of sight from the upper floors of the stairwell and sat down to try out Sylar's sneakers. He took off his own shoe and put the others on. They were tight across the bridge, but Peter knew he had a slightly wider than average foot. They had no arch support and the soles were thin, leaving him literally a half inch shorter. _No room to stretch, unsupported, feeling small – metaphor much?_ He tightened up the laces as much as possible because they were a little long for his feet. _Bad metaphor or not, let's go walk a few blocks in Sylar's shoes. They'll get me home and after that … I have no idea._ His head hurt too much to contemplate and he wasn't much at planning anyway. Picking up his lone, unmatched shoe, he snuck out the back way, glad of the quirk of the world that left doors unlocked by default (and more importantly, the fire alarms didn't go off when the door was triggered).

Peter spent the rest of his day lazing around, recovering from the hangover and being weirded out by the silence. There was no ticking, no soft snoring or sounds of Sylar stirring around, no expectations or reasons to keep track of the time. He toyed with his non-functioning watch, trying to figure out what it meant to be timeless in Sylar's world. _I wonder if I should have him look at this some day? Ah, fuck him and his shit. I'm not asking him for anything. He's too busy being hurt and feeling sorry for himself. He's a pain in the ass. What's that word Hesam used? Obstinate. Sylar's an obstinate fucking patient._

_'Some of us don't get to walk away.'_ Peter mulled that over that evening as he ate a very bachelor meal of jelly on crackers (he'd lost track of the last time he had food in his apartment). _What does he mean by that? That he's stuck here no matter what, that I'm the one with the option to leave? Even if I can't, from his point of view, it probably looks that way. Maybe that's what he's afraid of. Because he's really scared. He's pissed at me, too, but there's a lot of fear there. What is he afraid of, exactly? It's something he's more afraid of than driving me off. Maybe it's being made to answer for what he's done? Being in a place with no people should be heaven then. He wouldn't even agree he'd done something wrong last night. He kind of implied before that all his killings were self-defense. Hitting me in the head with a shard of glass wasn't self-defense. Killing some cheerleader in a stadium wasn't self-defense. Killing Nathan wasn't, either. Ted was tied up in that police van, still chained to the ceil- floor, from what I was able to read out of that cop's mind. The ones I know about … those weren't self-defense. He knows he did wrong, but he can't face it. Can't even face a little thing like, 'I told you not to do something and you did it anyway.' Asshole._

Day 23, January 2

The next morning, Peter felt better and didn't bother himself thinking about Sylar nearly so much. As far as he was concerned, the hangover was cured. He made it to his usual workout, enjoying losing himself in the hour-long routine he'd settled into – pumping iron, doing resistance exercises, and running on the treadmill, something he was finally well enough to do. After that, he scoured the apartment building for shoes, eventually turning up some sandals that fit him fine. Wearing them with a thick pair of socks and a heavy coat he'd found in his search, he explored the streets until he found the sporting goods store he'd seen the first few days he'd been in this world, thinking they might have a selection of athletic shoes. They did not, but he did pick up some dumbbells and a baseball bat. He snagged a couple baseballs while he was at it, though that was hardly his main interest in the bat.

His rumbling stomach sent him on to the grocery store after he dropped off his finds in the weight room. It was then that his thoughts finally returned to his uncompanionable companion. _The main danger with concussion sufferers is … well, after the acute period, which he's out of, is self-care. Is he feeding himself? Can he keep a routine? Is he self-motivating?_ Peter sighed. _I don't know, but I can't just check out on him._ And so he went about the task of assembling a meal for someone he didn't like, who had stolen his fucking shoe, and had yelled at him yesterday about so many things Peter didn't even know where to start. He took a long moment outside of Sylar's apartment to pull himself together and try to find his center before extending his hand to knock firmly five times. _You know, he might not be here. That would be a relief-_

XXX

Sylar woke up feeling extremely alone. He bathed and groomed in case…in case Peter arrived or in the event Sylar had to go looking for him. His headache felt worse, even after a few painkillers and he cursed Peter for leaving him like this, for causing additional pain. He dithered around, unsure to start a project or a book, stay or leave, eat or wait, all the while growing more worried. It was two o'clock, well past lunch when Peter might have shown up and Sylar was more seriously considering a search party for someone who probably didn't want to be found, planning where to look, when the knock came. He jerked to his feet and froze, stuck between action and moods. _(What do I say?) Nothing._ He was sure his voice itself was insulting to Peter so where that left him, he didn't know. Was Peter armed? Did he have a gun waiting to fire through the door or a bat ready to brain him as he opened the door? Hesitantly, with growing dread, Sylar moved to the door and peered out, seeing…no weapons. He opened the door with something of a confused frown, waiting for Peter to light into him in turn.

XXX

"Hey." Sylar was home after all, dammit. Peter gave the briefest glance down, staying focused mostly on his face. Sylar's expression was a close reflection of his own – wary and cautious, unhappy by default. "Can I come in?" He hefted the canvas shopping bag he was carrying, not going so far as to explain that he'd brought food and hoping that would be clear by reference.

XXX

Sylar moved with the door to allow Peter passage, eyeing him a bit…warily or wonderingly. He wondered what was in the bag.

XXX

Peter slipped by, turning his head to keep Sylar in his peripheral vision as he headed to the kitchen. He set the sack on the table, circling it immediately so that Sylar, following him in, was on the other side of the table from him. "Have you had lunch?" he asked in a carefully neutral tone. Peter cast a quick look over the counters, seeing nothing out of place – no dirty dishes or moved pans that might indicate a meal, but on the other hand, Sylar kept the kitchen clean normally as far as Peter could tell.

XXX

Sylar followed Peter further into the apartment, drawn by his presence and several mysteries. He shook his head at first but Peter couldn't see, "No." _I waited for…Because…Fuck, I don't know. _Hovering uncertainly, as much as he might want to be close to be helpful, he didn't know if either would be tolerated.

XXX

"I picked up some stuff at the store." He reached into the bag and took out a couple plastic cases, black on the bottom and clear on top. "They had some sushi. It's just California rolls and other stuff so if you don't like raw fish, you don't have to worry about it." He paused and eyed Sylar, lips set together as he looked the guy over. He was waiting to see how Sylar was going to play this – if things were going to be normal between them, or if Sylar wasn't done yet with chewing on him. After his moment of wary examination, Peter went on, pulling out two heat-and-serve cans of clam chowder. "If you didn't like that, we could cook this for you and I'll eat the other. Otherwise, I thought we'd split it." He gave another stiff pause before asking, "Which do you want to eat?"

XXX

He tensed when Peter's hand disappeared in the bag because the accompanying statement was so vague. His eyebrows went up when he heard (and saw) what it was. _S-sushi? /__'You were the one you had a craving for yellowtail'__/._ Sylar inhaled. _Dinner with mom, dinner with Peter…They're so alike and that was when…And she said…He's not going to…?_ Shit, he was making Peter nervous now, ever the monster, it was his punishment for raising his voice the day before. "I- No, sushi's," _A really odd choice, slimy; I'm trying not to think of sex metaphors here,_ "fine. Whichever you want is fine." _I don't have chopsticks…_Whatever, Peter would have to deal. Sylar moved into the kitchen, slowly, getting out utensils while Peter got water for two. _He's really not going to talk about it. He wants to talk about everything else under the sun, why is he not…I don't know, tearing me a new one?_ Peter Petrelli was the biggest mystery of all.

XXX

Peter didn't have much to say as they got ready for the meal. He slowly eased down from his subdued alert so that by the time they were sitting down to eat, there had been several moments when he wasn't keeping half an eye on Sylar. Sending his thoughts back to the matter of Sylar's health – Peter's reason for being here - he tried to remember what Sylar had been wearing the day before. His eyes skimmed over Sylar's shirt and pants. Had he changed clothes? Peter thought he had. He looked clean and he had definitely shaved – a glance over his face and hair assured Peter of that. _He's okay. I just need to make sure he eats._ "What time is it, anyway?"

XXX

With as much tension in the room as they had going on, Sylar could feel Peter's eyes on him the second it happened. _What does he want?_ "Um…two-twenty, give or take…" his tone was a giant question, 'why do you ask?'

XXX

Peter nodded and went back to eating in an unhurried manner, using a fork to scoop out the individual sushi pieces. It was late for lunch, early for dinner, which put him in mind of considering the later meal. "Do you have anything in particular you want to eat for dinner later?"

XXX

No answer, no explanation. _He's…ridiculously infuriating! _Peter had barely done anything other than show up with food. "Me?" tripped from him. _That has to be a trick question – his answer is 'a knuckle sandwich; rat poison; humble pie'?_ When he couldn't get his brain to cooperate, he finally said, "I…hadn't really thought about it." He went back to trying to eat and simultaneously wonder what kind of fish he was eating.

XXX

"'Kay. How's your head feel? Have you been keeping up with your painkillers?" _I should look around for a pharmacy with one of those pill counters with a morning, noon, and night divider._

XXX

Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn't come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn't handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…"Peter," he burst out before calming himself, "I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi," Sylar gave it a glance. "But you like to talk, you're compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…" he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, "why…What…" Wonderful. After all that and he couldn't formulate the question. "What are you doing here, like…this? You're not going to…?"


	73. Pocketful of Change

Day 23, January 2, Afternoon

Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn't come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn't handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…"Peter," he burst out before calming himself, "I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi," Sylar gave it a glance. "But you like to talk, you're compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…" he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, "why…What…" Wonderful. After all that and he couldn't formulate the question. "What are you doing here, like…this? You're not going to…?"

XXX

At his name being said forcefully, Peter pulled back a little, but then brightened. _You appreciate something I did? Really? Oh, wait … that's just a figure of speech, right? Or does he … __O__h, I'm a compulsive talker?_ He frowned and eased back down in disappointment, putting down his fork and listening as Sylar stumbled on.

Peter cocked his head. "I'm bringing you lunch because you need it." After a moment to consider the many ways Sylar might have concluded his last question (_Not going to take my shoe back? Not going to leave forever after all?, Not going to talk your ear off because apparently I'm compulsive about it and you don't want to hear me?_), he continued, "I'm not going to what?"

XXX

"I don't know, tear me a new one about it? You're just going to…let it pass? I mean…you left."

XXX

Peter crossed his arms over his chest and sat up straighter in his chair, continuing to frown at Sylar. "Yeah, I left," he said, voice short. "And no, I'm not ignoring it. I'm just not doing anything about it at the moment."

XXX

'_At the moment'? So something is coming and it's an action, '_do _something about it'._ His head still hurt, from trauma not drinking, but his mentally faculties were picking up with alacrity. "Why not?"

XXX

"Sylar ..." Peter uncrossed his arms with a huff. He rolled his eyes. "No, there is not some secret ninja attack going to happen to you. I don't save up grudges about arguments that get out of hand." He forked another piece of sushi. "I'm going to do my job and take care of you, we're not drinking together anymore, and I want my shoe back." He put the piece of food in his mouth, thoroughly displeased with how the conversation had already gone. He could feel his anger rising and tried to manage his breathing, making an effort to consciously relax. _This stuff would taste a lot better with some soy sauce._

XXX

_That's it?!_ Insult and relief were both present in his reaction. All the response told him was that Peter would handle it face-to-face and Sylar was likely to see it coming. "What happens when you are going to do something about it?" There was no way Peter was going to let him mouth off like that without repercussion – no more drinking and giving his shoe back hardly felt like punishment. With any luck, this would be his last question to annoy Peter with. He didn't know what to think about being someone's 'job', at least not one that involved the word 'care' in the way Peter meant it.

XXX

"What? Then we'll talk about it. It was just an argument. I'm sure we'll have more of them." Peter frowned at his food, chewing slowly and succeeding for the most part in calming down that temporary spike of anger.

XXX

"Okay," Sylar intoned, though it was probably clear he didn't find that answer explicit enough to actually answer his question. He ducked his head, letting it go rather than upset Peter further, turning back to his food. It was a strange texture, mostly it was just tasteless and that was helpful to his stomach – it didn't smell much, either. He felt like he was forgetting something…Ah, yes. He piped up, trying his own version of 'small talk,' "My head is still concussed, it still hurts and I haven't taken any pills." A pause and another squirm led up to, "Is sushi good for…certain things, medically? Is that why…? Or did…you just want sushi?" an awkward chuckle preceded that.

XXX

Peter perked up at the suggestion of something else he could do, looking around the counters for the spot where they'd been keeping the pills. _There they are._ He got up to fetch them and rattled out Sylar's dose, handing the pills over as he realized Sylar could have just as well done it himself._ He's not an invalid. He's perfectly able to take his own pills. All he needs is the reminder. _Grimacing in a little embarrassment, Peter turned to Sylar's question. "No, not especially. I just picked sushi because I was tired of cooking and wanted something different. Plus, it's good for you in a general way and I thought," he shrugged and gestured at it, not meeting Sylar's eyes for the rest of the sentence, "I thought that if I was just dropping it off then it was something you could just open and eat without having to prepare." _Then you wouldn't have to deal with me_. He shrugged another time, making glancing eye contact again. "The vegetarian rolls would still be good if you left them out for a while. Probably the other stuff, too. I thought it was something you'd be okay with even if you didn't like raw food normally." 

_I'm saying too much. But he asked …_ Peter huffed softly and went back to more normal eye contact to ask in as neutral a tone as he could manage, "So … do you think I talk too much? Or … just that I can't keep myself from talking?" He didn't think either was true in a general sense, but maybe he'd been talking too much for Sylar's taste. That seemed bizarre since it often felt like Sylar was prompting him, but the only way to know was to talk even more by asking.

XXX

_So…he wasn't going to stay? Just drop the food off and run? Did I…scare him yesterday? Another reason to shut the fuck up as if I needed another reason._ Sylar nodded about the food, he understood and wanted to show that. He downed the pills without hesitation. _I guess I did say that…_he thought of the new topic. "I meant that you're…direct," he said, looking at Peter in turn because directness was a good thing, complimentary, and for the most part it worked in Sylar's favor, having a communication style he understood at least. "You don't…You talk about the things you think…are important instead of…not talking about them." _I'm such a pansy; this isn't working._ "So…no, I don't think you can help that anymore than you can help…being a hero." _And I'm not a hero so I shouldn't talk, right?_ Sylar then alternated looking at his food and glancing at Peter. "I…really wouldn't know about talking too much. It's not…annoying, if that's what you're asking. I don't mind it." _He didn't ask._ "Sometimes it's…difficult with what you ask. You talk…differently than almost everyone else I know. I know one other empath and she's still…not like you. Some people talk _at_ you and others talk _to_ you, you mostly talk to me," Sylar shrugged, aware he'd given far more verbiage to a likely simple question, feeling like he'd gushed about Peter enough.

XXX

_Oh. Oh … okay._ Peter straightened at the realization that perhaps Sylar hadn't intended 'compulsive' in the insulting manner Peter had taken it. It seemed to him that Sylar was trying to be extra-careful with his words. _He didn't like the argument yesterday either. Maybe he's trying to figure out how not to have those._ Sylar's comment about being spoken to rather than at reminded Peter of the way Sylar had said people spoke his name – as a label rather than who he was, if they even used it at all. _But wait, what did he just say?_ "Another empath? You mean someone with a power like mine? Or like mine was? Where was this?"

XXX

"Lydia. At the Carnival?" Sylar frowned before remembering that Peter had never been there. "She…could see some of the future, your feelings using tattoos and…sex." That wasn't quite accurate, but it was a slight technicality. "It sounds weird but it's actually a really cool ability." _God, if only it worked here._ Sylar salivated a little at the idea of using it on Peter: knowing some of the future, the man's innermost feelings in a way he'd otherwise never share…having to kiss and get close, skin-to-skin to do it…

XXX

Peter blinked a few times, watching Sylar. If the guy's expressions were any indication, he was fantasizing right in front of Peter and apparently about something fairly lurid. He hoped like hell that Lydia was still alive and well and in full possession of her brain. _Well … um … do I really need to be here? I guess not. Maybe I should just finish eating and go._ Peter looked down and finished off the last of his food, minding his own business.

Peter cleared his throat and stood, gathering his plastic tray and taking it to the trash. An alternative explanation occurred to him for Sylar's lusting expression – it didn't have to be bloodlust to be lust. _Oh, wait, maybe ..._ "So would Lydia get people's powers by having sex with them? Was that a borrowing like mine or a … well, permanent like my dad's?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened as he oriented them on Peter. Then he chuckled with gleeful irony. "By that reasoning she'd have my power," he breathed around his chuckling which he couldn't seem to stop. _That might be kinda hot…Like a perfect mate. Hmm, no. Then I'd have to share. But Peter's had it before…_That finally sobered him. "No, she doesn't get anyone's power. She just…touches your skin and kind of understands your motives and a bit of your future and it appears on her body by way of tattoos. It was kind of fun," Sylar raised an evil eyebrow, "like connect-the-dots or follow-the-ink."

XXX

_You had a girlfriend at the carnival? I guess that explains why you kept going back to it and why they aren't all dead. That's cool._ He watched Sylar's chuckles with a friendly smile, leaning against the counter and idly wondering which of several possible reasons for Sylar's humor were true – there was the 'at some point in the past, I got laid!' glee, which Peter knew a lot of guys had even when married with kids; there was the darker humor of a second person running around the world with Sylar's hunger; or maybe the nihilistic view that if she'd stolen his power that way, it would have been some manner of cosmic justice. Peter was still musing over it when Sylar stopped laughing to explain about her ability. "Why do you call her an empath then? What does that mean, anyway?"

XXX

Sylar paused to consider that. Letting on that he had mystical empath powers himself and had Lydia and Elle's abilities would only open up the 'why' question in regards to murder, as much as he might want to share that fact and his knowledge therein. He literally didn't understand how Lydia's power worked directly because of how he'd gained the ability in the first place. It didn't make much sense logically, either. Like Elle's power, he'd had to learn it. How did he know Lydia was an empath? "The others…Because she reads you." He looked up at Peter with a confused frown. "It's difficult to explain. She needs the contact for the emotional stuff. It's different from yours but I guess I thought…Well, I don't know a whole lot about your ability." That was better than 'I don't understand either ability and I have one of them.' "I tho- I assumed yours was some kind of emotional thing, given the name and…you," Sylar ducked his head a little. "But I guess it could mean 'understanding to copy' which is what yours actually does."

XXX

_The others? The others what?_ But he nodded and didn't grill Sylar about every unexplained thing he said. "No, that makes sense to me. I don't understand an ability that I copy – I just copy it. With my power as it is now, I need physical contact. Emotional-" he paused, a hitch in his speech as the self-preservation part of his brain worried over what dangerous use Sylar could put this information to, then gave it a very grudging pass, "contact isn't enough. Like, I knew Claire, I'd had her power before, but I couldn't borrow it from her until she touched me. I don't have to have any emotional contact at all, really. And I never did, but that 'reading' someone is what makes sense to me. For my first ability, it took recognition and proximity. I had to know someone was there and actually notice them, plus be … I don't know, five or ten feet away from them at some point? I'm not saying I had to know who they were, but I had to … yeah, read them. Like scanning maybe? There was something that I did, auto … there was a word Claude used, it wasn't 'automatic' but I think it meant the same thing." He exhaled, peering at the floor briefly before looking up at Sylar. "Am I talking too much?"

XXX

_He never needed emotional contact? For the ability at least,_ Sylar mentally sniggered a bit. _I find that a little hard to believe, all this time I thought he needed it. In theory, he could require sex to get abilities. And how many abilities do I have? And he needs constant access because he's a one-hit-wonder now, hmm…_ Sylar couldn't help his thoughtful smirk that smoothed out as he shook his head negative, "No." This was…beyond refreshing, talking like this, or listening mostly in his case, about abilities. _Uh-oh. Is he going to blame me and make a racket that we're talking about this?_

XXX

"For example, there were a couple people I didn't really meet at Kirby Plaza; they had abilities, but I was too distracted by everything to even look at them. I didn't get their powers and they were close enough, I think. I assume there were other people I just walked past and didn't pay attention to … the thing is, I never turned up with an ability I couldn't trace to someone. Like, of all the ones I should have from gotten from you at Odessa, the only one I could use later was telekinesis." He shrugged a shoulder. "Not that I was … you know, all that good with knowing what abilities I had."

XXX

Sylar blinked, at first wondering or explaining aloud, "You got telekinesis because that's what I was using at the time…Wait, so you might have a dozen powers you don't even know about? Your- you're not even conscious of it?" Sylar's voice and face were aghast. The idea of a dozen or even one unknown ability from a random stranger (if he could trace it back and identify it at all), without any of the understanding Sylar knew from his ability…It was staggering, horrifying, dangerous - beautiful, he supposed, because of the discovery, but…it was so stunted and ignorant. Was it possible, then, that Peter could understand what it was like not to…completely know one's own self? To have things going on inside, seen or unseen, but not understand the who or the why? "But you can feel your original ability consciously, right?" then he turned hopeful, guessing, daring to believe. "I mean…jumping off rooftops…You knew, didn't you? You could _feel_ it." When he finished, his voice was impassioned, eyes narrowed for a moment as he leaned forward, intent and engrossed.

XXX

"I have no idea what I had. It was just a feeling, like when you know you have some change in your pocket but that doesn't mean you know exactly whether it's quarters or pennies. I knew I had … something, originally." Peter pushed off from the counter and came over to slide into his chair, putting his elbows on the table and carefully, tentatively, opening up. His voice softened and his posture relaxed. "Yeah, I felt it. I didn't know_ what_ I was feeling, though, or what it meant. But I knew it was important enough to risk my life for it."

XXX

Sylar hummed._Important enough to risk_everything _for__, _he corrected. _A pocketful of change; change and chance__. _"One of us got quarters, the other got pennies," he said ruefully. Sylar said genuinely, relieved, "I guess it's a good thing you haven't taken my power yet, with all our…altercations."_Although an emotional connection would be fantastic; a different kind of physical contact would be great, too…_

XXX

"I had quarters, too, at first," Peter said mildly. _Half dollars, really, because I didn't have to kill anyone to do it._"And I did have your ability for a little while - from you in the future. But I didn't just go and take it. You had to show me, guide me on how to tap into it. It wasn't something I could pick up and use on my own." Peter sighed and leaned back a little, looking past Sylar at the archway into the other room. "Though once I had it, I couldn't turn it off." He frowned, a mix of emotions crossing his face, but the one that remained was regret. He shook it off and asked, "Tell me about when you first realized you had an ability, if you can."

XXX

_I meant I had pennies and you had…He thinks I had quarters?_ He was a little flattered his ability wasn't so easy, a good thing it wasn't, but it was special because it was different. It was like he was the only one who understood it – maybe that's why it had come to him. Sylar didn't know what to say, what face to make about that. It was very much the nature of the beast, a double-sided coin. He'd been referring to here, this place; he was glad Peter didn't have any part of Sylar's ability here, not just because he'd make one hell of a meal, but because it was so much worse when the special was alone (or nearly alone). Sylar didn't think he'd make that great an addiction counselor or mentor either.

The words 'if you can' stuck with him. He was…being given a convenient out if he so much as didn't feel like talking or sharing this particular story. It wasn't a demand or a requirement. He scanned Peter's face for a moment, deciding and then thinking. _No one's ever asked me that. My…origin wasn't important_. "I was always good with watches and anything I could tear apart and fix and put back together. My...parents never got it but I knew no one else, not even my….father, could do what I did so it- I thought it was…special. It wasn't flashy or impressive but…." Sylar shifted gears, away from his motive for murder. "About seven months before the first eclipse, the…election," he hesitated to put that in, but it was Peter's primary frame of reference. He sent several checking glances before continuing. "I started looking at things and being able to…tell; I knew if it was broken and why. I could see how it worked." Only then did it occur to him that he shouldn't be sharing this, giving up the secrets of his ability to…this person. This person who hated him and his ability, who, despite his words, still wanted him dead or changed over into his brother. How many new ways could his brain now be abused for it's creative output? He hoped hadn't said to much or been tricked. Nervously, he cleared his throat, wrapping up the story before it became too personal or detailed, "I didn't know it was an ability until someone told me. The rest is history."

XXX

Peter's only reaction to the election reference was a glance down and to the side, then back to Sylar, his face reflecting a steady interest in what he had to say. The election was a shameful power-grab and he was glad Sylar wasn't talking about that itself. When he was done, Peter's brows pulled together slightly. "Sylar, fixing things _is_ impressive. It's way harder than tearing things up to start with – that's the easy part and even if it's flashy, it's usually not good." He started, "How did-" _that lead to killing people?_ but cut it off before he got more than a couple words into it. The conversation was going good; Peter didn't want to torpedo it with the topic of death. _Maybe Sylar took people apart because they were broken and then couldn't figure out how to reassemble them?_ He swallowed and tried a different approach, "Who told you it was an ability? And … how did they know?" He made a small gesture with his right hand. "For me, it took flight before I realized what was going on and I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure, that wasn't the first thing." He huffed. "It was just that flying was the one that couldn't be denied. Or at least, I didn't _think_ it would be." He gave a single laugh and a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

XXX

At first Sylar chuckled about flight and denial – because it was true. Nathan had been buried in denial to the point that he covered his ass by sacrificing his little brother to…many people, many plots. Sylar leaned away at his own slightly hysterical amusement having no idea how Peter would take it, but again, he couldn't help it. Again, he cleared his throat and refocused when he was through. "Chandra told me." Sylar smiled a little and quirked an eyebrow, "He wrote the book. I was his Patient Zero. Mohinder's, too, kind of. Do you know about the list? I was…there for it when you came into Mohinder's apartment, looking for him." Peter had arrived and spoiled absolutely everything and Sylar had killed him without much thought, distracted from his various goals. He wondered if he should feel bad for that now, or if bringing it up so candidly was low class and socially awkward for Peter. "Anyway, I was on the list Chandra made, I have genes for being predisposed to having abilities. I was the first one he talked to, met with, tested. I guess I was lucky," Sylar ruminated aloud, realizing as he thought, "I had him as a kind of mentor. For a while."

XXX

_Chandra. You murdered him._ Peter's face … saddened. It wasn't grieving over someone he'd hardly met, or anger about an immoral killing. It was sadness at the senselessness of it, like if Peter had reflected on the loss of life in an auto accident. Not that Sylar's actions were accidental or that Peter tried telling himself that. It was just that the death was far away from where they were at the moment and he'd learned a lot of pieces of what made Sylar the person he was. Chandra, too, was easier to deal with than certain other victims – Peter had never met him and had no personal connection, plus if he were anything like his son Mohinder, then Peter could see how things could so easily go wrong. He'd ended up at odds with Mohinder a few times himself.

"Yeah, I knew about the list," he said softly. "Mohinder … I ran into him earlier when I was looking for Chandra." He looked up at Sylar with a small sigh. "He told me you'd killed him." Peter leaned back until his spine was in full contact with the ladderback of the unyielding wooden chair, one finger restlessly tapping on the surface of the table where his hands still rested on it. He had a moment where his instincts were telling him to get away from this murderer, leave the apartment, shun the person who'd ended the elder Suresh's life. _It might not have been his mother who was his first victim. _That, too, was sad – that Sylar had started down a path of killing, a path he seemed to regret at times, a path that had brought him here to an eternal hell in his own mind – and perhaps done it by killing the man who had shown him what made him so special. Peter drew in a deep breath and leaned forward again, elbows and then forearms resting on the table. He would see this through, at least for another round of conversation, and find out where it went.

"So," Peter said with a small tilt to his head and steady, nonjudgmental eye contact, "did he help you? My mentor … I don't think he knew what he was doing. I've wondered what it would have been like if I could have worked with someone who did."

XXX

Sylar went still and his face prepared a scowl. It made him feel so damn hunted. It didn't matter, had never mattered, that he had his untold side of the story – it amounted to an excuse. He'd done what he was accused of, there was no disputing that, but his reason, his motive was inconsequential and tossed aside. Peter wouldn't understand and didn't want to. He absentmindedly counted the taps Peter's finger made – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…No attack came. Sylar blinked in confusion, feeling like the rug had been snatched from under his feet. His face was still blustery when Peter looked at him, trying to be prepared, defensive, more focused on his eyes than he was on the words spoken…_Did…did he help me?_ It was such a non sequitur.

He inhaled after what felt like an age and considered the question. There was a lot to track down, dig up and reexamine. It took him a moment to say, "I haven't thought about it, about him in a long time." Peter was hitting on a similarly sore murder as his mother, the now 'forbidden' topic. Sylar didn't know how to talk about it or even what to feel. "He was a geneticist, looking for…a cure for his dead daughter, a reason why she died. I was…" _Convenient. An answer that didn't work out for him._ "He answered my questions about abilities, as best he could at the time. He didn't know much, just had theories he needed to prove. Other than that, we're going to differ in our opinion – you'll say he helped me too much and I'll say he didn't help me enough." The last sentence was bitter and barbed, his reactions were torn raw again at the reminders.

He stood abruptly, pacing restlessly around the kitchen. _Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…_he chanted, not wanting a repeat of last night. Sylar went so far as to tense his lips to create a physical barrier to speaking but it bubbled up anyway. "You know how I am with help," he sneered in general, at Chandra, himself, at Peter and anyone else who'd wound up dead or hurt because of it. "Anyone who tries will end up dead, is that what you want to hear? He didn't know what he was doing or if he did, he didn't care – he did the same thing to Mohinder! His own son! That should be your clue, you know?" _You had Nathan – he eventually came around to seeing how special you were, saving you, flying with you. I wonder what it would have been like if I had someone like that, if Chandra had been like anything close to that and changed…everything…_

XXX

Peter followed Sylar's pacing without stressing over it. Emoting didn't usually bother him and he wasn't getting any indication he needed to be worried for his safety. _What did he do to Mohinder? Wait, no, better question:_ "What did he do to _you_? Did he … give you your ability?" Peter blinked at that possibility, his mind putting together an unsettling scenario where Chandra, like Drs. Moreau or Frankenstein, was murdered by the monster he'd created, rather than just one he'd been unfortunate enough to be in the path of. Peter leaned forward quickly, remembering how Nathan's ability had supposedly been granted and how Mohinder had come at him with a syringe to test the very same thing. "Did you get an injection of something right before your ability manifested?"

XXX

Sylar rounded on Peter quickly. "It's _mine_!" He would have yelled but his headache cut him off to more of a bark. He then growled, "No one gave it to me, I was born with it; it's real; it's _mine_." Danko asked him a similar question years ago and now Peter was…confusing him with Nathan, having synthetic abilities – no wonder the man could hardly accept and treasure it. It was understandable Sylar was defensive and petulant. Everyone was out to discredit or explain away, hide, cut out or erase him or his ability. "Is that so hard to believe?" he asked with hurt incredulity. Doubt even after he'd told Peter about Samson's power, as if anyone could disbelieve that lineage.

XXX

"No," Peter answered calmly. "No, it's not. It's yours, it's a part of you, and no one's going to _take_ it from you." Peter tilted his head, one finger rubbing back and forth on the table as his imagination idly provided him with a scenario where Arthur saved the day by taking away Sylar's ability instead of Peter's. But no, that hadn't happened. Arthur, Peter's own father, had preferred to employ Sylar and ground Peter. It stung, but the man had played favorites all of Peter's life. He steered the subject away from the memory of having what made him special so pointlessly amputated from him. "What do you wish he'd done – Chandra, that is?" He couldn't have an opinion on too much or not enough if he didn't even know what Chandra had done. Since he'd asked that and not received much in the way of an answer, he moved it to the hypothetical. He knew what he wished Claude had done and that would have created a very different future. What about Sylar?

XXX

Sylar hadn't given it much conscious thought – his 'wants' had been far more instinctive. Unsure where he wanted to be, he hovered and tried to fix himself somewhat in place, hands on the back of his chair somewhat across from Peter. To buy a little time but also out of curiosity, he asked softly, "Do you mean in hindsight what I wish now or what I wished then?" There might be a difference, there might not – but if Peter intended it one way or other that was important.

XXX

_They're different? Well … they're different for me and Claude, so probably for him and Chandra, too. _"In hindsight, what you wish now, that he'd done then."

XXX

_It's the same answer_, he realized quickly. _I wished he hadn't pushed me and tried to abandon me…_ Sylar inhaled. There was so much complexity there he himself could barely touch it let alone analyze or put words to it. Feeling lost, he said, a touch bitter but nearly as soft as he'd spoken before, "You wouldn't understand."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips and reached up to scratch at one ear, looking up at Sylar with an unamused, long-suffering look. _I can't possibly understand if you won't _tell_ me. _But what was there to say if Sylar wouldn't speak?

XXX

After a few seconds, an angle occurred to him. "Or maybe you can, a little. I'm sure you blame me in whatever future where I gave you my ability. You killed someone and you don't want to talk about it, but if I'd done something different…your life would be different. It's like that stupid saying about stepping on butterflies but with us it's actually true. So…don't ask me those what-if questions."

XXX

Peter's expression pulled into a heavy frown. He spoke snappishly. "I didn't blame you. I asked for it. You didn't want to give it to me; I had to convince you." He shook his head and pushed away from the table, the conversation having gone sour for him with thoughts of first his father's robbery of him and now the reminder of what he'd done to Nathan in the future. "And 'convince' isn't a euphemism for anything. We talked. I told you to paint the future to see what it was I was trying to prevent. You did; you showed me how to use your ability." He had stood as he was speaking. He stopped behind his chair, mirroring Sylar. Mentally, he stepped around the accusation of murder entirely. He didn't recall confessing to that, but … it wasn't that hard a conclusion to reach given what Peter _did_ remember saying. He moved on to the last statement. "I wasn't asking you a what-if question. I was asking you wanted from someone. You talk about how bad you are with people helping you – I want to know what sort of help you're looking for."

He gave Sylar a steady, stony glare, then a small, negative head-shake and an abbreviated roll of his eyes. _Never mind. This isn't working_. In an apparent non-sequitur, he asked, "Where's my shoe?"

XXX

Sylar slid back into his seat. "That is a what-if question, Peter. It always is," he said, his voice sounding a little lost. Help wasn't reliable when he needed it from his enemies because unlike Peter, he wasn't even on the same team as the heroes. The part where Peter wanted to know what kind of help Sylar was looking for threw him harder than the Chandra question had. What was there to be helped at this point? The mere mention of help was a cruel twist of the knife, a short-lived hope. "I'm not fixable. The only 'help' you can give is a bullet to the back of my head," he stated even though Peter's attention was fractured as he said it. _It sounds like the perfect job for you, Peter. _Sylar sighed. "It's around here somewhere." He waved a hand towards the living room.

XXX

Peter huffed, a lot of his bad mood dissipated by Sylar's genuine depression. He went off to find his shoe, wanting to argue about Sylar's words, but agreeing with them too much to speak. He wasn't going to give some insincere palliative.

XXX

Sylar stood after Peter, noticing now his odd footwear choice. _Guess that was all he could find._ He went after Peter out of curiosity and paranoia that the empath would touch, steal or destroy more of his property. He was put-out that the important-to-him discussion was so easily sidelined for the sake of Peter's shoe, but there was nothing to be done about it. In the grand scale of things, a talk about his needs and feelings was in fact outweighed by a fucking shoe. Sylar was overcome with worry that Peter would find and take the shirt that sort-of belonged to him. He couldn't recall if he'd hid it very well, if at all. "It's there-" he began to point to his desk where the shoe perched, not finishing because Peter had already seen it and moved in. _Just take that and go._ Sylar slumped in the doorway, miserable at the immanent loneliness that followed Peter's shoe-hunt. "What did I say this time?" he asked tonelessly, because there was a reason for Peter's departure. _I need to start lying_, that much was clear. Peter asked questions and expected certain answers that Sylar was obviously not giving.

XXX

The shoe was obvious, sitting out on the desk. Next to it, spread across the desk like a worked puzzle or one of their board games from days before, was his t-shirt. Peter hesitated, looking at the shirt, thinking. _Is he collecting my clothes? What does he want with my shirt? Or was he just stacking both of my things here so I could get them at the same time?_ He looked up at Sylar's direction, seeing the man point and following the gesture by moving over and picking up the shoe. The shirt he gave another look and a glance back at Sylar, who looked more down than ever. _This wasn't convenience for me. He was looking at my clothes … because I wasn't here. And now he thinks I'm going to take them. _He sighed and left the shirt there, walking closer to Sylar. But he took the shoe because he couldn't stand to lose it. The shirt, though, he could sacrifice.

"I can't understand things you won't tell me." He leaned his thigh against the arm of the couch, folding his arms loosely. "What you're telling me is that I'm either too stupid to follow what happened to you, or too naïve to accept it, or too unsympathetic to care. I _do_ care, Sylar." _And I'll probably care more as I understand you more._ He hesitated for a long moment before adding, "There was a time when I thought getting a bullet in the back of the head was the answer, too." He tilted his head in a slow, slantways nod. "It didn't turn out that way. A bullet's not going to be the answer here, either."

XXX

Sylar shuffled his foot against the floor, occasionally looking down at it while Peter spoke. As much as he looked to shift the blame and make the miscommunication (or whatever the hell it was) Peter's deficiency…it was clear it was his own…somehow. _Well, yeah, Peter. Although naïve isn't the word I'd use._ Sylar squirmed again. Yeah, on the off chance maybe Peter did care a little in some way, but Sylar was greedy and wanted the guy to care…differently or more. It was just so strange being separated when he was so accustomed to, well, owning Peter's attention. There'd been no boundaries before, even when he'd been a fucked-up hybrid of Nathan and himself. Sylar clenched his jaw tight over saying something that would definitely send Peter packing, _A bullet's not the answer but erasing me was apparently good enough._ He did not entertain the empath's rather optimistic reply because to do so was just stupid. Peter was being Peter, thoughtless, if well-intentioned, with rose-tinted glasses. _A wing and a prayer isn't going to fix me, bring Nathan back or 'get you out of here.' Not that I'd wish for Nathan back or for you to be elsewhere_, he concluded ruefully.

XXX

He moved past Sylar, reaching for the door. "Your shoes are in the bag in the kitchen. I'll be back tonight. Maybe we can have ice cream or something."

XXX

Sylar blinked. He'd given his shoes up as casualties of interacting with other people. _Did he wait until he had his shoe back to give them back-? No. Huh._ Without much knowing why (aside from being cared for, getting his shoes back, talking about something sort of important, the fact that Peter would return and soon at a rather specific time or even the offer of ice cream) but feeling it was natural and expected of him, Sylar said as Peter passed by him, "Hey." When the other man turned, he neared and raised his arms until he had Peter's scrawny neck in a familiar bear hug. While Peter was mostly engulfed, Sylar was assaulted by the smaller man's smell, exhaling a little fast to turn his head closer and inhale it again. It was still that stupid double-vision awareness, distracting him like his mind was being bisected – the hug and Peter and his scent all being comforting and brotherly on one hand and on the other…he realized he was pressed as close as he could be against the man he was trying to seduce and smelling him. Hell if he knew which one he wanted more.

XXX

Peter stiffened and made a choked throat noise when hugged, instinctively trying to grow taller and more intimidating through sheer will. A number of things flashed through his mind – getting clobbered and/or being forced over the arm of the couch onto the furniture (whether sexual or combative) among them. Also, there was the memory of Gabriel from the future hugging him in front of his kid, whose presence had limited Peter's options (and it had helped that the guy had telegraphed it more than Sylar had this time). Peter let his pent-up breath out, relaxing. It was just a hug; not an attack. It had been a few seconds now, long enough for Sylar to have done something harmful if that was what he was about. Peter found himself resenting that Sylar was taller than him, making it too easy for him to get top-rung position for his arms. But resentment wasn't going to change that. Peter hugged back awkwardly and without enthusiasm, using a brief pressure from his forearms mostly as he took the opportunity to shift the shoe into his right hand. With his left, he gave three quick pats. It was the usual 'we're done here' signal.

XXX

Sylar moved closer still, inhaling Peter's stronger scent the closer he got – both his hair products and his skin. The tip of his nose was just brushing the farthest strands of Peter's hair, tickling. Every breath was full of him, a warm, alluring…appetizing scent, his chest pushing against Peter's, eyes closed and possibly losing himself.

XXX

_What is he doing?! _Hair fondling, making passes at him, unexpected kisses, keeping his shirt, leaving the bathroom door open, invading his space, Peter smelling Sylar on the pillow just as he could smell him now – all rushed through his mind at once. And now Sylar was sniffing _him_. It was way too much intimacy and entirely undesired. "Get- No!" Peter got his arms and hands between them, hunkering down and shoving Sylar hard.

"Get away from me; stay away!" A lot of other more complicated things occurred to him to say – not coming back for ice cream, anatomically difficult things Sylar could go do to himself, various threats or condemnations or insults … Peter finally just shook his head, exhaling heavily through clenched teeth. Barely taking his eyes off Sylar, he reached out for the doorknob, turned it, and left.


	74. Couched

Day 23, January 2, Evening

Since Peter came for lunch so late, it made sense that his dinner visit was late also. But ten thirty-four was quite a bit late. Sylar had had time to consider that maybe Peter's random questions – the ones that were about Sylar – were in fact rhetorical somehow, not meant to be answered. That would explain a lot of the empath's upset. Being shoved away after trying to hug him was…well, it hurt and the hurt grew to resentment and that turned to plotting. The knock came and Sylar answered the door, letting a wary, surly Petrelli inside without comment. Sylar backed off but didn't look happy about it. _And here I thought hugs were good. Just not from me._

XXX

Peter had not appreciated having a casual hug subverted into an opportunity to perv on him, or whatever it was Sylar had been doing with his sniffing and ignoring of signals to cut it out. It was … insulting. That was a term Peter felt he'd been using a lot lately, but it seemed to fit. Disrespectful might have been better – his boundaries, desires, personal space, preferences, possession of his own clothing – disrespected. He was tired of it, angry about it, and although the emotion had faded in the hours since he'd seen Sylar for lunch, Peter had still needed to work himself up to returning. It was the encroachment of definite drowsiness that finally pushed him into making the trip, not wanting to fall asleep and render it impossible.

He felt he had to come back. Sylar hadn't taken his pills when alone and Peter had his suspicions about how much the guy had (or had not) eaten while unaccompanied. Then there was the matter of Peter having said he'd come back – that was important, as was his awareness that Sylar had some very understandable issues about being left. Whether the right term was 'insult' or 'disrespect', Peter wasn't going to torment Sylar by disappearing on him.

He wasn't happy about it though. He walked in like he expected Sylar to act inappropriately at any time, which to a large extent, was Peter's expectation. He stayed as far away from the man as he could and kept his eyes on him as much as possible. Peter gave the living room only a brief glance, then headed for the kitchen to carry out his purpose. "I'm going to get the ice cream."

XXX

_Why, so you can give me a brain freeze?_ Sylar malingered in the doorway of the kitchen. His mouth wanted to run again and the sole thing keeping him from doing it was his headache and grumbling stomach…And the fact that he didn't have any words to hurl at Peter. It was clear he was on thin ice already, but, Jesus, he hated being looked at like that, like some kind of…_thing_ or vicious, unattractive animal. _He's just come for my feeding. He'll throw the food in and run. That's what he wanted to do earlier._ "Okay," he said of his non-choice, his tone treading just this side of resentful and disrespectful. He'd had a lot of practice with that one.

XXX

Peter traded sullen glares with Sylar, pointed enough that in a different frame of mind, it would have been hilarious in how overdone it was. Right now the looks were simply more irritation to an already aggravated situation, but one thing that had evolved between them was that neither of them seemed too intimidated by the other. He gave Sylar's passive-aggressive tone a put-out, long-suffering look as he put the ice cream carton on the counter. He went looking for the scoop.

XXX

Sylar approached, Peter's disposition be damned, standing a normal distance (such as he understood it) away to get out bowls before he saw that Peter was going to have difficulty scooping with one hand and a brace. He didn't say anything; it was better not to. Instead he held out his hand (daringly within Peter's limited personal space bubble) for the scoop.

XXX

Peter bristled at what he initially took as an incomprehensible gesture, some manner of pointing at him or the ice cream, or perhaps the scoop he'd just retrieved from the drawer. _I'm getting it, okay? I'm not doing it wrong, am I?_ "What?"

XXX

"Give me the scoop." His voice implied that much was obvious and he was getting a little impatient.

XXX

_Why does he want the scoop?_ Peter wondered. Sylar was closer to the sink. Perhaps he was going to put it in hot water? _I could do that._ Peter swallowed, weighing how much of his ego was wrapped up in being the wielder-of-the-ice-cream-scoop. As it turned out, not very much - even when dealing with an annoyingly unapologetic Sylar who wanted the odd privilege but not enough to lower himself to ask for it.

"Okay," Peter said in as neutral a voice as he could muster (which was: not especially), stepping backwards and then following that by turning and looking around the kitchen for the painkillers. _I can do that while he heats the scoop or whatever. Just … stay away from him._

Peter returned to watch Sylar filling the second bowl, prying at the frozen confection with determination – and a dexterity that Peter lacked. _Oh. I_ can't _do that. That's why he wanted it! He's … helping. _Peter blinked and moved back in, much closer than he'd previously gotten, reaching out cautiously to take the ice cream carton as Sylar finished with it. He returned the box to the fridge, not quite finding it within himself to verbally acknowledge the assist.

It was a very quiet meal. Plain vanilla ice cream, unadorned and unaugmented, wasn't really Peter's speed, but it was what was there. He scraped off the melted skein from the lumps, eating slowly. Sylar looked steadily more depressed and less confrontational as they shared space without meaningful interaction. _This isn't working - being angry at each other_. Peter sighed, poking at the last bits of ice cream in the bottom of his bowl, hurrying them in melting by dividing them. "I was thinking that tomorrow I'd go look at the piano again, maybe after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?" Actually, he'd been thinking no such thing, but he felt like he needed to offer something to get them out of the ugly silence that was building between them. Fiddling with the piano sounded like a good activity. The only other thing on his mental to-do list, such as it was, was to clean up the smashed storefront and there was still a dusting of snow under some of the eaves – he'd rather wait until it dried out completely.

XXX

_Ice cream for dinner_, Sylar pondered after downing the pills. _And I thought he was the responsible, adult nurse._ A small voice reminded him of his last self-prepared meal – saltines. _It's just the dessert before din- well, dessert as dinner. Somehow I doubt that if I eat like him, I'll get muscles like his._ Sylar snuck glances at his companion, who, while he didn't look thrilled, didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave and equally wasn't chatty. _What is there to say after someone…sniffs you during a hug? 'So…smelled anyone good recently?' I'd even find that weird._ When Peter didn't speak and didn't look inviting, Sylar eventually got a clue and focused on his food despite the urge to just do anything for attention. It felt strange, bereft of sound except the contented clinking of spoons in bowls (comforting in that there were two sets of sounds which meant he wasn't alone, though pathetic in that he was reduced to enjoying cutlery sounds). It was French vanilla, his favorite, the best ice cream there was; even if Peter was making faces at it (that was amusing all by itself). He savored the flecks of spice over his taste buds until Peter spoke.

Sylar did a slight double-take. _Maybe keeping my mouth shut works after __all_. Peter also phrased it in terms of like and dislike, as if that factored in. He'd fallen asleep on Peter last time and effectively trapped them in a place Peter hadn't wanted to be. But they'd also slept together. Sylar wondered if he could will the weather to trap them again. The offer was suspiciously too good to be true, delivered so openly. _He's lonely. Maybe he wants to keep an eye on me? Or is this a test? Rhetorical?_ Sylar didn't see what use he'd be, especially if he just fell asleep again. "Sure," he finally said in a tone that was neither yes nor no. It didn't sound that exciting (not much did in the lifeless world) but it wouldn't do to sound excited anyway.

XXX

Peter nodded, taking the agreement as more definite than Sylar's tone implied. It wasn't like Peter would be all that hurt if Sylar declined. He was trying to be social and friendly because he'd feel like a bad person if he didn't. At the same time, there was a part of him that felt he was a bad person for even tolerating Sylar, much less allowing his company. There was just no winning. He finished his ice cream and headed off to the sink to rinse the bowl.

XXX

Sylar looked up at the 'I'm done' clanking of utensils. He sped up his own consumption. _How is he always done before me? We weren't even talking. __Is my__ concussion making me slow?_ Once finished, he slid his dishes beside Peter's to be cleaned; hovering close, but not too close, as he waited uncertainly.

XXX

"I'm going to head back to my place tonight," Peter volunteered, not that Sylar had asked, but Peter wanted to make it clear the sleepovers were finished.

XXX

Sylar inhaled at the news. It was obvious Peter was already out the door in every other way but physically. Was he that easy to dismiss even as the last person alive? "Do you have to?" he muttered as the man passed by him, a little hopeful and quiet enough that Peter might miss it because…he wasn't sure he wanted it to be heard and answered.

XXX

Peter glanced over at Sylar with one brow briefly arched. "I'm _going_ to," he said in a tone that sounded like half challenge, half question.

XXX

"You know you can stay here." Peter did know that, didn't he? Even if he was something of an ill-mannered houseguest.

XXX

Peter tensed, shoulders pulling together and his head pulling back, breath coming a little harder as his nostrils flared. Keeping and using his own apartment shouldn't even be an issue, but Sylar was clearly going to make it one. "Why should I?" He glared fiercely for a moment, then let his expression soften a little. "Should I stay here until we get on each other's nerves again and we start fighting? Sylar, I need some space. Seriously." He tilted his head down as much as he could and still see Sylar's face, moving closer to reach out an uncertain left hand to Sylar's right shoulder. With clenched teeth and a clipped voice, he said, "You killed my brother. For you it's been a while and maybe you didn't care about what you did. _**I care**_." He stared, his right eye twitching a little, his fingers digging into Sylar's deltoid. He swallowed, grip easing a little as he struggled to put the howling monster of vengeance back in its box. Somehow he managed, eyes dulling a little in the process as he lost eye contact and spoke in the direction of Sylar's right ear. "I'm glad you're doing better. I'm trying to be your nurse, not Nathan's brother. So I'll be by in the morning to make sure you eat, to make sure you take your medicine, and then we'll go out because …" His voice faltered and he looked off further to the side, partially deflating. "Because I don't know what else to do."

XXX

Sylar had nothing. That was all so very, painfully direct about everything. It…made him twinge a little, inside. Peter wasn't happy and there was probably something he could do about it. Moreover, he didn't know what to make of the admission that Peter didn't know what he was doing. If Sylar had to follow him and Peter was clueless…where did that leave them? He stared, shocked or offline, nonresponsive or something. All he could muster was a small nod. _Okay_. And then Peter left, taking the space he claimed to need. _(But I don't need space)._

XXX

Day 24, January 3, morning

Peter surveyed the street as they left Sylar's apartment, breakfast having been quiet, polite, and stand-offish for both of them. The sky was cloudy, but previous days of sun had cleared the ice and snow from the main part of the pavement. It still lingered in the shadows on the north side of buildings. Fortunately Sylar's apartment building faced south, but even without immediate danger from slick footing, Sylar was still wobbly on his feet. "Do you need some help?" He offered his left hand, motioning with it towards Sylar's right elbow or forearm.

XXX

Sylar threw Peter a glare for that one. It was bad enough without turning his pain into a running joke but in all likelihood, that's what it was to Peter. He amended his expression. _If he's offering 'help,' I'm going to make him put out. It's the least he can do._ "Hmm hmm," he nodded, uncaring if he looked crippled or unsteady enough to need the assistance because Peter was going to aid him anyway. Sylar took Peter's arm as they began to cross. "It's been a long time since someone wanted to hold my hand to cross the street," smugly implying Peter was doing more than helping him cross the street just to get under his skin for that nurse-not-brother comment from the previous night.

XXX

Peter grunted in inarticulate, displeased acknowledgment. _It's probably been a while since someone beat the crap out of you so bad that you were still walking funny weeks later._ His mind took an unexpected turn to the dirty: _Huh, I pounded him so hard he was walking funny for weeks … ha! Um, yeah, let's think about something else, okay? Thank God I'm the one with telepathy here._ Clearing his throat, he asked conversationally, "In all that … stuff you did after you got your ability, did you ever have anyone … did you ever get any medical care? And I don't mean the Company stuff. I mean actual help."

XXX

Peter didn't bat an eye about it and that was annoying. Before he could try harder, Peter was trying to ask him something. _Did I ever have anyone…? Oh, please finish that sentence with something interesting!_ What Pete really wanted to know was sure to be ridiculously unimportant and strange. Sure enough, it was. Sylar turned to stare at the man as much as he could while walking on potentially treacherous ground (and this time that was no metaphor). He couldn't believe what he was hearing. His chuckle sounded more like an insane giggle, "Hell of a time to talk about my annual check-up, Doctor Petrelli."

XXX

Peter chuckled in return, glad Sylar seemed to be in good humor. He'd been worried the exchange the night before would sour things. Peter saw it as an announcement that living together was at an end, and a clarification that just because he'd been friendly and supportive while Sylar was too messed up to reliably feed himself didn't mean they were best buddies. But then again, maybe getting that out on the table was cause for Sylar to loosen up a little. It had to be weird for him to have Peter taking care of him. "Thanks for the promotion, but what I really want to know is if you've ever had anything more than a check-up before."

XXX

Fine, if he had to answer. "Not really," he simplified. What was the point? Being a patient involved paperwork and it wasn't as if he had insurance; going to a hospital was out of the question; clinics were possible but he was mostly healthy when he wasn't being killed. Deep down, he wasn't sure he cared enough if he was healthy, in pain or sick. If he lived, he'd go on; if he died, well, there were plenty of people to dance on his grave. It wasn't like anyone cared for him so why should he? That wasn't included in his goals. Another part of him detested the human frailty and dependence. "Why?"

XXX

Peter snorted softly at the challenging question. "Because you don't seem to know what to do with me doing this for you." He exhaled deeply as they mounted the far curb and turned down the sidewalk. He kept Sylar to the outside edge even if that meant he was on his right (and holding his arm, not his hand), where the sun had more reliably cleared the ice. He saw now that it would have been wiser to stay on the other side of the street, but he hadn't been thinking. So instead of crazily recrossing, he just put Sylar on the safest part of the sidewalk and kept his eyes on his footing.

"To me, this is pretty normal - other than the part about our pasts – for someone to help someone else out when they need it. That was my job. I liked it." Considering that he was technically still employed as a paramedic, if they ever got out of here, Peter added, "Since it's not like I quit, I guess it's still my job. This," Peter gave Sylar's hand a pat where it rested on his forearm and then pointed out a spot where melting ice wetted the sidewalk, crossing their path and draining to the gutter. It looked like water but might be slick. He said as an aside, "Watch out for that," before resuming his previous thread, "is something I'd hope you'd do for me if our positions were reversed. You know, if you want to keep me around? People need … assistance sometimes. You know, things from you? Support, effort maybe."

For Peter, there was a seamless spectrum from people who needed constant care, to those with occasional needs, to friends who asked for and lent support, to casual acquaintances or strangers with whom he was polite. His mind skipped over 'enemies he was supposed to oppose', because Sylar wasn't doing anything to be oppositional about. But with the other categories, there was always reciprocation, a network of providing for others and to a lesser extent on his part, being provided for. It was a basic social contact, but Peter didn't take it for granted that Sylar was on board with it. The guy killed people, after all. It would be nice, though, to be able to nudge Sylar over into the 'casual acquaintance' group so he didn't feel so on edge with him.

XXX

Sylar casually eyeballed his rambling nurse. Peter's meaning was quite clear, but it wasn't in as many words that Sylar could pin him down to. "Things like what from me?" His voice was innocent. _Be specific, Peter. I want to hear you say it._ Peter ensuring his future care – of _Sylar_ - was so ironically disgusting it was practically a joke; it just made him angry. Peter would inevitably need it, but it was like he was trying to secure his next 'big brother' since Nathan was dead, all the while holding Sylar, the potential applicant, at arm's length, wanting nothing to do with him except when Peter wished it. And he mentioned it now, as he was helping Sylar cross the street. The implication that Sylar would beat Peter to the point of serious injury, like his own current injuries, was inaccurate and offensive.

XXX

Peter grumbled something so inarticulate even he didn't know what he was trying to say, before working himself up to forming the words, "I just want to know that if something happens to me here, you'll be here for me." He didn't like having said that. He didn't like how it made him feel to say it or the feelings that had led to him saying it. Sylar's concussion and his own broken hand were proof that injuries here were real and serious. He thought he shouldn't even have to be asking this – would the guy act like a decent human being if Peter fell down a flight of stairs or caught a fist wrong and was badly laid up? Sylar would open sleeves of crackers for him, true, but he wouldn't touch the idea of saving Emma or anyone else. In this, though, Peter thought he had some leverage – he clearly mattered to Sylar. Hopefully that was enough, but he was still wound up tightly that he even had to ask. He didn't like having to face that he was this uncertain of Sylar. His jaw worked and he added stiffly, "There's no one else who can be." His steps were shorter, grip tighter, as he shot occasional narrow-eyed glances at his companion.

XXX

"Hmm…" Sylar replied, appearing to think it over, ignoring the change in body language to his left. The medic hadn't used a question, hadn't asked for help or the promise of future help. Internally he was rolling his eyes at the sappiness of the phrasing. How could Peter possibly romanticize that? That Peter thought he needed to cover this was insulting, like Sylar was too stupid or incapable of recognizing his companion was hurt and in need of help and what's more unwilling to give it. It seemed…ungrateful for all the other times he'd saved Peter's life with very little prompting. But that was Peter's stance here: Sylar was evil and not to be trusted. "I just have to savor this moment, Peter Petrelli wants _me_ to 'be there for him.'" Sylar chuckled and nudged at Peter's ribs with his elbow though his tone was sarcastic. "That is what you meant, right? I wonder what that entails," he teased, seductive and merciless. But more seriously he asked the more important question that needed answering, "Would you let me help you if it came to it? You'd be doing it my way or not at all - no balloons and flowers," that was his way of warning Peter it would be tough love all the way and he wasn't going to be Peter's slave for the duration of healing.

XXX

Peter literally growled at the ribbing, bristling even further but the display went nowhere. He wanted to shove Sylar off the sidewalk and into the street, but the possibility Sylar might stumble, fall, and be physically hurt by it neutered him. The rest of the teasing was over the top enough to function to calm him down rather than rev him up. He gave a roll of his eyes and looked away in disgust at Sylar taking it that far, pulling in a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air. Then there was the question – a question Peter hadn't thought of and was really just as much of a barrier as his uncertainty about Sylar. He looked up at Sylar with a moment of surprise before shuttering it and looking back down at the pavement. He didn't answer for more than half a block, walking along in quiet as he gave the question his full attention.

He recalled Sylar taping his hand and Peter having a strangely pleasant experience of it even though he'd argued and jerked his hand around. It was pleasant because Sylar, for a few moments there, had played along the way Peter wanted and expected him to. Then it had turned bad, but the moment before the change kept replaying, along with Sylar's very true statement that Peter was clearly already trusting him. Just like, he realized, he was clearly already letting Sylar help him.

"Yes," he finally said, decisive and clear, looking up to give Sylar a determined, unwavering look, like it was a promise or a pledge and it was. In Peter's mind, he was agreeing to something very important. He pulled to a stop at the curb, one street and a half block away from their destination. His voice a little softer, he said, "I want to hear you say it, that you'll help me if it does come to it."

XXX

Sylar raised an ambiguous eyebrow at the affirmation. Of course it was easy to agree now, but when the time came Peter would surely find something to freak out over. Since his attention was elsewhere, he didn't see or anticipate Peter stopping. Sylar took an additional step forward into the street, leaving the man behind on the curb but caught by Peter's grip on him and his grip on Peter. The Petrelli was almost equal his height this way though still being linked wasn't the most comfortable.

XXX

Peter felt that surprising, pleasant jolt when someone previously taller was suddenly on his level. Not that Peter went around feeling small – he was plenty tall enough – but Sylar was _taller_ and it made Peter feel bigger to see him eye to eye for a change. He stood straighter, features smoothing as he waited for Sylar's reply.

XXX

Sylar's attention refocused quickly. "Or you'll what? Leave me on the sidewalk?" he sassed because he could. Being hounded for a verbal answer was both annoying and warming: Peter thought he was trying to dodge (which, for once, he wasn't) and also that Peter thought his word meant something; it was binding. Carefully, he worded his reply, "I'll help you, Peter, with medical and medical-related care, if it comes to that." A tilt of his head and a raise of both brows this time was his 'is that acceptable?' glance. "Now come on," he tugged on Peter's arm, "You always pick bad times for discussions, standing in the cold is just the latest one. I'm sick, you're supposed to take care of me," he reminded, half-serious.

XXX

Peter smiled just a little on the outside, quite a bit more on the inside. He was happy, thrilled in fact. He took that statement as not only help if he needed it, but by implication a statement that Sylar wouldn't kill him. That was big. _He agreed!_ "Oh, I'll 'take care of you', all right," he said in mock threat. As he stepped down off the curb, he made sure he had a good grip on Sylar and then bumped him playfully with his shoulder, not quite hard enough to challenge the guy's balance, if he was gaging it right. Just in case Sylar thought he was merely being clumsy as he left the curb, Peter flashed him a bigger, joking grin and started them across the street.

XXX

Sylar swallowed and checked his companion once more. _How am I supposed to take that? (I wish he would 'take care of me'_, he thought nastily). Sylar swerved a little, making him dizzy but he wasn't close to falling since the ground beneath him wasn't slick at the moment. It was, however, one of those confusing human interaction gestures that he'd always struggled with. _Or he'll take care of me 'bumping' me off a cliff?_ Sylar frowned but Peter was grinning and /his memories told him Peter usually used his stoic or tearful face to pull one over on him in the past./ Peter appeared to be waiting for something so Sylar bumped him right back. _Since when is touching okay?_ he wondered. It went over well enough and Peter let it drop after that, laughing and walking with a pep in his step. _Was that…flirting? (No. He's probably thrilled he got away with bumping you without getting maimed. I can't very well maim him for bumping my shoulder if I want him to ever touch me)._

XXX

As they walked into the building, Peter interrupted Sylar from heading into the rec room. "Hey. Now that we're here, I thought I'd tell you the _real_ reason why I wanted you along." He waggled his brows, still smiling. "I need your help moving some furniture. Come on."

XXX

Sylar froze and turned slowly, catching an evil/mischievous expression on Peter's face. Before an abundance of suspicion and worry could build, everything relaxed when Peter mentioned furniture; in fact, everything relaxed right into an annoyed affection. _Of course. To a Petrelli, I'm just the help._

XXX

Peter led the way into the office for the apartment building, blocking the door open and moving the end table away from the couch. "I want to move this into the rec room," he said as way of explanation when Sylar came to the door.

XXX

The couch was a three cushioned, leather affair. Sylar let Peter get the first grip in front since his primary hand was broken and pulling would be easier than pushing (or so he surmised). The leaning down shifted pressure in his brain and made it throb twice as bad, but he didn't complain. He didn't question why they were expending the effort to move the couch across the lobby when there were padded chairs already available – the reason being he thought he could sit on the couch himself while Peter mangled the piano in one way or other. A couch would do much better for his headache (and even though he'd slept okay, about as well as he ever could, he still felt the numbing urge to sleep more). If he wasn't allowed to sit on the couch for whatever reason, then he would wonder and protest bringing Peter an oversized butt-pillow he clearly didn't need. Having correct feng-shui wasn't that important.

XXX

They got it through the door and muscled it into the rec room. Peter felt like he did most of the muscling while Sylar took the lighter end. Sylar gave good advice, balanced it as they tilted it through the doorways, and steered it. Light end or not, Sylar's input made the job much easier than if Peter had had to struggle with it himself. But of course, he wouldn't have bothered if Sylar wasn't here. The couch was for Sylar's benefit, not his own, even if Peter wouldn't say that out loud. Once it was in position to the left of the piano and midway between the chairs along the wall and the musical instrument, he did say, "Well, there you go!" and patted the arm of it like it was one big chair for Sylar. Peter walked over to the piano, stretching his fingers and picking at his brace, hoping to avoid giving himself a blister this time.

XXX

Sylar gave Peter's back a look as the other man turned away. _Does he think I'm an invalid who_ needs _a couch? Or is it like a gift, something all for me? _That's the way Sylar was going to claim it. He put his feet on the arm (because he wouldn't fit) and flopped down crossways, facing Peter. He crossed his arms and settled in to listen and watch.

XXX

Peter spent the morning playing slowly. He did Christmas carols for a while (including Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with several glances over at Sylar and a few smiles to himself) and wondered if he could sound out the teapot song. He didn't try that one – it would sour things and he didn't want that. He was appreciating the lack of hostility between them. He moved on to semi-random chords for a while as he tried to recall a few popular songs he'd learned years before. 'I Believe I Can Fly' was one he could hear in his head, but couldn't get the keys even remotely right. Green Day's 'J.A.R.' was another he worked at, getting closer with it. The song recounted the loss of a friend and the singer's intent to continue on … it was too parallel to how he felt about Nathan. When he realized that, he stopped playing mid-tune, letting his head hang for a while as he massaged his hands. _What was that about no hostility? Don't make any. Stick to neutral stuff._

XXX

Sylar caught his chin bobbing towards his chest in attempts to doze. Not that it wasn't pleasant, having company and human sound, it was the exact opposite – it was too pleasant. It was comforting. He only knew half the songs Peter played but it didn't matter, anything new was literally novel. Instead of falling asleep on Peter again, Sylar got up to search the building for reading material, not thinking that it might cause just as much drowsiness as sitting still and listening to music. He went door to door, assuming also that Peter wouldn't notice his absence, and had limited success. Finally, he found a dictionary, old faithful, and returned with his prize. He already had one at his apartment, of course, but he could leave this one here or perhaps start another collection just to keep busy with the gathering and reading. Sylar entered and sat quietly. _Did he even notice? I am his audience after all._ It didn't seem like Peter noticed but it wasn't like there was telltale signs aside from being interrogated. The music was mostly familiar now, the Beatles if he was not mistaken. His mother hadn't approved of them but they had a certain charm and the music devoid of lyrics was undeniably catchy. Sylar propped the book on his chest despite its weight and opened the book at random – N, right in the middle.

XXX

Nothing was done in perfect form – Peter was no professional pianist or accomplished prodigy. He'd had a few years of lessons, several years of band class, and been part of a garage band. He was doing well when the song was recognizable and he didn't hit too many wrong notes. Still wearing the brace, he couldn't manage the higher chords at all, nor some of the combinations. Having to finger over the notes clumsily threw the timing off a lot. When Sylar took a walk, Peter took it as a judgment against his lousy playing. For several minutes after the elevator dinged shut following Sylar's departure, Peter sat silently at the instrument as though there was no point in continuing without an audience. He stretched, got up and walked around the room, then returned to the piano. _Maybe I should do my practicing alone and just play the things I'm better at when he's around?_

He hadn't realized how there was nothing else of consequence to hear in the world but Sylar's voice and his own … and now, a little bit of music. He transitioned to the Beatles, a band he'd practiced on a lot when he was home. He was somewhere in the middle of 'Hello, Goodbye' when Sylar returned to the room with a thick book. Peter repeated it a few times, along with a few other tunes. This time, Sylar stayed, although that might have been because he fell asleep. He was certainly being very still over there on the couch. Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of 'Carry That Weight' before turning to face Sylar, finished, for now, with the piano. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but … yeah, Sylar looked asleep. Then with the cessation of the music, he roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, "What would you like to talk about?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes snapped open. _Nepotism: favoritism based on kinship. Huh?_ The music had stopped. He rubbed over his eyes once in what he hoped was a casual manner. _I wasn't sleeping. Did he stop because of me?_ Sylar straightened up, blinking with a small, growing frown. "That's a trick question. What do you want to talk about?"

XXX

Peter scoffed. "It's not a trick question. Maybe we should talk about what we should talk about?" Sylar's point about them not really talking, or at least Sylar not being allowed to talk about the things that were important to him, was nagging at Peter's conscience. It would be healthy to get things out in the open between them. Assuming he could manage it without trying to break his other hand on Sylar's head.

XXX

Sylar's face was a forcefully wary, confused frown that epitomized '…what?' Peter's words made little sense to him so he kept his mouth shut.

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together in a displeased line when Sylar didn't answer. He folded down the guard for the keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view.

XXX

When it was clear Peter wasn't going to budge, Sylar gave him an annoyed look, crossing his arms in defiance. He was not going to be outlasted even by one so stubborn. Several minutes passed and Petrelli didn't break. Sylar sighed, waited more with no success. "I had some time to think about it." Sylar paused and licked his lips, glancing off to the side. "I don't think that kid you found was mine." He searched for the words, "But why would I raise someone else's kid? Who would let me raise their kid?" That was asked rhetorically because he didn't want to hear any of Peter's biting comments about it. He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, as a Petrelli, which implied that the family knew about the kid in his care. As much as his curiosity burned him up from the inside, he knew he shouldn't and couldn't get attached to what was essentially a figment of Peter's imagination, the child. He didn't dare ask about his supposed offspring. _The kid is dead anyway_, he told himself. Most importantly, Sylar wanted to know the other half of the equation. Peter said that was the three or more years in the future, that time had come and gone with no mate and no kid named _Noah_. _Did-did I screw it up?_His gut felt like stone; regret, horror and pain building up already and he didn't know if Peter would take this seriously as the defining, important moment it was. Looking directly at Peter, he stated, "I...I want to know who the mother was."

XXX

"That's a good question." Peter drew in a deep breath. "The 'kid' was named _Noah_." He waited a moment, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. He went on, "I don't know if the boy was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He," Peter swallowed and looked down, "went to you when he was afraid." He looked back up at Sylar. "You weren't just a babysitter to him." Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, "Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool – Mr. Muggles – and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him – both of them." Peter smiled softly, warmly. "It was cute."

XXX

Sylar felt his throat gulp. This is exactly what he did and did not want to hear. _I was a good parent?_ At least, that's what he gathered from the kid going to him when he was afraid. He felt…relieved, even if it wasn't really real, at some point he'd succeeded at something and done right by someone.

XXX

Shaking off the memory, Peter went back to Sylar's area of interest. "I don't know who the mother was. I would assume it was someone Caucasian, given how Noah looked. He was fair, with light brown hair, maybe dark blond. I don't remember his eye color." He raised a hand indicating the child's height. "He was about this tall. Good-looking kid. Healthy." Peter shrugged, thinking Sylar probably didn't want an EMT run sheet of height, weight, and physical abnormalities, but he sure didn't have the artistic ability to convey someone's looks. "I don't think there was anyone else in the house while I was there. I had the impression it was just the two of you right then, but if someone was living with you and gone somewhere … I wouldn't know."

XXX

A flush of cold went through him. _Dark blonde, eye color…No one else._ The mother must have left the kid with him. That was the missing circumstance or reason that resulted in him raising the kid at all, because no one else would take care of him. Did the mother, whoever she was, know about Sylar's own problems, did she know how risky it was to leave a potentially special kid with him? (Had she abandoned one or both of them? Was there a reason?) But history had not repeated itself and he'd broken the cycle. Sylar still remembered how hopeful he'd been when Peter told him he'd managed to control his ability: 'Just believing it's a possibility gives me hope.' 'I don't want hope, I want it _gone_!' How stupid he was to think that was to be his future. Lydia had dark brownish-blonde hair and Elle had been blonde… Claire was a disturbing option. Or had it been someone else entirely? None of his questions were being answered. His head jerked in a single nod, "I see," he said even though he didn't. Peter wouldn't hold back information or lie, would he? The thought that tortured him was Elle's death, if she'd been…when he… He felt sick, very physically ill. "Does it make any sense to ask why you killed him?" Sylar knew that's what Peter had avoided saying. "I thought you said you didn't threaten him, that you got what you wanted." _I didn't kill Nathan yet so…?_


	75. Pulse I

Day 24, January 3, morning

"Huh?" Peter's thoughts were immediately fixed on Nathan and while it seemed like a possible leap for someone of Sherlockian brilliance, Sylar was supposedly concussed and mentally impaired here. Plus he looked shaken and pale – not the appearance of cool, calm, and calculating. Still, the possibility that he'd guessed about Nathan's murder rattled Peter. He put his right hand down to pick rapidly and nervously at the top of the guard for the keyboard. Words tumbled out without taking the time to sort them first. "I never said who I … who I … I mean, Claire regenerated and I didn't even … that wasn't me. What are you talking about? _Who_ are you talking about?"

XXX

"The kid – Noah," Sylar enunciated. He didn't care about whatever was upsetting Peter; it was only getting in the way right now. The supposed hero's nervousness was a sure sign of guilt. That was something at least.

XXX

"Oh." Peter's relief was clearer than he wanted it to be. After all, there was still someone dead. Two someones. No, several hundred thousand someones. Sort of, in the future, a future that wasn't going to happen. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't crying; the gesture was more subconscious than anything else. Nathan's death and how cavalierly he'd carried it out still bothered him, deeply. No matter that the future had been averted – it was still Peter's past. Sylar giving him the evil eye was no help. He sighed. "I didn't kill _Noah_." Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. Peter gave him an undisguised nasty look at the insinuation he'd killed an innocent child and for what reason? Peter blinked and shook his head. Sylar didn't know; he hadn't been there. _I must not have … I think I must have edited that part when I talked about it._

He sighed and looked at Sylar, giving him the straight dope. _He should know. _"I got your ability. We were talking. Then we heard Noah call for you from the other room. We went in and there were people there – Knox, Claire, and that blonde speedster." He waited for a moment, connecting a few things in his head. "Daphne! That was Daphne." He tilted his head with a mildly surprised expression as he realized where he'd run across her before, or at least mention of her and a description. She'd been at the crash site, according to Matt, but Peter had gone in a different direction and by the time he rejoined the group, she'd been shot and taken away by Homeland Security. _Matt was looking for her. I wonder if he ever found her?_ "Huh." _Didn't he have a wife and boy when I showed up to his house?_ "Anyway, those three. They," he exhaled heavily, because the whole thing was his fault, "wanted me to go with them."

XXX

_So it was your fault,_ Sylar surmised quickly. Peter was taking his time, dragging out the story for the sake of having some useless personal revelation about a girl they'd never met. He was getting angry and frustrated and it was starting to show in the storm clouds brewing over his head. _Just spit it out._

XXX

Peter shrugged and straightened, making an ambivalent, frustrated gesture. "We didn't even get to the part where I agreed, not that I was planning to. Things just escalated. Claire had a gun and she was pointing it at Noah and then at you, so since it wasn't pointed at me, and I figured you'd be okay if she fired, I lunged for her. I got her, but then Daphne was on me. You and Knox mixed it up. I think you got his power. I don't mean you cut his head open, either. You were just fighting him, and then you had it. It was Knox," he finished softly. "He kicked or shoved or threw – I don't remember how exactly – a table … Noah was in the way. Everything stopped for a moment as you went to him." He waited a few moments in silent respect. Soto voce, he said, "It was too late." He resumed with a tone that was more normal but still clipped. "You took down Knox. Claire tried to shoot you. I was calling to you. But you blew up." He wondered if Daphne had managed to get away.

XXX

Sylar was a little at a loss to see how a mere gun posed a threat to him or anyone he considered his duty to protect (apparently in that situation, Peter counted as such). With him, his son should have been as safe as could be. _He died because…Peter was causing trouble, brought it to my house and then I was…too distracted to protect him? Someone hit my kid with a table or…crushed him with it. _Sylar felt his face pinch inwards for a moment. Picturing that was horrible and he was an uncaring monster and the kid never existed in his plane so what did it matter? Why did it matter anyway? _What am I supposed to do now?_ It wasn't like he had overmuch experience with grief of the loss of a 'loved one.' Sylar didn't know how much attachment was allowed or required. Peter being involved with the death of his son and now, being here to surely crush every other hope Sylar possessed was no coincidence. _And that was before I killed Nathan,_ he kept coming back to that. So what else was Peter capable of now that blow had been struck? Peter was still watching him too closely and finally Sylar looked up to him, uncaring what the other man saw on his face. "I see," he said again but this time he didn't want to see. Out of curiosity, he wanted to know how Peter handled that, so he asked, "What did you do after that?" _I bet you got out of Dodge._

XXX

"Well, I died." Peter sighed. From the expression on Sylar's face, he wanted to know more than that obvious fact. "I tried to get to you. Or … to … Gabriel. You, sort of. I could have teleported out, but ..." He hesitated, trying to recall his motivations in that second or two of action. He didn't know, so he guessed, knowing his own mind well enough to make an educated one. "I stayed. I didn't want you to kill so many other people. So maybe like Nathan did for me …? But I burned up first." Peter looked down, thinking surely there was something better he could have done, something to have prevented all of that. He'd come back and made sure it didn't happen, so there was that, but it was cold comfort when he'd seen the misery firsthand.

XXX

Sylar jerked at that memory, /waves of agony from his fried nerves, burnt from holding and carrying his brother to the last. For months, his world was nothing but unadulterated pain. He'd been heavily medicated, in and out of delirium and consciousness, seeing his mother and Heidi come and go, but no Peter. Where was Peter? He remembered finally sitting up, against Ma's wishes, to see what he'd feared – his face a charred wreck/. Sylar came back to himself with relief, more so that Peter hadn't noticed. He took a few deep breaths to combat the returning nausea.

XXX

When Peter looked up again, Sylar looked shaken. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of the cause, then went on with the information he thought Sylar wanted. "I woke up somewhere else. In a lab. Or a morgue. Maybe both." He was silent for a few moments, staring fixedly at the floor. "You weren't there." His words came out softly. There was nothing else about the scene he wanted to discuss – at least not from that point onward. None of it concerned Sylar anyway.

He'd watched Sylar's expressions as Peter had told the story. He'd seen sorrow when he got to Noah's death. That Sylar even wanted to know told Peter a lot. He'd had a family in that future. He'd had _people,_ which the nature of this hell informed Peter the lack of which was the worst thing Sylar could imagine. Of the two choices – to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all – Peter would always choose love and loss. He believed Sylar would join him in that choice, which must have made it additionally bitter to hear that it had ended badly. _He must envy that other him. _Peter swallowed and said respectfully, "That other you … was a good person."

He cleared his throat quietly. "What else did you want to know?"

XXX

"Shut up," Sylar snapped and growled, his eyes daring Peter to say another word about it. He was prepared to beat the message into Peter if necessary because he was not going to listen or fall prey to another Petrelli's bedeviled whispers. Exhaling hard, he tried to forget the damage done by Mama Petrelli. "I don't know," Sylar finally answered. He was touchy and angry in general, more upset than anything else and not knowing what to do about it. His distress must be obvious to Peter and he couldn't focus to think up a distracting question for him. "I don't know…Why did you come back and kill me, in the holding cell?" Sylar waved a hand then rubbed at his orbital socket, remembering to breathe.

XXX

Peter started to smile at what he thought was a good-natured jibe under a veneer of anger, but quickly realized there was no veneer. His smile disappeared. _What did I say? It must have been something I said. That Gabriel was a good person?_ Peter sighed. _Sylar can't see himself that way – 'I'm not the savior type.' That sucks. But at least he's willing to help me if something happens to me here. That's something_. He waited in silence as Sylar struggled through trying to decide what to ask.

Sylar's question about the holding cell bounced around in his head, reminding him of the rest of that day, the portion he'd been working at not thinking about. He still didn't want to think about it. His face took a sullen, uncooperative turn. "I wasn't thinking right. I ..." He straightened a little, face clearing as he saw a way to divert the subject to things Sylar already knew. "It wasn't about you. I tried to kill my mother too, remember?" Peter shook his head. "I was … I couldn't stop killing." His voice was a whisper for that last, eyes falling to his hands. His fingers twitched a little, remembering that peculiar, semi-instinctive gesture they'd adopted to channel the ability. He wondered what Sylar made of his last statement and what any right-minded, impartial person of wisdom would make of the actions that had spawned it. Guilty with extenuating circumstances was what Peter had settled on, not that the circumstances erased the guilt. It just transmuted his sentence from … whatever it would have been to … whatever it turned out to be. With no judge or confession, Peter had never been able to expiate that sin. It just festered inside of him, a weight he carried.

Willing to take the risk of broaching the topic, Peter looked back at Sylar and asked, "Is that what it's like for you?"

XXX

The lack of understanding or reason, Sylar could actually understand even without understanding. The Hunger wasn't personal; neither was killing a target, threat or obstacle. It was difficult for him to grasp when people took it personally and blamed him like more choice was involved. He was silent. It was a respect thing; he assumed that was evident. He wondered if, perhaps, Peter might make a leap of abstraction and see the connection between them through that ability. Peter got it then voiced it. Sylar simply gazed at him for a long time, caught off guard and uncertain of how Peter intended the question. _Does it matter? Why does he ask? He just said that's how it was or does he think mine is somehow different? This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, I know it._

"I suppose," he began slowly, feeling his way through everything and choosing his words carefully. Every time he had tried to stop, he'd been tempted by someone involved with the Company and had fallen back into his old ways regardless of his desires. Peter had reasons not to kill, things, goals or people to anchor him. It didn't excuse him when Sylar knew he should have dug deeper and triumphed where Peter, with all his advantages, had failed – because he was stronger and more driven than Peter ever was and he _had_ to succeed. "It's not…simple." The Hunger didn't want to be denied or cured, killing was a means to an end and it represented mentally orgasmic success. Therefor it was a positive achievement, the same as ridding the world of unworthy power-holders? How was anyone supposed to ignore that? How did his flimsy mortal feelings, morals, and other needs compare against that?

"It depends if you killed someone or not. I imagine it's different living a day or two with it when you haven't gotten your fingers wet. It depends if you felt you had control or a choice or a reason to care either way." With that, he turned the question back to Peter with an expectant look.

XXX

"I didn't ..." _get my fingers wet. With blood, you mean? Like someone's brains?_ He looked down at his fingers, rubbing them together uneasily. His voice was suddenly raspy, chest tight. "I mean, I did ..." _kill someone … Nathan. _He didn't think enough of his words were getting out to make sense to Sylar, so he tried again. "I killed ..." _Nathan_, "but I didn't take ..." _his brain, his ability?_ The mental image of cutting Nathan apart and plunging his fingers into the still-hot brain was too easy to imagine. He knew just how it would feel. The outer layers of the brain were stiff, like a firm sponge, and slick on the outside with a thin layer of sclera. It had a smell unique to the nervous system. It was faintly like that internal organ smell of blood and viscera, but without any of the digestive system undertones that you had in the abdominal cavity.

The air felt too thin and he couldn't get a decent breath – not that he wanted to. He feared it would smell like that - that close, humid, faintly ammonia-like smell of damaged brain matter. (The things EMTs experienced in the course of their jobs were sometimes things no person with any degree of empathy wanted to know.) He felt dizzy, confused, losing his grip on whether he was here with Sylar or freezing up over Nathan's corpse, aghast at what he had done, his mind breaking as his heart thudded way too strong and fast in his chest.

"Ugk," he said, swallowing and turning to face the opposite direction on the piano bench. He hunched, feeling like he was choking on what little air he was getting. He kept seeing, over and over as if it was happening right now, his hand rising to cut into Nathan's forehead, or his mother's. His right hand was paralyzed by blinding pain like some divine punishment was being inflicted on him for those sins. A strangely lucid thought drifted through his head, _Oh, I'm having a panic attack._ It wasn't the first time. He was prone to his chest heaving and near-hyperventilation when he was severely stressed and though those weren't panic attacks, what he was having now was an extreme version of the same.

XXX

"Peter?" Something wasn't right but Sylar wasn't sure it was necessarily, unintentionally wrong either.

XXX

Peter's fingers curled into fists and then his arms folded over his midsection. He leaned over, making himself small and trying to focus on his breathing. Knowing what was happening gave him something to think about other than the memory of murdering his brother for no decent reason (sad to say, Peter had had experiences in his life that led him to think there were, at times, good reasons for killing family members). It gave him a problem to fix, something immediate and physical he could _do_. He shifted his grip from balled-up fists to holding his arms, relaxing his right hand enough that it wasn't stressing the broken bones and putting him in agony. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to get deeper breaths. His body shook, but he was getting it back together. _Fuck - what the fuck is Sylar doing? No, stop thinking about him. He won't hurt me. Just ignore him. Get under control. Breathe._

XXX

Receiving no answer, Sylar was left to listen to Peter's ragged, stunted breathing and watch his back shudder. He got that 'hair on the back of his neck' feeling just looking at the man's posture. It seemed familiar, like something he'd wanted to do in a moment of lonely emotional chaos but had never actually done it. "Peter?" his voice rose and he sat up, deciding quickly to go to him. Leaning over he started by touching Peter's shoulder with no answer. "Pete?" he asked more softly in case he was being ignored. His hand slid along Peter's back then returned as Sylar crouched, wincing about his own toes but it allowed him to see Peter's pale, sweaty, unfocused face. _What is this? A cop out, a joke? Is he sick, like a seizure or something? _

The younger man still tried to look away, making a disturbing sound in his throat and Sylar would have none of it, gently taking hold of Peter's chin then his cheek to bring him back. "Hey," that was the traditional Italian opening line. Peter was breathing deep yet very shaky then turned, seemed to snap out of himself a little and rested his forehead against Sylar's, to his great shock. _Did he pass out? No, still breathing. What…? _"Peter, can you hear me? I need you to tell me what's going on." The hand attached to Peter's skin drifted over his clammy face, neck and shoulder, uncertain what he was doing other than reassuring himself that Peter was still warm and breathing and praying this wasn't a medical emergency he was so unprepared for.

XXX

Peter felt like an idiot – small, stupid, and helpless for having a freak-out right in front of Sylar. He could feel the shame spiraling his tension right back up. _No help for it. Just relax._ Sylar's hand over his face and shoulder was reassuring in the surfeit of gentle contact. He nodded in response to the man's question, still having trouble getting his throat to work right for anything more complicated than sucking air, but it was at least doing that much now. He reached out and grabbed Sylar's shirt some inches below the right armpit, pulling him around just a little, positioning him for Peter to move his head to Sylar's shoulder. _Oh fuck, this sucks. Not him! Why him? Why would I freak out in front of _him_? (Relax. It's okay. He was there for me after that nightmare. He just promised today he'd be there for anything else. It'll be okay.)_

XXX

"Okay, that's good," Sylar said in relief. Now that he knew Peter was listening and somewhat conscious he didn't know what to say or ask about. Sylar only knew about abilities and a lot (but not everything) about brains – this was the human body; easily trillions of things could go wrong with it. Peter moved or slumped further into him to Sylar's sick delight and continued worry. Peter felt warm, not feverishly so but even the warmth didn't feel right when he was touching the guy's skin. He continued petting the man's hair and neck while he thought about what could be going wrong (and something was obviously wrong – Peter was touching him of his own volition and allowing Sylar's touch moreover). _Heart attack? Seizure? It's not liver failure. Alcohol poisoning? Does he have allergies I don't know about? We just had breakfast…_Not bothering with polite or subtle, Sylar pressed two fingers to his shoulder angel's pulse. It was very fast from what he could tell. _Adrenaline rush? But I didn't say anything threatening…_

XXX

Peter's breathing deepened fast. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but the pressure was lifting so rapidly that he felt dizzy and euphoric for a moment. Swaying a little, Peter tightened his one-handed grip on Sylar's shirt, pressing the side of his face against his shoulder for stability.

XXX

Unable to see Peter's face, Sylar had no idea what the desperate clutching meant. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," Sylar placated quickly, feeling the man nearly gasping for air, unsteady even as he sat somewhat supported against Sylar. He lifted a hand around Peter's right side so he wouldn't slip off that way.

XXX

"I'm okay," he whispered hoarsely as the wave passed, but he didn't let go quite yet. Eyes shut, his breathing was slowing now, heading back towards normal along with his heart rate and blood pressure. His left hand released, cupping to press flat-palmed to Sylar's side for a moment. His right hand was still aching from whatever he'd done to it in the first phase of the panic attack. He held it protectively in his lap. With a last deep breath, Peter sat up, pulling away, eyes rising to hold Sylar's. _So, um, what now?_

XXX

Sylar hardly blinked as they stared at one another. That was…unexpected. _His eyes are okay_, he noted distantly. "Of course you are," he bullshitted right back. _I don't believe a word out of your mouth but at least words are coming out. Even Peter said something to that effect about nursing, didn't he? _He was nervous and trying to focus on Peter's health rather than the fact that their hands were literally all over each other and he could smell Peter again and feel his body heat. "I'm going to put you on the couch, okay? Put your legs up and…" _Whatever else. I just know that's a good position for a lot of problems. Dehydration! Water, I'll find some water._ "Come on." Sylar slid his arm underneath Peter's, helping him stand without asking if he needed the assist because it seemed like he did and this is what Peter did when Sylar didn't necessarily need help, and what's more, he'd still do this even if Peter lied again.

XXX

_Couch, yeah, good idea._ He got to his feet, feeling able to manage the few feet of distance himself but not refusing the help. The contact was soothing. He wrapped his arm around Sylar in return, wishing this was Nathan or … His chest spasmed like his heart had just skipped a beat. It would never be Nathan. It never could be. _Fuck_. He knew the symptoms often came in waves. He knew it was exacerbated by thinking the wrong things. They were already the few steps to the couch. He sank into it heavily at one end, struggling to bring his thoughts back to something neutral like breathing.

He wanted to curl up. He wanted to get away. He wanted to hold someone or be held. To his disappointment, unrealistic though his desires were, Sylar had released him when he sat. Asking anything of him was childish. What Sylar was already doing for him was above and beyond the call of duty. Now the man was plucking at Peter's legs, trying to encourage him to turn sideways and put his feet up. "I'm alright," Peter said grumpily, voice strained. "It's no big deal," he said, covering his face with his right hand in embarrassment. He was feeling tense and upset again, very aware that the world was closing in. Sylar gave up on trying to shift him and sat right next to him, a presence that was both comforting and worrying by turns.

XXX

"Do you know what's going on? Should I get you anything?" Sylar pressed, hovering and trying to sound like he was capable and prepared for this, like he already knew what was going on but really; this was Peter's domain and Peter was the one with medical training. What happened if Peter got hurt so bad he couldn't talk or direct? _I need to get some medical books and study alright. Peter's definitely stupid enough that I'm going to need to know some of that._

XXX

"It's … I ..." Peter felt his head swimming again. He put his left hand on his chest, noticing his hand was trembling. _Was it doing that earlier? He's asking too many questions. I wish he'd stop. Let me be. I'll be okay. _The air felt hot. He moved his hand up to his throat and massaged it, intent on getting enough words out to shut Sylar up, at least for the time being. "Panic attack." Two words were apparently doable. Despite his victory, he hunched over again, this time worked up at himself because he couldn't calm down. It took a couple seconds for the irrationality of that to get through his head. _Damnit. Breathe! Just breathe_. He struggled through a gagging swallow and reached out to his left, putting his hand on Sylar's knee and gripping it. Peter shut his eyes. People calmed him down; in a lot of cases, physical contact calmed him down. So did purpose. _My goal right now is to breathe. Deep, slow. Just breathe._

XXX

_Ah…Okay._ That wasn't something that immediately occurred to Sylar but it made enough sense, fitting the symptoms as he saw them. _Why is he having a panic attack?_ He stared Peter and the hand on his knee, wondering what was the purpose or message behind it. "Just…take it easy." _He needs air and…time, I guess, but he'll be fine_. Sylar made to move to stand and get water, thinking time alone might help until Peter gripped and pushed down on the knee in his possession, halting Sylar in place, still seated. _Stay here then._

XXX

Peter waited until he had it mostly together – all systems functioning … if not normally, then at least functioning. _He needs to know what just happened._ Speaking low and soft, Peter said, "I killed someone, yeah. Someone I cared about." Tired now from the emotional stress, Peter lifted his hand away from Sylar's knee. "Your wording," he said, turning his left hand palm up, fingers drawn together, "I didn't get my 'fingers wet'," he said with a slight curl of his lip. "I couldn't stop myself, so I came back and killed you instead, in the holding cell." Peter felt his internal pressure ease suddenly, his eyes widening a little as he realized he might not have been so out of control as he'd thought. "I … I think I was picking my victim. I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd stayed there, but I had enough control to leave before I ..." He shrugged, repeating his earlier 'fingers wet' gesture. _Maybe I knew Sylar would have regenerated? Was that why I went back for him? Claire survived it._

"Does that make a difference?"

XXX

_Haven't we all_, Sylar thought bitterly of killing loved ones. _At least you didn't play around in their blood afterward; you didn't touch it at all apparently so why do you get to have a fucking panic attack and get help dealing with it?_ The rest of it was Peter saying that Sylar was an acceptable victim, no surprise. He was not going to accept the blame for Peter freaking out like this over something he'd said either. As soon as Peter's hand lifted away (and if he hadn't done it voluntarily, Sylar would have batted it off himself), Sylar was making space between them. Petrelli's question was broad. "Yeah," he snipped shortly and rose to his feet. He could leave Peter alone for a few minutes in a search for water.

XXX

Peter sensed the hostility from Sylar. A one-word answer, clipped tone, and immediate, stiff departure? Yeah, hostility. Peter slumped and then, after a moment, pulled his knees up, leaned against the arm of the couch, and curled into himself like a troubled child might. He would have never clung to Nathan as much as he did or followed him so loyally, if he'd had anyone else to support him. He watched the doorway, more of a vacant stare really, and tried to turn himself off. It didn't work.

_I miss you, Nathan. I wish you were here. I wish that was you just a few minutes ago and maybe I could have told you about what happened in the future and you would have listened and even if you told me to wake up and quit being an idiot, I'd know you still loved me and would be there for me if I needed it. Maybe. _Peter shut his eyes and then put a hand over them, pressing slightly, willing himself not to cry. _Maybe. He wasn't always there for me. But I always wished he was and now he never will be again._

Sylar's departure changed the tenor of how Peter saw the consolation. It went from a true exchange of concern and comfort to a mere animal thing – 'it was warm and human and I needed that', rather than 'Sylar saw I was afraid and tried to help me.' He knew he was suffering from emotional whiplash, jet lag, whatever, but the effects of a panic attack were very clearly not merely physical. Peter curled himself a little tighter and tried not to think about how fucked up and pointless his whole mission was. _There has to be something worthwhile in what I'm doing here – even if asking Sylar to save those people was a dumb idea, it was better than doing nothing, right? If I fail, it still means something … right?_

_Hopefully something other than 'Here lies Peter Petrelli – He tried.'_

XXX

Sylar returned after a while with a pair of water bottles, tossing one next to Peter on the couch, feeling magnanimous for not having chucked it at Peter himself, forcing him to catch it with his dominant and broken hand. He cracked his own bottle and took a large gulp after seating himself on the piano bench, stewing quietly.

XXX

Peter straightened immediately when Sylar walked in the room, putting his feet on the floor and sitting normally. He rubbed at his face, worried that his skin might be inappropriately flushed even though he hadn't been crying. An energetic scrub of the rest of his face would at least equalize the coloration. He didn't see the bottle of water tossed at him and jumped when it hit the cushion beside him. He looked wide-eyed at Sylar for a moment, trying to figure out if the guy had missed him or hit his target of the cushion. Sylar looked pissed, but not pissed because he'd missed. Whatever had made him leave the room in a snit was still at work. Peter sniffed and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off slowly. "Thanks."

There was no answer. Peter sighed about that. He'd gotten some things out and it had helped him understand why he'd done what he'd done. Maybe talking would help Sylar. And if it didn't, it would be another thing for Peter to be depressed and broody about. "Tell me why you're angry."

XXX

Sylar merely looked at him. "You didn't even take the ability. You don't know what it's like so you don't get to act like some martyr just for thinking about it. But I'm so horrible: I kill people for a reason. What do you do? You kill people for no reason. How convenient. 'Picking my victim' my ass. You killed someone and wanted to pick my available, renewable brain so you killed me because, well, I'm not like other people."

XXX

Peter listened woodenly, the accusations coming as blows. They were all true, but Sylar slamming him over a failure to inflict additional harm was incomprehensible at first. He swallowed and took another sip of water to wet his suddenly dry mouth. _I think he's jealous. Angry that I didn't fuck up as bad as he did. That I found a way out maybe. That way out being him. That had to hurt – that I used him just like he's complained about everyone else doing._ "You … you thought I was your brother then, and I showed up and killed you." Peter frowned. "That was wrong. I'm sorry for it. I guess I was making for every living member of my family that day." He froze. That did kind of make it obvious who he'd killed in the future. He relaxed a little as he supposed Arthur was unaccounted for, along with Uncle Tim and whoever else wanted to be counted. He scanned Sylar's face for evidence that he'd guessed. But did Sylar even care who knocked who off among the Petrellis? He seemed a little wrapped up in himself at the moment, something Peter was grateful for.

XXX

"Don't insult me," Sylar sneered of the 'apology.' The standards he was held to would not allow for grief, panic attacks, mourning, regret or apologies because naturally he'd made a decision to kill each and every one of his victims, even the ones who were rather accidental in nature, hadn't he? The same was true for Peter. "You thought I was your brother then, too."

XXX

Peter pulled a brief frown and glanced away, then back. _I didn't know what to think. Everything was crazy enough for that to be true._

XXX

Sylar looked away for a moment, then back. "Your mother is mostly to blame. She only pretended to be my mother so I'd save your ass a thousand times in a few days. And possibly kill Arthur for her, also to save you, I'm sure. You're so lucky to have such a devoted mother." The last sentence was multi-layered with sarcasm, heat, and jealousy.

XXX

"She sent me to kill my dad, too," Peter objected defensively, pulling up his left knee and hugging it, leaning his body weight towards the arm of the couch. If there was a subject even more emotionally charged for him than killing Nathan, it was his complicated feelings towards Angela Petrelli. He looked down. _Did she know we'd end up killing Arthur together? Or was she just doubling her odds of having it done? She didn't mind having me kill a few million people for Nathan's career, so why would she mind having me kill my own father?_ He sighed, but his face was hard, drawn up in bitterness and pain. Like so many of the decisions in his life since he'd had abilities, he felt like there was a better solution to the situation that he hadn't thought of at the time.

XXX

"Congratulations," Sylar intoned in a drier-than-a-desert way. It hadn't been difficult to kill Arthur so he was hardly scrambling to take credit, but he knew that when blame time came around, Peter would dodge and blame him. In Angela's eyes, one of them had to be a back-up plan.

XXX

Peter didn't want to talk about his mother, even though and because Sylar had a lot of legitimate objections to air regarding her. _My family's supposed to be off-limits anyway. _**His** _mother is_, Peter thought begrudgingly. But Peter recognized it was a mutual subject and Sylar hadn't gone looking for it. He looked for something else to address in what Sylar had said. '_So I'd save your ass a thousand times' – he did save me a few times that day, but he doesn't accept any of my gratitude. He mocked me for it a few days ago. _Peter was more confused by that than anything else. He adored gratitude and positive attention; Sylar seemed to scorn it. "When I try to thank you, or apologize to you, you reject it. Why is that?"

XXX

_Why do I feel like this is some kind of emotional therapy session: 'sit back and tell me about your feelings'?_ It earned Peter yet another look. "Lots of reasons." _Or am I not allowed to have those?_

XXX

Peter lowered his head so his mouth was against the lowest part of his thigh, nose on the knee he still hugged. He shifted just slightly, feeling the hamstring stretch. It felt good, a nice sensation to oppose the tension ache he still felt lingering in his chest. He stared evenly across the short distance at Sylar, noting the lack of a real answer. _He doesn't want to accept anything from me – not help, not thanks. Well, he wants my company. There's that. We're getting somewhere … just slowly. _Unsatisfied by that, Peter lifted his face enough to say, "Tell me some of them," before going back to hiding part of his face behind his knee.

XXX

Sylar inhaled with the intent to let out a sigh but caught the breath and let it out slowly, like some attempt to control something, anything right now – Peter having proven himself to be highly annoying as if he needed the reminder. "I'm told having your life saved is one of those things you remember to thank your…" _savior? hero?_ "the person who saved you, without much thought or debate or years worth of _delay_." Really, when Peter said thank you or sorry it looked like he had to think about it, like he'd never thought about it before. Sylar was confused – for someone so evil to do what was, even in Peter's book, a very good deed, possibly the best thing he could ever accomplish…shouldn't it stand out that much more for going against his 'nature'? "So you either rate your own life strangely or you rate my 'good deeds' very strangely and I'm not sure which it is, maybe both."

"People only apologize or thank me to change my behavior. I'm not some trained dog who does things for pats on the head and you wouldn't thank a dog for retrieving a stick for you. Now you're afraid I might leap up and attack you at any minute you want to try to 'scratch behind my ears' or something." Even if he did perform for a reaction or gratitude, he'd ever received it in the past. Hell, sometimes he didn't even know why he did some things, sometimes 'just because whichever Mom wanted it,' and…yes, sometimes saving Peter or sparing him seemed stupid in hindsight. _(Because he was my brother and I wanted to save him)._

"And you really need to think if you can or should apologize for killing someone with my ability," Sylar snorted a breath in depressed irony. Okay, that was really _all_ of his reasons.

XXX

"Do you mean killing someone by using your ability, or killing someone who happens to have it?"

XXX

"Killing someone using my ability; the target is irrelevant." _Right? Or does he mean to imply someone with my ability should be killed?_

XXX

"Oh." Peter let his face sink again, but this time ended with his chin resting on his knee. He felt not at all guilty for not thanking Sylar in whatever timetable Sylar desired, but one thing it told Peter was that Sylar genuinely wanted thanks. Since he hadn't gotten them when and how he wanted, Peter surmised Sylar was now immaturely refusing to accept them at all – a posture that hurt him as much as anyone else, poisoning the relationship and making it difficult to move forward.

"Most of the people who save my life haven't killed me a few times before. It's something I have to think about." He sat for a long pause, chin on knee, soulful eyes looking over at Sylar, all attention on him. He was calm, and grateful that he could be calm in Sylar's presence, and even talk about very personal murder. "I'm not afraid you're going to attack me anymore. Not unless I do something to you."

XXX

Sylar shrugged. "I didn't ask for thanks or an apology," he retorted, making his lack of involvement clear. He didn't like the way Peter was looking at him. There was no way of knowing what would spring from his mouth next and that look said 'I'm curious and you're a puzzle.'

XXX

His gaze dropped to Sylar's shoes as he thought. Slowly he said, "If I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated something you'd done, or apologize for something I did, how should I do that in a way that won't leave you feeling like I'm trying to manipulate you?" He looked up, meeting Sylar's eyes.

XXX

His exhaled breath, a single chuckle of sorts, spoke of his amusement. Sylar looked away, shaking his head a little at the joke. _Why is that…funny?_ When his eyes returned to Peter's he saw that those piercing dark hazel orbs had been fixated on him the whole time. His amusement faded as his eyebrows quirked up slightly as if to say 'you're serious?' _That's the punch line: that there is no punch line. Why would he show appreciation for something I did or apologize for something he did? Do I look stupid to him? _"You can't. I wouldn't bother if I were you," he dismissed.


	76. Soul Subjects

Day 24, January 3, morning

"You don't have to accept an apology from me," Peter said evenly. "Or my gratitude. Not even for little things. But that doesn't mean I won't stop offering it." He was irked by the implication Sylar would never forgive any trespasses or appreciate anything Peter might do (or might have done) for him. It left him feeling deficient and insufficient, which he assumed was Sylar's intention. Striking back indirectly, Peter said, "About your ability and apologies - I thought an apology was for hurting someone, regardless of whether you did it intentionally or not. What do you think?"

XXX

"Ah. I get it. I need to apologize for something, right? Probably a lot of somethings. You'd have me apologize for breathing," Sylar guessed where this was headed and beat Peter to the punch. "Why are you asking what I think?" he shot back angrily. "I'm not the one who nearly puked about it just now or the one trying to apologize for…things. This isn't about me. If you did it, then you meant it. That includes accidents, self-defense, and 'the ability made me do it' excuses. Get used to the hot seat, Petrelli." _God knows I've had to._

XXX

Peter folded his leg down so he was sitting with one foot on the floor, the other foot resting against that knee. He held his ankle with his left hand – still holding himself after the panic attack and aware of what he was doing. But it worked and he doubted Sylar knew. Even if he did, so what? Anger was stirring in him, a more effective purgative for fear than anything else. Jerking his head up, he countered with a sharp voice, "I'm asking you because you were the one who said I couldn't apologize for something I did with your ability. So which is it? 'The ability made me do it' or I decided to do it? Intention matters to me; it matters to _everyone_."

XXX

Sylar crossed his arms. "How the hell would I know, Peter? You're the one who did it and you're the one who knows why you did it. There is a difference between motive and intent – you ought to know that." He avoided whatever trap Peter was trying to lay but he still couldn't think his way out of a paper bag.

XXX

Peter got to his feet and paced away restlessly. _He's not getting the point! The point is …_ It took him a moment to pull that together from his disparate feelings and thoughts. It was no wonder Sylar wasn't going where Peter was so indirectly directing the conversation. _The point is I fucked up and I didn't mean to and I wish someone could recognize that. It's not like anyone else can, because I've never told anyone else._ Peter sighed, shot Sylar an unhappy look, and then went over to the pool table where he started racking up billiard balls. He didn't want to admit any of that to Sylar, which meant there was nothing else to say.

XXX

After huffing an annoyed/relieved breath, he realized why Peter wasn't going back to the piano – Sylar was hogging the bench. _I wanted to sit on the couch anyway_. Sylar slunk back over to the vacated couch, palming his book. Perhaps it was the former topic of forgiveness (or lack thereof), talk about abilities and gratitude or Peter shutting down…it was distressing. _He expects __me __to hold __his__ hand, figuratively, when he gets upset. Like a Nathan-shaped crutch. _Knowing he was aggravating things but needing to know, Sylar asked in wondering tone, "Do- do you confuse me with him?" Peter certainly offered many second chances and apologies to Nathan over the years, far more than Sylar thought was necessary or deserved but…that was Peter and it would explain his behavior of late. He clutched the thick dictionary to his chest and thighs, adrift about what to feel about that possibility.

XXX

Peter snorted, glanced over at Sylar for a long second, then went back to lining up his shot on the 6-ball. He hit it with a decisive crack and the dark green ball went in the right direction, but overshot the pocket and bounced off the bumper. He grimaced at it. He was still unfamiliar with the table (but getting better) and his brace made his fingering difficult. It was something to pass the time. He turned his mind to Sylar's question as he chalked the tip of his cue stick. Talking was a more interesting way to pass the time. It was interesting that Sylar would even ask that question. He leaned his hip on the pool table and faced his companion. "No. I don't. You're the one who's here with me, though." Peter looked down, face shifting to sadness with a frown and a moment of furrowed, in-drawn brows. _Nathan will never be with me again._ It was hard to think, to accept. He spun the cue stick idly on the butt, the carpeted floor making the action slow, but it gave him something to do while he tried to struggle out of his feelings and focus on Sylar.

XXX

_That makes sense, too. He really does need me. And want me, to some degree. I can use that. _It perked Sylar up.

XXX

"I'm telling you things I never told him. I don't think I ever would have, either." He swallowed. "We – you and me – in a lot of ways we have more in common than I did with Nathan." His voice became quiet at the end, but it was still audible. "He never stopped judging me. I always wanted to live up to his standards. With you," Peter gave a small shrug, voice and body language still low-key, "I know you're judging me, too, but, you know, it doesn't matter as much when it's not coming from your big brother." Plus there was the not-insignificant factor of Sylar being in no position to cast judgment on others, but pointing such out was rude. Peter stuck to the equally true reason that Sylar wasn't a father-figure to him. He gave a wan smile.

After a few moments, Peter asked carefully, "Do you? Confuse yourself with him?"

XXX

Sylar made a face about the not-so-subtle message, lips thinning and his chin going up. It was disrespectful even if it was very true. The balls involved to lay it out there like that…_Then why do you act like what I think about you matters?_ Sylar could safely call a fair amount of bullshit on that. The rest, the majority of what Peter said puffed his pride and almost made him feel warm inside. He got stuck on the return question, another ballsy thing to ask, though Sylar didn't quibble about re-stating the rather obvious. Resentfully, he replied, "Unfortunately. You've made it impossible not to." He didn't tell him it was nice in some ways, too; it was the kind of bold statement Peter wouldn't care for.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and drew in a breath. This wasn't the first time he'd asked Sylar if Nathan's identity still lingered, but it was a subject Peter didn't feel was done yet and so he kept coming back to it. Sylar had been defensive and curt about it before. Now, he was saying a bit more. Peter wanted to explore that. "'You' – do you mean me personally, or is this one of those times where you're using 'you' to refer to everyone who worked against you?" His tone was not challenging or sarcastic. He simply wanted to know.

XXX

Hefting his book, Sylar glanced up over it meaningfully, "Both." His mouth worked as he thought how Peter…came to the conclusion – and action – that obliterating Sylar's mind was…good, acceptable or beneficial beyond the pale of his usual morals and care for the 'human spirit.' Then he eyed the large stick Peter still held. "You really like to talk with weapons in hand, don't you? Does that make you feel powerful?"

XXX

Peter regarded the cue stick, then looked at Sylar with a jibe right back at him, "You're easily intimidated by me having a weapon, aren't you?" _Is that because you feel powerless here?_ But Peter only thought that last question, not comfortable enough to diss Sylar so directly. He set the stick down on the table carelessly, knocking the 11-ball out of the way as he did. _Not like I was keeping score anyway._

XXX

"Oh, please." Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes to back up his point. Maybe there was a granule of fact there, but the main concern was Peter's stability or predictability with said weapon.

XXX

"Both, you say." He pondered that. It was the more important topic than trading quips about who had the bigger stick. "You said before that I was … familiar, and that made it harder for you to keep it straight." He didn't want Sylar to be Nathan. He'd considered it (obviously) at Mercy Heights, but that had been an act of denial and of desperation. _How did Sylar see that? What did being Nathan mean to him?_ Peter's brows knit together and he looked up, about to speak. For a second, he was distracted by the huge book Sylar was cradling. _What the hell is that? A dictionary? Is he reading a dictionary?_ He made a small shake of his head. He was too far away to read the spine and anyway, his next question was more pressing to him than the identity of Sylar's reading material. "What do you believe about the human soul?"

XXX

"What about the human soul?"

XXX

"Do you think it exists? And if it does, do you think it exists apart from the body?" Peter waited a long pause, wanting to know Sylar's beliefs without cluttering it up with Peter's own. Sylar's skeptical expression was clear enough of what he thought: _He doesn't think so_. This was hardly the first time Peter had believed in the supernatural in the face of doubt. _But he's seen this stuff. Maybe he just doesn't see it the same way I do_. Hopeful and earnest, he walked to the nearer end of the couch, gesturing as he tried to explain the inexplicable. "We - we have these abilities. I think I talked to a telepath after he was dead. I think he visited me in a dream. I possessed a different guy once, sort of. We co-existed in the same body, at least." Peter exhaled heavily. "Do you think certain abilities give people souls?"

XXX

Sylar frowned out of confusion and uncertainty. One thing was sure: _We're not talking about my soul here._ That left only one 'soul' to speak of, one that obviously meant more than all of Sylar combined. He didn't know whether to feel insulted or not, which was a strange feeling considering. This was important to Peter yet it was so far outside anything Sylar knew. He was damned after all. "I guess. Yes, it must," he said as if just realizing that in a very non-religious way. He was thinking about the last time he'd mentioned his own soul or lack thereof to Samuel; /'It would be a crisis for a lesser man, having their soul ripped from them, but not for me.'/ He didn't wonder what happened after death because he was soulless and he didn't care what happened to other people's souls. _He talked to Matt?__ Matt's not dead…At least, I didn't kill him. Funny, no one noticed that._ "Why would any ability, let alone a specific one, give a person a soul? That would mean normal people don't have souls and you don't believe that. You wouldn't say my ability gives me more 'soul.' Yours does, maybe."

XXX

"No, I don't believe that, but maybe souls are … I don't know, different. Different like abilities – everyone's is unique?" Peter's brows knit as he realized the existence of a soul was an insolvable as any question of faith – at some point, logic and reality became irrelevant - you either believed or you didn't. But Sylar had said something else that caught his attention. "Why would my ability give me more of a soul?"

XXX

Sylar explained, "If your ability is part of you, then copying it involves some...contact." His eyes flicked over Peter's body briefly, so close and intense as it was. "For some empaths it's sex, maybe for you it's touching souls," Sylar's voice was a false, and rather sarcastic, sense of grandiosity about 'touching souls,' shrugging it off with, "Without the sex. You know."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar closely for a moment, not sure how to take that. He chuckled nervously. "I touch people's souls?" Sylar might intend that as an insult and it might sound like it had dirty or at least weird connotations, but Peter ended up smiling shyly. He chuckled again, softer and out of happiness. His eyes crinkled around the corners of his lids as his face softened. "Really? Thanks." He chewed on his lower lip briefly, thinking, _It would be so cool if that were true – if I was copying people's abilities because my soul saw something in theirs that was similar, that clicked. That would be so great. Sex isn't that different – connecting with someone, intimacy … yeah, it's sort of all the same thing._ He pulled out of his reverie to look at Sylar, much more willing to be inclusive with him. "You want to come play pool?"

XXX

Peter looked pleased as punch about that and upon review, Sylar realized his words sounded like…well, they'd had something intimate in whatever crazy (probably imagined) future Peter had been to, when the empath got his ability. It also highly implied that Sylar had a soul to touch. _Maybe I do. It's just dark and stained._ He didn't see where the compliment lay but Peter was happy with whatever he'd said. _Does that make him like some abilities pervert – also 'rubbing' up against people without their consent?_ He narrowed his eyes at his companion, adopting a more normal gaze when the man turned to him. "Um…sure." This was more Peter's kind of game, more physical, and, of course, involving what equated to weapons – heavy balls and large sticks. _Or…is that really gay and he wants me to play?_

XXX

Peter racked the balls and rolled the white, nicked, and well-used cue ball towards the other end. He asked, "You know how to play?" Peter was not all that good at it, but he'd played dozens or maybe scores of times in smoky bars while in college and at Bretty-Brett's parent's house when they were in high school. He knew the rules and he'd seen some amazing trick shots demonstrated, but he personally was doing good to get the ball to do anything more sophisticated than roll in a straight line. He'd never put much effort into it, always more interested in the people he was playing with than the game itself. Just like now.

XXX

Sylar stood and selected a cue stick, the darkest of the bunch, from the wall rack. "Yeah." It was a simple game and he could have figured it out even if he didn't know how to play, but Nathan sure knew how. Briefly chalking his cue, Sylar looked over at the racked balls. This was to be an informal game, then, and it looked like Peter was going first.

XXX

Peter waited for a long moment, but Sylar had finished with chalking and was looking at him expectantly. Under the loose house rules Peter had mainly played with, the guy who racked the balls was not supposed to be the one who went first, for reasons of potentially arranging the minor spacing between the balls and thus affecting the break. But whatever – they were no bets riding on the game, so it didn't really matter. Peter just went around the table to do the break himself. He was much more engaged in finding out if Sylar thought Nathan's soul had survived the death of Nathan's body, regardless of how winding the conversational route turned out to be. "How do you tell what's a soul and what's not?" A single, long stroke with the stick sent the cue ball to impact against the massed triangle of targets. Disappointingly, the center ones stayed roughly in place, with only the two rear corner trios of balls spinning off across the table. None went in, though a few bounced off the bumpers.

XXX

"I never looked for evidence of a soul. Why would I?" he asked rhetorically. Sylar looked up as he thought about it. If his goal was killing people (or if that was somewhat unintentional result) why would he search or feel any better if his target/victim had a soul? Wouldn't that make things worse? "You're not one of those nuts who think everything has a soul, are you? Is it so questionable that you have to ask?" Pious Peter had turned into Doubting Thomas and it was so uncharacteristic, even from what Sylar knew of him, that it was shocking. Sylar made a shot, pausing to look smug before remembering it was still his turn. He missed the next one.

XXX

"No, I don't. People have souls, nothing else does. At least … well, I don't know for sure." Peter took his turn, calling his shot and pocketing a ball neatly and easily. They were always easier at the start, when there were more choices. "As far as animals go, and what exactly goes to heaven – dogs, pets, that sort of thing – I don't know. What happens after I'm dead isn't really the point of faith anyway, not for me. The reason I'm asking is because abilities change so much about how we see the world. And yeah, they change things like whether I can fly or heal, but there's other changes, too, that I'm trying to figure out – the whole time travel thing, and destiny, and … stuff." He trailed off there, wanting to add 'identity' but suspecting that might torpedo the conversation, it being insensitive in the extreme. So he went back to the metaphysical. "If you did look for a soul or something like it, would you be able to … tell? Did you ever have an ability that let you sense … that?"

XXX

Sylar looked up. "No. Maybe some abilities help with that more than others…I've never had those abilities. Why would you want to be able to tell? Either they exist and most people have one, or they don't – pick a side and operate with that assumption." He watched Peter in the process of making his move.

XXX

Peter huffed quietly. He couldn't get the information he wanted, about Nathan's identity or Sylar's sense of Nathan's identity, by 'picking a side and operating with that assumption.' He was hoping and assuming there was some evidence for one take over the other, but the only person available to him who might have that information was Sylar. He couldn't see how to ask about it without being more explicit about what he was aiming at. 'Explicit' didn't feel right yet between them.

But Peter was not one to give up easily. _Maybe I can try a different angle._ He put the same philosophy into play on the pool table, picking a different shot than the one he'd been working on, trying and failing to get the right position. He pointed at a different ball and then the pocket he was now targeting rather than calling it out verbally. "The thing we were talking about earlier – that day in the future? - well, before that happened, a future version of me … kidnapped me and … put me inside a guy on Level Five. You were there, on Level Five – not inside a cell, but you fought with Elle." He missed his shot, but he didn't worry about it. His unhappy pause was due to remembering his death threats to Sylar over the attack on Elle. _Is this likely to upset him, too?_

XXX

"I know. I was there. /Ma// told me. One of the bank thieves,," Sylar interrupted and waved the story (or whatever the fuck it was) onward. He was getting annoyed but maybe there was something new he hadn't heard or maybe Peter's point was finally about to be made.

XXX

"Don't-" Peter cut himself off with a scowl and a shake of his head. _She's not your mother! You don't get to call her that!_ But she also wasn't some innocent who needed Peter's protection, particularly if the relationship Sylar was intimating was one she'd asserted herself. He sighed and rolled his eyes, looking away and visibly conceding Sylar's right to use the word 'Ma' in relation to her. It was a big deal for Peter to do even that.

Testily, he changed the subject away from wanting to argue about Angela and back to the previous thread about souls. "What … what was going on there with him and me? Do you think that was me as a soul or just … me … somehow? Because that other me from the future came back while we were robbing a bank, stopped time, and pulled me out of there. Then we went to the future." Peter made another introspective frown. _H__e was a real asshole. I should be better than that. Am I that much of an asshole already?_

XXX

Sylar shrugged, calming now that some (more) sensible questions were coming to light after so much useless buildup. "We never found your body. I'd assume it was everything about you in him." '_In him' I can't believe we both just said that without laughing… 'He put me IN him.'_ Sylar licked his lips to avoid chuckling. He was sobered by the comprehension that his own…'transference' was not a full and complete one, and he considered what that meant for what was left of his soul. _I had a body and a mind wandering around in two different bodies._

XXX

Peter circled the table, eyeing the balls until he found a shot he thought he could take. He stooped, touching the table with the middle finger of his right hand, balancing the slender end of the stick on his forefinger and thumb. The bulkiness of the brace limited the angles he could choose from and had a lot to do with why his break had sucked (and likewise, why he'd hoped Sylar would do that duty). This time it went well – the called ball went in the labeled pocket. He had three balls of his seven in the hole now.

_'Everything about you' – is that the soul, more or less? But in that case my body was along for the ride. Is that different than what happened to Sylar? What did Matt do to him? Was it just a mental command, or can Matt manipulate people's souls? Is that what we're doing here? Is this really Purgatory? Or Hell? Didn't Sylar say it was Hell?_ Peter rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the mess of questions giving him a headache. _Beating around the bush isn't getting me the answer. Maybe it's time to take the plunge._

He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "You … have more insight, more personal experience with this sort of thing, abilities, and this soul stuff in particular, than anyone else I've been able to talk to." He swallowed, leaning against the pool stick, taking the final step. "When Nathan and I went to that hospital room in Odessa, Matt said you were inside of him. And that if Nathan- if you," Peter shut his eyes painfully for a second, "if whoever I was with touched Matt's hand, it would let you out. When that other me from the future touched Jesse, I came out." He looked aside uncomfortably. "Of course, time was stopped, so maybe that doesn't matter." He looked back to Sylar searchingly. "I just want to know what happened."

XXX

Sylar's face soured. Not only was Peter asking about sensitive things, he didn't even have the decency to…to what? There was no nice, polite way to phrase any of this. What bothered him more was that Peter couldn't…tell who he'd been standing with. How could he not know? Didn't Peter care or was he trying to be politically correct? Gripping his cue with both hands, he stared back at Peter for a moment. "No, you want to know what happened to Nathan." Sylar could, and did, say it. Nathan was dead and feeling no pain but Sylar, still alive, was in agony, living with a source of abrasion and danger how many times over. Yet still what held Peter's interest? The dead guy.

XXX

Peter's lips made a tight line and he grimaced. "I want to know what happened to _both _of you - if there was even any 'both' involved or if that was just you, alone."

XXX

"Nice save," Sylar snarked bitterly. "Your interest has always been for him, there's no need to pretend otherwise and placate the crazy person you admit wishing had died instead." Sylar lined up a shot and took it, mostly missing and skidding the ball aside without much force. Angrily, he straightened and grasped the stick again. Peter knowing what happened didn't change anything. "What I want to know, since I am the one still alive, is what would you have done if I showed up on your doorstep, looking like _him_," he spat, "asking for help, and you knew Nathan was dead or that I'd killed him?" It was so morally laden and Sylar knew it; knew it and didn't care. He wanted to know that if he could have fooled everyone including himself into believing he was that scumbag, that he could have been welcomed somewhere, had a home; if he, as whatever apparition and abomination he'd been, could have been enough for Peter that way.

XXX

"He's my _**brother**_, Sylar. Of course I care more about him than the guy who _murdered_ him!" There was nothing to apologize for in that and it confused Peter that Sylar didn't see that. But to the rest of what Sylar had said, he responded, voice raised in anger, "And you _did_ – showed up on my doorstep, looking like him, asking for help. And maybe I thought it was him, didn't know you'd killed him yet, but I knew it that night." Peter pointed at him, growling, "You slept safe in my bed, all night long, Sylar, so drunk you couldn't have fought me off if you'd wanted to." He tilted his head and took a step closer. "I knew … we both did." That had been a long, sleepless night for Peter, confused, horrified, and helpless, trying to find something sane in an insane situation, drinking in the bitter dregs of how awful his mother was. He'd forgotten entirely the national holiday that was to come with the dawn. His mother hadn't, though. What would have happened if she hadn't come by?

XXX

Of course he'd been safe, whoever he'd been at the time – Peter would spare Sylar to help Nathan (only to kill Sylar later to completely save Nathan). It was a very dumb question, one without an answer. Sylar wondered if Peter knew how convoluted this was for him; nothing about his situation could be separated from a corpse, they were intertwined _still_. It was things like this that made him wish to be mortal, made him wish he'd been the one to give up if living his own life was going to be like this, leave the two obviously loving brothers together and forfeit his own body. That would have been the decent thing to do. Peter's words reflected the hopelessness and complexity of the situation – he'd been welcomed in and cared for but the care and love wasn't intended for him and it never would be. He wanted to cry from overwhelming stress and frustration, he could feel it begin to bubble up as the silence grew and he had nothing to say or do.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar crumpled – no answer, no rebuttal, just the silence. Peter was still wound up though, still agitated by Sylar's outrage that he wouldn't have helped him. Had he known Sylar had just killed Nathan, then he certainly wouldn't have and it was bizarre that Sylar even thought he might. It didn't make any sense. He reviewed Sylar's words again and asked sharply, "What you mean by 'you're the one still alive'? You say that like something happened to both of you and you just happened to survive. Didn't you _kill_him?"

XXX

That caught Sylar's attention. He'd been stupid to engage in this conversation with this man, holding a weapon with plenty of projectiles around and Peter was between him and the door. The hostility Peter was leveling at him made it seem like the casual game of pool was over, one way or another. An image kept running through his head, that if he answered wrong somehow, Peter would break that pool stick in half and jam the sharp edges into his hands again, pinning him to the table and…_Of course, I killed him_, he nearly blurted. _It's not that simple. Is he going to sit and listen to what really happened or…? Why do I get penalized for defending myself?_ Sylar turned around and returned his cue to the wall rack, moving towards the couch slowly. "I meant that I'm alive and he's not. It's complicated," his tone sounded needy, begging and he hated himself for it, but he did not want to talk about and relive this. He sat and raked his hair back with a hand he hoped wasn't shaking. "It's complicated," he said again, almost to himself, feeling his headache roaring to explode his brain with throbbing.

XXX

Peter laid the pool stick across the nearer corner of the table, following Sylar slowly and at an increasing distance. When Sylar sat, Peter stopped. Hands at his side, Peter's voice was back to near-normal as he said, "Simplify it for me."

XXX

"I don't want to talk about it," Sylar nearly whispered his voice was so soft. It was a request; one he didn't expect would be understood or granted. At the same time, he was aware Peter might…snap if he didn't answer, and answer well. He didn't look at Peter and wondered if he, too, would have a panic attack. It felt like Nathan's stupid ghost was hovering over his shoulder, ready to take control of his body at any minute and Peter was goading him, tricking him until it happened so he could pounce. Peter didn't understand, he'd had a part in this, and here he was interrogating him like Sylar was required to divulge this, with no thought of how painful it was. It didn't make sense on multiple levels, though Peter's motive made sense. Perhaps inflicting pain was the purpose. He touched his book and wanted to sink into the couch, hide, and be safe.

XXX

Peter rocked back on his heels, brows pulled together and an expression of great concentration on his face. He crossed his arms as he regarded Sylar. _What if he _can't_ talk about it? Did he really kill Nathan? Why isn't he saying he did? (Maybe he did and thinks I'll take him out.) Yeah, true, but what if he didn't do it? If Matt can make him think he _is_ Nathan, then he could make him think he killed Nathan, too. What if Nathan isn't dead? (What about that corpse?) Well, what about it? I saw Sylar's corpse, too, and here he is. Nathan thought I was dead while I was in Ireland. Ma must have known I wasn't and she still let him believe I was. _Peter drew in a very deep breath and let it out slowly, cogitating. _If she'd do that, she'd be willing to let me think Nathan was dead, too. But then what about Sylar telling me that Nathan's dead? Well, how would Sylar know? Maybe that's what he's been told happened. Maybe he's got implanted memories along with all the other memories. Is there any way for me to find out? _Much as Peter wanted to pin Sylar to some flat object and bludgeon the truth out of him, he knew that wouldn't work. There might not be any truth there to get and pressuring Sylar for it was just … cruel. The guy looked like he desperately wanted to crawl off and hide under a rock at the moment. _What I need is trust and collaboration. I'm not going to get that if I'm beating him up, physically or emotionally. I need to know what his side of the story is. I'm only going to get that when he's ready to tell me._

Peter walked forward slowly, going to one knee in front of Sylar and putting his left hand on one of Sylar's knees. He looked up at him and spoke in a low, steady voice. "Sylar," Peter swallowed, "I know what I've been _**told**_ you did, to Nathan and to other people. And I know what I've _**seen**_ you do, in the past. I **knew** those things before I came here to get you and I didn't show up here to hurt you." He paused for a moment, feeling his way through what he had to say as he was going along. "I know it's complicated, maybe even more complicated than I thought. We don't have to talk about it, but I won't understand until we do -_** if **_we do." Peter gave Sylar's knee a pat and shifted his weight back, changing the subject and raising his voice back to normal. "I'm going to go scare up lunch for us, okay? I'll go by your apartment and get your pills while I'm out."

XXX

So Peter left the obvious weapon behind, it didn't mean anything; he was a hands-on guy. Sylar went still and stayed that way even through the shock of being touched. For once he didn't want to be touched. _Um…What?_ He stuttered and stared at Peter but not _at_ him. That tactic usually kept him out of trouble. _He keeps saying that._ There was no combination of factors in which Sylar came out unscathed. _Wait, what does that mean, 'but I won't understand until we talk'? 'Scare up some…'_ Sylar made a jerky nod, watching as Peter left. He sat there, listening intently for minutes after the doors shut behind Peter, waiting to see if he came back.

Time seemed to both slow down and speed up now he was alone. Sylar covered his face and finally remembered to breathe. What if Peter had pushed him to talk? Thinking about it, talking about it, let alone explaining it or informing the guy's brother of all people…it was almost unthinkable. He resented Peter for wanting to know, like he lived to provide Peter with information about Nathan. What he had to say would sound stupid, it wasn't believable, he didn't have all the damn answers and it was literally the most personal thing he could talk about, his mind. When his hands moved away, the palms were wet, his nose was runny and clogged. Sylar didn't know what was happening to him aside from some stress, he didn't know what was going to happen to him and there was nothing he could do. Eventually he lay on his side and let the moisture tickle the bridge of his nose and his temple, staring at the door still until, after a quiet forever, he felt better and dozed.

XXX

Peter returned after an hour, give or take. He arrived back with the aforementioned painkillers and their lunches in the canvas carry-sack. He came to the entrance of the rec room and lifted the bag. "Sylar?"

XXX

Sylar jerked and opened his eyes with difficulty, lifting his hands on instinct. The voice wasn't close but it was loud enough. "Huh?" He saw it was Peter, in the doorway with a bag and he relaxed. Remembering what led up to now, he wiped at his face and sat up as his headache allowed.

XXX

"I picked up some frozen dinners. Let's go up to the penthouse again to warm them up." He forced a laugh and turned to lead the way to the elevator. "I'm starting to understand what you said early on that you spent a lot of time cooking. I'm getting tired of what little I know how to fix. You think you could take over cooking in the evenings? You could tell me what to get from the store and I'd come back with it."

XXX

The request sounded awfully domestic. _That makes me the woman doing the cooking and him the man, bread-winning and picking up groceries? Should I be insulted by that or flattered that he trusts me not to poison him and cook better than him?_ At least this was harmless to talk about. "Sure," he answered after a few second's thought. "Cooking's easy. You have to be precise and you'll know if it doesn't turn out right. You won't starve if you fail but you can do it over and over again and…not get bored. The results are fun." He shrugged, hoping he'd made it sound more like an acceptably masculine hobby.

When they got to the suite, Peter offered him a choice of frozen dinner; he chose spinach artichoke ravioli. He let Peter warm his own up first because he wasn't feeling hunger as much as the other man probably was. Belatedly he hovered around to make sure Peter didn't need help opening something or lifting the trays, otherwise he got them water and utensils. There wasn't much to say on his part but it felt like the pressure storm from earlier had passed.


	77. Death Story

Day 26, January 5, morning

It was a peculiar sort of mental torture to want to ask about something desperately, but have to restrain yourself from doing it. Doubly so when Peter suspected Sylar felt obligated or required to answer, if the question was put to him. It was his regard for Sylar's mental integrity and a sense of empathy that constrained Peter more firmly than any order imposed from outside might have. The subject of Nathan's soul, his death, or Sylar's experience of either was of such immediate importance to Peter that forcing himself to pass up the opportunity to learn more about it was like slowly twisting a dinner fork into his own leg. But he did it, for a while anyway. He left it strictly alone for the rest of the day. He even managed to leave it alone the following day, despite repeatedly fantasizing about how he'd open such a conversation. He waited until the third day's breakfast of pancakes was cleared away before bringing it up, and even then, he wasn't bringing up the subject per se.

He took a seat behind the desk, resisting the urge to fiddle with the puzzle pieces in front of him, an incomplete work from the day before. He swallowed, exhaled slowly, and said, "I want to talk about which topics are off-limits and which aren't. To have that kind of a list was dumb of me. There are things we should be able to talk about, if you want to talk about them. I just … wanted to say that. There's … there's no list."

XXX

Sylar just looked at him. "There's always going to be a list, Peter. I'm used to them…even if I don't always…follow them." He noted the irony about the use of the word 'list,' although it was clear Peter wasn't referring to the other type of record. In fact, the 'no fly' list was helpful – it gave him boundaries and vulnerabilities to exploit.

XXX

"You …" _Me? Because I'm the one who wants to know stuff here. Selfish._ "Shouldn't be limited in what you want to talk about. If you want to talk about it." Peter glanced away guiltily, then back. He knew he was making this sound like a concession to Sylar when it was furthering his own ends. _But Sylar said we weren't really talking …_ _This is important to him, too, right?_ "There are things I want to ask about, but if I don't allow you the same opportunity, it's not right. Like Truth or Dare where only one of us has to answer." Peter made a small frown. "You don't _have_ to answer me. But that doesn't mean I don't want to know." Peter gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's just that me getting what I want … that doesn't have to happen."

XXX

Peter was babbling and that meant he had an agenda, but it was likely the most obvious choice. "You don't want to hear your own voice that badly, so what happens if I don't want to talk about it, hypothetically?" he tacked on the last word with pure sarcasm.

XXX

Peter sighed. _Yeah. I'm that obvious. (It's not like I was trying to be something else, after all.)_ "Nothing will happen to you. And nothing will change for me, either – I'll still _want_ to know, and I still won't."

XXX

Sylar's lips exercised themselves as he pretended to think, not like he had much choice. Peter thought that by poor attempts at flattery he'd appease Sylar into…therapy for…Peter about Nathan, somehow. _Wait…the crap about me is obviously false so he just wants to know about Nathan. Is there any way this can backfire on me? I could disappear…He'd only see me as a portal to Nathanville and Nostalgia City. Or does he really just want or…even need to know this? If someone killed…my mom, I'd…yeah, I'd just want to know. _"It sounds like I really want to talk about this whether I want to or not." Before Peter could butt in, he went on, "Peter, the thing is, you're not…going to like what you hear." _And you're going to get upset and when you get upset, around me, there's only one person you can tear apart, the guy who's making you sad and upset even though he's just doing what you wanted in the first place. I don't trust you to 'talk' about this unless I'm behind a bullet-proof barrier. This can't end well, not for me anyway. _With more consideration in his voice, he asked, "I just…answer some questions? And you'll leave me alone after?"

XXX

Peter gazed at him steadily over the puzzle-strewn desk. "Yes."

XXX

"Fine. But you sit across the room from me," Sylar pointed to back up his demand.

XXX

Peter looked at him blankly at first. _What? Why?_ But the answer was clear: _He thinks I'll punch him in the face. He doesn't even know what I'm going to ask!_ He frowned, unhappy that Sylar thought such precautions were necessary. Sylar raised a brow, just as pointedly as his finger had been. If Peter wanted his answers, then he needed to move. With an abbreviated roll of his eyes, Peter got up, rolling the chair around the desk to the space before the front door, while Sylar moved to his bed, putting the desk and distance between them. Peter sat down, both feet on the floor, both hands on his knees.

XXX

Once Peter had done it, Sylar uncoiled some. "What do you want to know?"

XXX

This was easy enough to say. Harder, he knew, to hear the answer. "I want to know how Nathan died. I want to know why you killed him." He carefully didn't put it as a question itself, nor as a demand – 'tell me how Nathan died' or 'how did Nathan die?' It was just a statement of what he wanted.

XXX

_This is going to be fun._ He knew it wasn't going to be pleasant but there less complicated and graphic things Peter could have asked. Sylar licked his lips and looked away. _He's not doing this to put me in the hot seat. _That thought helped immensely. "I cut his throat. He died quickly in a chair." Sylar and Nathan had both seen enough deaths to know when one was good and quick.

XXX

_A chair? Why a chair? Was he sitting down?_ Peter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It _was_ a hard thing to hear, even though he knew it had happened (or at least knew that as much as he could know something in this world of changeable reality). Even the smallest detail gave him something to hang onto in the face of the emptiness he felt inside when he thought about his brother.

XXX

"He'd crash-landed in the suite and was…standing up to re-engage me." He wasn't stupid – that self-defense card was thinner than air when he had his powers, including regeneration. He could have easily held Nathan off without even being touched or breathed on. They both knew that. Nathan never stood a chance and Peter had little more of one but he hadn't been there at the end. The senator had chosen to be defenseless, aside from Peter.

XXX

"You," Peter paused to take a deep breath and swallow. His emotions were starting to rage inside him despite his intention to learn as much as he could. "You used telekinesis. Why didn't you just … hold him, choke him or whatever, like you did to me at," Peter tried to clear his throat. It was getting tight. "At Kirby Plaza?"

XXX

Ever the pacifist, Peter was obviously aware of that contradiction. "Killing him became…part of my plan and…he'd hunted us, all of us." _It didn't have anything to do with you! I swear. If anything, I did it for you and Claire and everyone._ It felt like walking on his own grave to speak of this, choking, sorrowful, but it wasn't regret over killing the man, but that he had, in a way, killed himself.

XXX

"Was that how it was for all the people you killed? Were they 'part of your plan' and that made it okay?" His ability to speak was fine, apparently, if he was using his voice as a weapon against Sylar. Now it was raised and vicious. Peter started to get to his feet, aborting the idea before he finished rising so instead he just lurched in the chair. He was restless. It was a damn good thing Sylar was on the other side of the room and if he didn't want this to descend into violence, he'd better keep his ass in the chair. "Did he ever hunt _you_? Was it personal somehow?" Like that would help – Peter didn't know if it would, but he wanted to know anyway. He wasn't abreast of what Nathan had been up to with Homeland Security – for all he knew, he'd had Sylar trapped in a cell and personally tormented in … no, Peter couldn't, wouldn't think that of Nathan. Not Nathan. Teeth slightly bared, he looked to Sylar for an answer.

XXX

Sylar ignored Peter's angry spitting, including things that weren't involved with the topic. "He never took up a gun or a syringe against me in person, but he went after all of us: me, Luke and his mother, Micah, my dad – not that I'd mind seeing him carted away – Claire, you. It was the same thing you always do: stop the bad guy from whatever threat and save all the innocents." Sylar tilted his head at Peter to make his point about their similar views/goals then shrugged. "Nathan had to pay for what pointless shit he'd already done and…he needed to keep his head down until…Well, he didn't take his chance to keep his head down."

XXX

"He-" Heat and chill passed over and through Peter. He wanted to point out that he didn't kill the bad guys he stopped, but Arthur's body lay between them, metaphorically. _Nathan was not a 'bad guy' …_ but that, too, was weak. Peter himself had sworn to stop Nathan in any way possible. They had reconciled less than a day prior to his actual death. Depending on how you judged the reconciliation, it was only minutes before that terminal event. It really wasn't Sylar's fault that he hadn't gotten the memo that Nathan had reformed. Peter drew in a shaky breath, remembering how a future version of him had seemed to have few compunctions against shooting at his brother with murderous intent. He swallowed, confused by the murky morality, surprised by how such a black and white subject had suddenly become so grey. He'd almost missed the rest of what Sylar had to say, jerking his head up to seize on part of it. "What chance?" His voice had lost much of the righteous fury it had held only moments before. His words sounded as off balance as he felt.

XXX

_I guess I forgot he doesn't know this._ "I worked with Danko." He let that sink in. It should have been obvious he had his own agenda, one that had nothing to do with supporting or aiding Nathan's stupidity. "I was around Nathan sometimes, but he didn't know who I was. I never met him until the night before Stanton, in his office in D.C. Danko drugged him and saved his ass when I needed him awake." He snorted with disgusted bitterness, "I needed his memories then. I left him and later he showed up at Stanton with you." _So really, if you'd just stayed away, the only person who probably would have died was the President and a few secret service._

XXX

"I found him in his office ..." Peter said, mostly to himself. Looking searchingly at Sylar, head slightly tilted, he asked, "Why did you leave him alive only to kill him later?"

XXX

Sylar wondered if Peter merely didn't understand or was focused elsewhere or if he was supposed to have some more complex master plan when the nurse asked something he already knew. Patiently (though who knew who long that would last), he restated, "I needed him awake so I could get his memories."

XXX

That wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. He frowned, then snapped, "And now you've got them." Lip curled in disgust at the turn of events, he asked, "Was that you, or Matt?"

XXX

"Matt…somehow." Sylar made that very clear, emphasizing the name. "He gave me more than…what I was looking for. I only needed his career information." That was weak. There was a lot more to Nathan, even he knew that now.

XXX

Peter made a long, slow intake of breath. That verified it was Matt. Good – he wanted to know that. He wasn't sure whether or not to be offended that Sylar only wanted to use Nathan's experiences and as a result had no need for the rest of the human being he was interacting with, but it was hardly surprising. It wasn't like he'd used his other victims as anything aside from abilities on legs. He shook his head slowly. It was actually to the benefit of Peter's regard for Sylar that he'd killed people for so straightforward of reasons. Peter moved on to another lingering curiosity. "Why did he die in a chair if he was trying to re-engage you?"

XXX

Okay, that had been a weird detail to give. "He fell back into it after…" Sylar made a waving 'you know' gesture since the phrase 'get your fingers wet' had sent Peter into a panic attack earlier. It was a slight kindness and, well, he didn't want to remind Peter overmuch as it was counterproductive.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said quietly enough to be a near-whisper. His mind flashed over his memory of the wound on the neck of Nathan's corpse. The medic in him wondered how deep it was, how instantaneous the effect. Did he have time to stagger? Did it sever both carotid and jugular? If it was just the jugular, then Nathan's brain would have continued to get fresh blood until he bled to death, which even though that would have been within a minute or two, cutting the carotid would have blacked him out within seconds. Peter blinked and covered his eyes with his left hand. _I don't want to think about this._ The details were nauseating. Swallowing roughly, clearing his throat and sniffing, he reached for the most complicated mystery he'd entertained recently, one that had little or nothing to do with Nathan. "Do you remember any discrepancies between the time you left the room with me and the time I met you in the president's limo? How much time passed? Are there any blackout moments?"

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, confused. Peter must have no idea when the switch occurred. Come to think of it, neither did he, not truly. "No…" he said slowly, still thinking. "The last thing I remember is seeing you in the limo. You must have…brought me to them and…" Here his eyes narrowed. "I'll assume you weren't there to witness what they did to me." That was partly what it sounded like – an accusation. There was no way Peter had known – he'd been surprised and devastated to learn of Nathan's death. _What would he have done if he'd been there?_ Sylar couldn't wrap his mind around the image of Peter standing there, allowing Sylar's mind to be raped and obliterated while helpless under the influence of drugs or abilities. _Would he have…protected me or…preserved Nathan?_ He felt his throat clench at the thought of that kind of deliverance, but a thought was all it was.

XXX

"No," Peter responded. "I had no idea." He exhaled heavily, remembering that night. "We drove the car around, got you out of it, and turned it back over to the Secret Service. I gave you to Noah. He was the one who gave me the tranquilizer. He said it would work on you." It had not been Peter's expectation that Sylar would die from the shot or even necessarily that they (Noah, the Company, his mother, whoever) would kill him later. But Peter had felt his part was done – he was neither judge, jury, nor executioner. Sylar was stopped; Sylar was turned over to what amounted to the authorities; next thing Peter knew, he was invited to Sylar's cremation, where he got to reflect on how betrayed he felt by the whole turn of events.

He didn't think any of that would be comforting for Sylar to know. Saying he hadn't expected an execution wasn't much of a defense because he'd done nothing to prevent it and several things to make it possible. He doubted Sylar would understand that Peter's following isolation from his family and even what passed as friends was the result of how morally void he'd found the whole thing to be. Disaffected, he'd turned away from everyone. What had really transpired behind the layered veils of secrecy? "Did you wake up as Nathan or were you still you? Where were you? Who was there? What happened?"

XXX

"I…" he began but his voice failed him and he was quiet for a long time. Once more Sylar considered Peter playing an angle because of the lack of focus on anything Sylar could deem to be Nathan-related. This…sounded like Peter was asking about _Sylar_. He couldn't see why the other man would even be curious. The Petrelli almost came across as understanding but that was the placating nature to squeeze his source, in the event the answer had something to do with his brother. Sylar forcibly ignored the desire to feel…comforted because it wasn't for his comfort at all. The only thing that pushed him to continue and get it out was his sort-of agreement to answer Peter's questions. "My body…adopted…Nathan. I…found the Carnival. You know how it went. My mind…got stuck with Parkman and the rest is ancient history." Sylar skipped over his own story since it was hardly the focus and he hadn't agreed to talk about that.

XXX

_I know how it went? Actually, I don't. _Peter's brows lowered. Every sentence spawned new questions. First, though, he wanted to rule something out: "Can you get rid of Nathan's memories? Do you want to?"

XXX

Sylar blinked and his head came up in surprise. "What?!" Had he ever tried to get rid of them? No…but he'd never given it serious thought because how would that even be possible? He'd gotten memories returned to him from Damien at the Carnival but that was different. He'd gone to Matt to get his powers suppressed and that was as close as he'd gotten to anyone who could (or already had) fuck with his brain. The part that stunned him was the tiniest hint that he didn't want to get rid of Nathan's memories, all of them. How could he not want the multitude of violating, disgusting images and feelings gone? For the most part, they were nicer than his own, everyone thought Nathan was better than Sylar had ever been and Nathan had things – love, a career and prestige and family (sort of). Of more importance right now…Nathan had had _Peter_. Without the memories, Sylar knew he'd be sunk with the empath. It was advantageous to have and keep them and…Sylar had always liked playing pretend until he was made to do it to survive or feel safe. How sick was he that he'd even consider keeping them? How could he want that? After all that had flown chaotically around through his brain, it struck to him what Peter was either offering or threatening along the lines of his questions.

Sylar knew his eyes got wider and he got to his feet with shaky brevity. _Shit and he's by the door…_With as much menace and dead-seriousness as he could exude, Sylar pointed at the other man. "I'm only going to say this once. If you try that, I will kill you." _If I even think you're trying to Haitian me again, I'll kill you._

XXX

_Then I won't. I didn't intend to try it._ Or so Peter thought initially, almost blurting out something of that sort before his brain for once moved faster than his tongue. _Wait … he _wants_ Nathan's memories? They're not his! He has no right to them!_ Peter's face hardened, lips pressing together and eyes narrowing. He turned his head a little to the side without taking his eyes off Sylar. _If I could, would I take them from him?_ Peter's eyes dropped a fraction, staring vacantly at Sylar's chest. _He didn't ask for them. But he did want them. I'd take them if I could have them, but just to lose them? No. Even in his hands, it leaves something of Nathan still … alive._ He looked back up, eyes more present, reading Sylar's features.

_Fear. He's afraid of that, of losing Nathan's memories. They mean something to him. But not as a trophy – as something else. If I try to remove those memories, there's not going to be any 'try', I'm going to 'do'. I don't want a stand-off with him about this, though. Not until I understand what it means to him._ "I have your memories. I don't think about them much. What do you want me to do with them?" Peter asked simply enough, his expression having cleared and shifted to more empathetic and open, honestly wanting to know Sylar's thoughts on that. It would give Peter insight on what Sylar felt towards Nathan's memories and perhaps some ideas about what to do with the undesired and unintentional mental baggage Peter had picked up during their battle at Mercy Heights.

XXX

Peter didn't respond to his very serious statement, instead he answered with something worse. Sylar couldn't tell if it was a riposte threat or a continuation of the conversation, either way it wasn't pleasant. _Oh, God, _was all he could think._ He __has__ them all. That's how he knew...that stuff earlier. I don't believe him that he doesn't think about them often; how could he not? Why wouldn't he want to?_ So Sylar was left with a weakened, powerless hand pointing uselessly at the other man, standing with nothing to do and nowhere to go, though he looked around for something to occupy himself with, arm dropping in the process. His throat felt scratchy and raw and he hadn't spoke yet, the violation and vulnerability Peter had was incomparable to what he had in Nathan's memories. For one thing, Nathan was dead and gone, a third party at that. But Peter had life ammunition, everything he could ever want to twist Sylar any way he wished. He had no way to hide or even lie.

Dumbly, he stood there, working up a response. "I'd tell you to destroy them but I know you can't. And why would you?" That was said hopelessly, with slight acknowledgment of the irony. Once more, he searched for an escape and found none. Voice ragged, he finally answered, "Just ignore them. They're not…I...I don't remember things correctly…a lot. Whatever you see, it's probably just…It's all screwed up." _He already knows that. Jesus, how can he stand to look at me? Talk to me?_ He felt filthy. Sylar sat gracelessly, still reeling. One thing became clear: "That's what it's like for you, with Nathan's…No one knows you better than he does and so do I and now you have those from me," Sylar gestured with a finger, the hand itself not leaving his thigh. "At least we're even," he said with humor he didn't feel. _He knows me better than anyone else ever has. That…must be just as horrifying for him as it is useful._

"How did you get them?" That would give him a timeline of some kind. _He said he ignores them…why? If I ask it, though, he'll get ideas._

XXX

That was a good question. Not that Peter didn't know – he did – but he had already been entertaining a level of uncertainty about reality-as-he-knew-it. Was there any other possibility? _When I got the ability from Rene maybe? What about later, when I met Matt? Is it something about being here – is telepathy feeding me the information and I'm just thinking I had it from Mercy Heights? _His brow knit slightly and he frowned – that last one was really hard to disprove. "I think I got them at Mercy Heights, using … when I took all of your ..." He shrugged loosely, eyes falling sightlessly as he realized how that must have been to Sylar, not that Peter had cared too much at the time. Even now, being ambivalent about it, he knew it was murder. Or an attempted murder. Or maybe a successful one that Sylar came back from. Peter wasn't sure what it was, but one look at Sylar's face made it clear he wasn't discussing something easy for the other man to hear.

Peter's voice softened. His brother's killer or not, Sylar was a human being who seemed deeply affected by that event. Gently, making eye contact, he said, "When you wouldn't give me Nathan, and I took everything out of you that wasn't him – I think that's when I got your memories. I'm not positive because I didn't start seeing things until I was here with you, but … there wasn't as much triggering them until I was here, either."

It occurred to him Rene must have Peter's life story from that assault Peter had endured in the cargo container, before the torturous trip to Ireland. He sighed slightly. The thought didn't bother him much. The idea of people knowing things about him, by itself, wasn't distressing. A little embarrassing maybe, but he hardly saw Rene, he was a family friend (rather than enemy), and it seemed like he had some good intention in what he'd done, painful as Peter had found it. As opposed to Sylar wanting Nathan's memories to help assassinate the president, and having them forced on him later so he could perpetrate some demented, possibly grief-fueled plan of Peter's mother. Peter could have been talked into giving Rene the same information, whereas he would have fought Sylar possessing it.

XXX

Sylar got the intended feeling that Peter really didn't care much for even thinking about this_. (He said 'your' not 'you'). He hasn't acted…violated or put-out except when he jumped me with accusations. But that still doesn't make sense. _"Then why do you keep asking me questions you already know the answers to?" _Is it a test? Another one of those medical ones or…just seeing if I know my own story?_

XXX

Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, Sylar's previous words now making sense, asking him to pretend the memories were false. That was only relevant if Peter had delved into them. _He must think I … know, remember, have paid attention to? those memories._ He shook his head. "They're not mine. I don't …" Peter huffed, shoulders rising and lowering as he tried to find words to explain something so purely mental. "It's like when I dream. If I have a dream about someone cutting me off in traffic and then getting out of the car and turning into a dinosaur, stomping down the street stepping on cars, and I get out of my car to stop him but my only power is shooting lasers out my fingers, and they're really narrow, needle-like beams that go forever, shooting through the dinosaur and anything behind it, like buildings and people and I can't figure out how to stop it without slicing up everyone near-" Peter cut himself off. One, Sylar probably didn't give a fig for Peter's weird, vivid dreams. Two, it said way too much about Peter's insecurities and he was getting anxious just thinking about it. And three, the dream's details were irrelevant to the current discussion.

XXX

_Right. And I'm the crazy one who needs to sleep alone._ Sylar could only stare, forcefully keeping his expression blank instead of…anything else. At first he'd thought Peter was pulling things at random to make a point but…not so. Sylar grasped Peter's underlying fear regarding his abilities. The difference was where Peter feared, Sylar had lived them – any evil thing he could have done, he had already done, intentionally or not.

XXX

"Well, when I wake up, I know that was a dream. It didn't happen. That wasn't really me. That's how it is with your memories." Peter looked off to the side. "I don't … think about them. They aren't part of me," he said, looking back. "It's something I've … I've got, but I don't see it unless I think about it. Like, maybe, opening a book. Or concentrating. I have to actually think about it and I don't do that." He gestured at his head in frustration. "I don't want this. I don't think you want me to have it. I don't want _you_ having Nathan's memories. So if I don't want you knowing what he knows, then I can't be using the information I have about _you_. It's … cheating. It's wrong. I _do_ ignore them, as much as I can."

XXX

"I don't believe you, but that's beside the point," really it was. He would never believe or even know if Peter 'focused' on the memories (the most evidence he would have is Peter saying, knowing or asking about strange things).

"But you looked before, when you said you knew it was foreign…matter." Sylar pointed out. "You were curious then, what's to stop you from being curious later? I'm not going to tell you anything; you know that. The only way you'll get an answer is by searching or 'focusing,' whatever the hell you want to call it. So when you don't get your way, you'll…start looking. You won't be any different from me, except you have a choice, or so you say."

XXX

"I didn't look _on purpose_. At first I thought you were … projecting thoughts into my head. Or dreams or something, but I couldn't figure out why you'd show me that." He grimaced, not upset at the idea of seeing Sylar being sexual, but at the confusion he'd felt at the time about why Sylar might elect to reveal something so personal. It had been too tender to strike Peter as boasting. His grimace faded, remembering the way Sylar had thought Elle was so beautiful at that moment she nearly glowed. Seeing her through Sylar's eyes, she'd looked so lovely and heartbreakingly sweet, that something good had happened … Peter shook his head and palmed his forehead, trying to block the memories he hadn't intended to re-explore. "I- that's-" He made a low grunt of frustration.

XXX

Sylar glared, trying to see through Peter to get to the truth. "How could I 'project' anything at you? You're the one with telepathy! It happened more than once; you didn't control it; you _chose_ to look. I thought you cared about intent," Sylar sneered. One way or other, he was going to get a better answer out of Peter.

XXX

Peter lifted his head enough to glare back at Sylar. He didn't like the man's tone – words even less so. He was getting the impression Sylar was deliberately calling him a liar, on something that was akin to a point of honor for Peter. Teeth slightly bared, he bit the words out: "I did _not_ choose to look." Peter straightened in his seat, making what was hopefully his last defense. "I was asleep the first time. I didn't have any choice and I didn't have any control. I didn't know what was happening. Since then I've left it alone."

XXX

"Really? How many times have you successfully ignored it? Does it build up? Does it disturb you if you don't take a peek?" Sylar couldn't help the feeling of betrayal he had. Peter had known something about him, regardless of what he thought it was or how it got there, and he hadn't informed the owner, 'hey, I've got something of yours. It was this moment. Did you mean for me to have that?' The more rational part of him, the colder part, decided he didn't want to know every thing Peter saw about him, at least that way he wouldn't have to chase down and deal with a dozen new demons as Peter saw into his past. _Why do I care if he sees it? (Because…I changed to get away from everything that happened. No one can know. And he'll use it against me)._ If he didn't know, it wouldn't hurt him…until Peter ambushed him with whatever ghost from his closet at whim.

XXX

Peter shifted restlessly in the chair, the wheels making slight noises with the motion. His body was tensing. Defense was not going to get him anywhere. "Just like you asked me - why would I keep asking you things if I already knew the answers?" he burst out. "Do you think I'm that bored that I'd play that kind of a game with you?" It flashed through Peter's head that whatever machinations Sylar had been subjected to made this a poor line to use with him. People had, after all, pretended to be his family. It wasn't so odd to imagine Peter might pretend to be ignorant for a few weeks. Shaking his head, Peter got to his feet. He would not be cast as the same sort of fucked up manipulator as his parents. Also, Sylar needed some perspective. His personal crisis had nothing to do with why Peter was here – to save lives, a mission to which Sylar was being a frustrating obstacle. Drawing himself up, he spat, "It's not that hard to ignore, Sylar. Despite what you might think, you and your fucking memories are not the center of my universe. I just shut it out and focus on what's important! You should try it!" The last was a challenge, complete with a jerk upward of his chin.

XXX

Sitting on his cot, Sylar stayed where he was, aiming at contrary to upset Peter more. He was stung and angry at being dismissed so easily (but he doubted it was that easy in for Peter to do in reality). It was intentionally disrespectful but Sylar had ammunition of his own. Giving plenty of attitude, he fired back, both barrels, "You're right, Peter. The next time 'your fucking brother' decides to make an appearance, I expect you to shut it out and focus on what's important. After all, he's dead and I'm very much alive." Well aware of the glove he'd just slapped Peter with (and he was escalating the situation), Sylar fully expected things to get violent. So much the better because it would show the empath's true colors: the holier-than-thou and hypocrite routines.

XXX

Peter took a step closer to Sylar, which still left them most of the living room apart. "Like you had nothing to do with that? You _murdered_ him! Just because it was 'part of your fucking plan' or whatever!" He made a wave of his hand and arm that managed to be both dismissive and disparaging at the same time (the two weren't much different, anyway). "Your '_plan'_ to kill the bad guy, right? Your '_plan_' was to murder someone! That's what you set out to do! And anyone else who got in your way, I'll bet." Peter pointed, unnecessary though the emphasis was. His raised voice and snarling tone conveyed his bitter intent just fine. "If it weren't for what you did, I'd have _him_ to go to instead of _you_!" Peter looked away to grimace and wince from a stabbing ache from his jaw, reaching up to rub under his ear. He looked back up at Sylar with visible loathing, lip curled and eyes dark.

XXX

Sylar's look was incredulous. "Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? Make me feel guilty?" Peter's 'attack' was a real miss as far as he was concerned, taking the easy out Sylar supposed he'd unintentionally presented. He wanted Peter riled up, angry, swinging even. "Boo hoo, your big brother is dead. Shit happens and life sucks. You're not special that way. It sounds-"

XXX

Whatever Sylar had intended to say beyond that was lost to Peter. He was on his way across the room at 'shit happens', concepts flashing through his mind at that interesting lightning speed the mind manages when fight-or-flight is triggered. People often referred to it by saying everything seemed to slow down. Peter had never had that sense, but he didn't doubt it worked that way for some. For him, there was an instant awareness that hitting Sylar with his right hand was dumb; hitting Sylar in the head, at all, was dumb; and Sylar had a low enough opinion of him to think he'd do it. It added up to the perfect feint, because all Peter really wanted to do was get his hand on Sylar's throat and shut him the hell up. He came in with his right hand high and pulling back for a punch. His left was lower, ready to strike forward but he was hoping Sylar's attention stayed on the more obvious threat.

XXX

Mission accomplished, Peter was approaching him with a crazed look of rage. For the moment, it made Sylar feel satisfaction. And it was familiar; he knew what was coming, he knew the motions. _His right…?_ He wondered at the choice of raised fist. '_Oh, well; this will be funny'_ was his abbreviated realization. To ensure Peter maximized his own stupidity and pain, Sylar stayed put, neither bracing nor flinching from the oncoming blow, watching as it drew closer and larger in his vision.

XXX

Peter's punch whiffed and he grunted, missing the front of Sylar's face by at least a half inch. Managing not to hit the guy took more focus and attention than he'd expected. What he _had_ expected was for Sylar to help him out by blocking. That the guy would just sit there instead and let it happen? Bizarre. But Peter carried through with using his left hand to seize him by the throat and shove him backward as far as he'd go on the narrow bed.

XXX

Sylar's shock – _how could he have missed?_ – lasted only seconds. _Whoa!_ His eyes went wide as he felt but didn't see the grip that propelled him backwards by main force. As their lower halves mindlessly settled themselves, Sylar laughed aloud, gleeful and smug at Petrelli's reaction. _(I made him do that! That's power!) _Being strangled in his bed was ironic in a not-amusing way. Being strangled by this man had promise. Being in his bed with Peter, in this vague position (as near as he could tell) was…Okay, Peter seemed a little intent with the whole throat-crushing thing. Sylar could feel his body reacting before his mind caught on to the threat. Equally angry at being disrespected and certainly not going to take…_this_ lying down, he jabbed his own dominant fist into Peter's side, the other hand tangling in the empath's hair and yanking it back to hurt and discomfit.

XXX

Peter tried to foil Sylar's body blows from the left by having his right forearm run interference. Most of his attention was on adjusting his left-handed, one-handed grip on Sylar's neck. Pressure poorly applied would take a lot more strength and (more importantly) time to have the desired effect, but if he got it right, then Sylar would have mere seconds to take potshots at him. _Medical training is good for something_, he thought as his fingers dug in. _Lau__gh at this, you son of a bitch!_ He snarled into Sylar's face, a bestial noise emerging rather than words as all of his rage played out in his wild-eyed face. He ignored the hand in his hair as much as he could. Losing some hair was not nearly so important to Peter as losing blood flow to the brain was to Sylar.

XXX

_I can breathe…I'm not hitting him…I'm not…_From there any action and thought weakened. Peter wasn't messing around. Sylar could feel his strength and cognition fading with every heartbeat and it left him with the primary emotion of powerless, phobic terror. _**(He's going to Haitian me!) **_That much was understood. Panicking hands gripped at Peter where he could as his body felt weightless, his veins hollow yet burning; he thought he was moving his legs but he couldn't be sure. His vision narrowed and blackened frighteningly fast. _(It's quick, it's quick…)_ Death would be quick, lonely as promised.


	78. Pulse II

Day 26, January 5, morning

Peter pulled in a few breaths, feeling Sylar's pulse reassuringly present under his left hand, which was still in place but no longer bearing down. He waited as the man roused enough to hear him. Teeth clenched and jaw aching with a constant pain, Peter leaned close to growl, "Yeah, life sucks - real funny. You know that thing you said earlier about killing me if I tried to take Nathan's memories from you? Well, I've got something I care about that strongly myself. As long as I'm alive, you will show some _respect_ for what you did to him and what that means to me." Peter wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar refused – kill him, torture him, get inventive, break his word and abandon Sylar entirely? Not knowing, he left the consequence unstated, but there was no way in this hell he was going to allow Sylar to mock his brother's memory – that he was sure of.

XXX

Sylar inhaled deeply. His esophagus and trachea felt fine, if a little pinched or bruised around the edges in a couple spots. He kept gasping; panting just to get his heart to keep up even though Peter's hand was nowhere near his forehead. That was good. Thoughts were fuzzy, his body felt drugged, sluggish, also fuzzy until the blood began to pound through his skull at massive rates. The reverberation had to be audible to the other man, and God, it was painful. Sylar groaned, not recalling how he got here but happy he was in bed and that Peter was comfort- The angry Italian's words slowly penetrated his mental fog. _What is he- what were we talking about? Is he checking my pulse?_ Sylar blinked languidly, melting in place despite his bitch of a headache. He could feel his legs splayed around Peter, smelled Peter's breath on his face, but the intent look he was getting was far from sexual (in fact, it looked pretty berserk). He lifted watery hands and wrapped his fingers lightly around the other man's wrist, clasping and stroking it sensually. Loopy as hell, he grinned, "Bet you say that to all the boys you choke in bed." _Choke?_ Where had that come from? It fit the facts and the scenario and it sounded a lot more like Peter behavior than whatever this was. It didn't overly concern him. "Whatever you say, Petey," he purred and slid a few fingers up underneath Peter's shirtsleeve to caress his forearm.

XXX

_What? Did he not hear me? Or … did he not understand it?_ Peter hesitated, caught between being outraged at the inappropriateness of Sylar's behavior and confused by it. People often had wacky, disoriented reactions to coming out from under anesthesia. Although he hadn't choked that many people out in his life, he suspected the mechanism worked the same, meaning Sylar's behavior wasn't a continuation of some kind of death wish and Peter's instinctive desire to hit him until he made sense was wrong on several levels. Peter went from fire-breathing righteousness to befuddled helplessness fast enough that it made his head spin. No longer shunting away inconvenient sensory input, Peter's awareness of the ache in his jaw increased and he winced. He looked down at where Sylar was touching him (_that's nice, though_), at a complete loss as to what to do.

XXX

Peter was warm and so close, not reacting to being petted. That acceptance sent a jolt through Sylar, it felt like his breath left him again, this time from arousal. He felt a noise bubble up but it didn't make it to the surface yet, his desire an overwhelming drug. Since that had gone so well, he wanted more; he wanted everything. _Yes, bed. Do it here. _Sylar wrapped his legs around the back of Peter's thighs, one hand sliding up his arm to bury itself in the empath's beautiful hair, sending the free hand down and around his side, aiming to pull Peter atop him and grope him if it was allowed (and maybe even if it wasn't). Sylar shifted his hips back and forth in anticipation but Peter wasn't close enough to make contact.

XXX

_Um, uh … wow … no?_ Peter swallowed, apprehension and unwanted pleasure washing through him. "No!" He said in a strangled voice of his own, putting out his hands to either side to lift himself up and prevent Sylar from pulling him down again. He hadn't expected that, or any of this, really. A few moments ago, he'd been trying to get his angry point across as forcefully as possible. Now he was trying to be gentle with someone who maybe didn't know what was going on? At the very least, Sylar wasn't being insulting, disrespectful, or threatening, which removed violence as an option.

Peter tried to extract himself, but Sylar was not cooperative with it. "Sylar, let me go," he said with an attempt at a calmness he didn't feel. Anxiety and other things coiled in his stomach. His body and certain parts of his mind liked what Sylar was doing way more than he wanted them to. "We were just fighting. I'm still pissed. Let me _go_." His voice rose a little with alarm at the end as he realized Sylar was really into this, slow humping included. _Does he have an erection?_

XXX

By the time Peter reacted, their groins were pressed flush together; Sylar slowly ground against him, every full shift of motion dragging his dick against another live person – this person – was nirvana, pure and simple. He couldn't think, could barely speak, he just needed and needed it very badly. "Shh, Peter…" he grated out when he was able. He felt weak and heavy with heat.

XXX

There was no doubt Sylar had an erection and if this continued, Peter wouldn't be far behind. As it was, it felt like his hair was standing on end with tension and excitement. He shuddered and some traitorous part of his brain reminded him of how long it had been since he'd had an intentional and completed sexual moment, even purely masturbatory. That length of time probably wasn't healthy. Sylar looked good, smelled good, sounded good, and Peter's brain was overloading with tangled emotions and desires so complicated it made the Gordian knot look like cat's cradle. Panting, he shifted his weight to his left hand, using his right to push Sylar down and away from him. "No," he said firmly, hand still on the other man's shoulder. Voice softening just a little, he added, "Let go of me. This isn't happening. We are about to have a fight, in your bed, in your apartment. Things will be broken."

Peter sounded, and was, genuinely unhappy about that prospect. He didn't want to fight in Sylar's bed, nor his apartment. If he hadn't said something to Sylar about beds being a truce area back when they were snowed in at the penthouse, he had meant to (even if sitting on it and provoking him wasn't part of the deal, Peter regarded _now_, when he wasn't blind with rage, to count). Then there was Sylar's apartment – he was clear that its contents mattered to Sylar and somewhere along the way, that had began to matter to Peter. He didn't want to wreck the place or the things in it. Some of them might be truly irreplaceable – just like his reputation in Sylar's eyes. He didn't want to be known as the guy who destroyed what few personal possessions Sylar had left in the world.

XXX

Again, Peter remained motionless (or close enough to it), allowing Sylar to act on his desires and touch the other man. His hand ghosted over the back of Peter's waistband and petted and stroked in his hair; he was seconds away from lifting himself up to attack Peter's neck when the spell was interrupted. Sylar was more swollen and stiff than he'd been in years, panting and flooded with sex, resisting being pulled back, pushed away and told 'no,' like he was hearing now, as if he could be turned on and off like an inanimate switch. He made some kind of protesting, hyper-reluctant noise that sounded entirely too needy but he didn't move away. _He doesn't sound threatening but I know he doesn't care if he breaks things…He's giving me an out, I think. Why do we have to fight?_ Letting go was contrary to Sylar's urges, contrary to his experience with success, too. Taking things got him what he wanted; a simple 'no' wouldn't stand in his way. Why did he have to stop because someone else said so? _Because we'll fight and break stuff at the very least. And he still won't fuck me._ It was more than a shame, because Peter looked so ready.

XXX

_Fuck._ Peter was getting hard despite himself. His breathing had deepened, his skin felt warmer, and Sylar was looking so sexy it was absurd. He could barely connect the person he was looking at with the person who had, moments ago, been laughing about Peter's dead brother. Thoughts of any kind were getting difficult to string together sequentially, but he knew he'd have no problem at all in enacting something sexual if he gave himself permission to do it. Which he wasn't doing, even if he couldn't have told anyone why at the moment. It took him longer than it should have to realize Sylar wasn't holding him back anymore – no, that was Peter doing it now. He lifted himself away slowly, very aware of how his leverage to rise came from pressing his knee into the mattress right under Sylar's groin, the heat of Sylar's body riding his thigh and making his pants unbearably tight.

XXX

Sylar could feel the cold and loneliness rushing back over his skin when Peter moved away, teasing him pointlessly with his knee in the process. He inhaled and held his breath to prevent making a reactionary sound to that, not wanting Peter to know how it affected him. He couldn't even look at Peter, ashamed and enraged in the wake of the sadness. _(I can't throw myself at him any more clearly than that and he still doesn't want it). _He realized Peter had been looking at him throughout most of…it. _(Oh. No wonder; my face turns him off…Just like everyone else)_. Obviously they weren't in the proper position to engage in anything more. _(And I'm hard, I'm turned on and that's…not arousing._ After all, Peter had that no kissing rule). All he knew was that he wasn't good enough and he disgusted his only companion. God, he felt low and he couldn't remember why taking this treatment was required, hence his anger. So he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, uncaring of what, if anything, Peter did. He couldn't move or speak until he had himself more under control, ignoring that reflex to clutch, hold and seek comfort in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

XXX

He shuddered again, more coherent thought becoming possible now that he had some distance. Peter raked his well-mussed hair out of his face, gave Sylar's wantonly displayed form a thorough and hungry once-over with his eyes, and walked stiffly over to the chair next to the door. He stood there silently, hands loose at his sides, letting his breathing slow down and his erection fade. He listened to Sylar's movements as Peter tried to sort out what had just happened, fixing the chronology in his mind. Because he definitely needed to remember all this for later. He was pretty sure there was something about morals and scruples he should be thinking about as well, but that wasn't nearly as important at the moment as remembering every action and touch.

XXX

More in uncomfortable shock than anything else, he acted out the steps anyway, not as interested in them as he'd been before. His stupid kink(s) couldn't ever be met and that killed a lot of it for him yet he kept on with the script. Quietly, he rasped, "We don't have to fight. I thought that was the point…" _I'm not the one being difficult. _His dick didn't get the time-out message; it was still throbbing away in his tight-as-hell jeans. After rubbing up against some_one_, he could have rubbed up against some_t__hing_, hell, anything would do, but it lacked appeal. Lewdly, and before he knew if Peter was even looking his way, Sylar was rubbing his hands over his denim bulge, giving himself some kind of stimulation. He was so keyed up it still felt better than it had in a long time. "I know you're hard, Peter. You've been looking to burst ever since you got here. I saw you in that suite and you were happy to fuck against me in bed," this was said in the voice of temptation, intentionally seductive.

XXX

Peter looked back over his shoulder, the words 'Fuck off,' dying in his throat and never making it out. Sylar's voice was a sex-god's purr and what he was doing to himself ... Peter's breath caught, eyes following first one hand (moving up and down across Sylar's groin), then the other (circling lazily on his chest). If there was a conscious thought in his head, it didn't make itself known. He just stood there and stared, the animal part of his brain locked in mortal combat with his morals.

XXX

Sylar managed a lazy smirk, feeling another's eyes on him before he confirmed it himself, looking into Peter's face. _Now that I have your attention…_He sent a glance to Peter's groin, spying the erection he'd hoped to see. Having a better idea of what Peter wanted was helpful and recent; otherwise, Sylar had little idea how to go about seducing a man other than…well, everything he'd already done – bluntly and physically offering sex. Mostly he was recalling some of the things others in the past had tried to ply on him. Acting interested wasn't too hard at the moment. He gripped his shaft and arched his back slightly, making a calculated writhe, "Hmm. You're hard now; that made you hard? Finish it." _Finish me!_

XXX

Peter made a pained growl and looked away, wanting to leave but finding himself confused by the wheeled chair in front of the door. It didn't belong over here. It belonged over at the desk, right next to where Sylar was. _Maybe I should put it back?_ He had the feeling he was looking for an excuse and that was wrong. He knew he needed to sort that out before doing anything – figure out what he wanted to do, what he needed to be doing. _I need to get out of here. I _have _to get out of here before I forget what's important. What's important? What started this?_ With embarrassing difficulty, he dredged up thoughts of Emma, fingers bloody in the dream; and of Nathan, though the image that came to Peter's mind was actually Sylar in Nathan's guise, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and nailed to the stack of plywood at Mercy Heights, right after the change and before Peter had released him. That _felt_ like the last time he'd seen his brother, even if he knew it wasn't.

XXX

"How long has it been for you? I'm sure we can…work something out," Sylar fished for more information, if he was doing something Peter didn't like or if Peter wasn't getting something he needed. By now his brain had awoken enough to remember that he had been choked out and came to only to get an erection and sort of jump his attacker. That was more than a little awkward – it didn't say great things about him but choices and options he was short on. It invited…worse things, things he wasn't a stranger to but he would prefer another approach, another theme. _Whatever works with him_, he reminded himself.

XXX

The memories Peter had pulled up had had the intended effect. His desire ebbed fast – it was like a cold shower to remember how much this man hated him, laughed at his pain, and shrugged off the needs of others. It made all of Sylar's enticements right now look so insincere, so hollow – so much easier to dismiss. Glancing back over his shoulder again, he said heavily, "Don't mock Nathan's death." He pushed the office chair out of his way and reached for the door.

XXX

Talk about another shoe to drop, a bomb in the conversation. It went a long way towards killing Sylar's southern blood flow, nearly the epitome of boner killers. It made him more angry or upset than sad. Peter acted like Sylar and Nathan were completely divorced from each other, having no interlocking or overlapping areas even now. "I think Nathan would want you to get laid," he shot back because what did Peter know about Nathan's mind? It wasn't the best (or smartest) he could come up with but it was what came out. If it was 'mocking' again, maybe Peter would come back and try it again.

XXX

_Well, that makes it easy to leave. _Peter walked out, not even dignifying Sylar with a response. _We started talking about how Nathan died, got some good information (sort of), he made fun of me being upset he died, I choked him out, then he woke up and … yeah. That was not going to work. At all. Asshole._ Peter shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders and ignore how close Sylar's come-on had been to 'working' no matter how much he tried to tell himself there hadn't been a chance in hell. A good long walk sounded like a great idea. Hopefully he'd think of a way to pretend none of this morning had happened.

XXX

No such luck. Peter's resistance was stronger than he expected. How many people could face something they obviously found sexually arousing at close range and turn away from it? It inspired respect and resentment in Sylar at the same time; of course, his own body's demands were winning. He still wanted to hit something, maybe scream just to let off the tension. Stuck between anger and the blues, his erection wavered as he tried to decide what to do about it and how to cope. _He still thinks he's better than me; thinks I'll be here, waiting for him and only his touch._ Sylar sneered around the room at nothing in particular. It was true, sick and true. _What's that like – to have someone…wait for you, eagerly? (I'm not eager, I'm just…) Horny. Deprived. Instead of stroking his dick, I'm stroking his ego._ With those depressing considerations, his dick finally made up its mind and faded from its upright state. Sniffing, he told himself_,_ _I don't feel like it right now._

_('Not right now, honey; I have a headache'). Fuck!_ Sylar did snap this time, burying his fist in his own pillow like he couldn't seem to strike back effectively against Peter, not even to be treated like everyone else in the empath's eyes, not even for acknowledgement or a tiny bit of respect. It felt good though he felt a twinge of something unpleasant when he realized he'd struck his own property, an object that had been as close to a comfort as he'd had the past four years. That pillow had seen and heard things, felt his tears, intentional or otherwise, all that time. _I'm losing my mind. It's a goddamn pillow and Peter fucking Petrelli got a fucking hard-on from _me_._

XXX

Hours later, sometime around noon, Peter knocked, wondering idly if they should talk to each other about a messaging system – some way to tell the other when they were out and planned to be back. One of these days, he'd come back to find Sylar was off on his own errands and it would be … worrying (was he really worried about Sylar? Yeah, he was, a little) not to know where the guy was. Such was the tone of Peter's thoughts that showed he'd fully compartmentalized the events of the morning, cutting out the parts he didn't want to think about (again, ever) and retaining the rest. He would have never made it growing up in the Petrelli household if he hadn't developed a strong ability to ignore unpleasant words and actions directed against himself and continue on like nothing important had happened.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the sound. He hadn't thought Peter would come back, not today at least. _Is he getting…used to me?_ He was annoyed, relieved and curious. He couldn't deny it made him feel better that Peter had returned to him or…come back for more…Narrowed eyes greeted Peter upon opening his door – because he wanted to control _some_ part of his environment. A brief check showed the other man wasn't interested in that way.

XXX

Peter walked in, lifting a plastic bag containing a carton of eggs and a squat, green bottle. He glanced over Sylar, checking his reaction as much as he could under the guise of being casual. "I thought I'd make some egg salad for lunch, or maybe egg salad sandwiches." They were soft and wouldn't aggravate Peter's still-tender jaw. "You okay with that?"

XXX

"Come in," Sylar remarked with dry sarcasm after Peter had let himself in. _He really thinks he owns everything doesn't he? No wonder he's jealous when I can do things he can't._ The next part lacked conviction or heat, _such a spoiled brat_. Eggs were the topic of choice. _I- We- Eggs? That's how he wants to…? (It's a dodge). Yeah._ Rather than answer a straightforward, preference-laden question, Sylar retorted with subtle revenge, not minding his tone, "Don't you have to refrigerate them first?" Peter might be king of ignoring things he didn't like but Sylar wasn't about to let him get away with it, not entirely and certainly not for long.

XXX

Peter looked back at him, perplexed. "Boiled eggs, you mean?" Sylar's body language was a vague affirmation. Peter shrugged. "If you want them cold, yeah. They're better warm." Hot, fresh, done right – they were perfect with the albumen cleaving apart easily and the yolk flaky and yellow all the way through.

XXX

Virginia had always served them cold and quite flavorless, high in protein. They'd been a fun snack as a child, the textures entertaining. Sylar lifted his chin to say 'oh' in as many words or gestures. Peter's presence took a lot of wrath from him; sparking Peter up again could lead to loneliness for the rest of the day if he wasn't careful. _I'll…play along_, he thought as his stomach rumbled. _Let him think it's okay. He was horny and close, so ready. I just need to…warm him up and play his game a little, that's what he wants, what he's trying to train me to do._ Besides the kitchen was hardly the place to fuck. Any upset about disrespect, treatment or identity was unfortunately nothing new; Peter would continue as he was, doing what he did and Sylar couldn't change.

XXX

Peter nodded and turned into the kitchen, setting about getting the eggs on to boil. "Could you set the table?" he asked softly when Sylar joined him. So maybe he wasn't _completely_ ignoring what had happened earlier. He just didn't know how to deal with it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes slid to the side, looking at Peter that way. _Yess, he remembers. I notice he didn't tell me not to do that again, just not to 'mock Nathan.' Just no kissing._ Playing Peter's game wasn't even that painful, all choking aside. "Of course," he murmured in reply. He made sure to brush too close to Peter on his way to get plates.

XXX

Peter gave no more than a cursory glance to Sylar's close pass. It wasn't invading his space and he was trying to shut thoughts of Sylar out of his head. Pan filled with water, burner on, he was now worrying over when to add the eggs. _Have I ever boiled eggs? Surely I have._ If he had, his memory was unhelpfully blank on the subject. He was good at cooking eggs all kinds of other ways – scrambled, fried, omelets, even quiche and poached if he had the right equipment. But boiled was a mystery at the moment._ Um, it's just like pasta, right? I wait until the water boils, then add the eggs. How long do they boil for? Seven, eight minutes like noodles? I guess that's right. They're a lot bigger than noodles, though. Bigger things take longer to cook. But how much longer?_ With a sinking feeling, he remembered hearing something about cooks priding themselves on a perfectly boiled egg, implying it was easy to do them wrong. He frowned into the pan of still, empty water. _There was a class held just off the college campus that we made fun of – 'How to Boil Water 101'. Is there a right way and a wrong way to boil water, too? _Trying to shrug off the negative thoughts, he rolled his shoulders and looked over at Sylar. Peter gave him a small smile, maybe friendly, maybe just hoping he didn't botch the cooking too badly. He went back to watching the pan fixedly because there was nothing else to do.

XXX

_He likes the attention__. L__ook at him, soaking it up._ Sylar didn't hurry with the plates – for one thing, water and then eggs had to boil first. He turned with them in hand and eyed Peter with interest, uncaring if he was caught or if it bothered the other man. _Sometimes I think he doesn't understand how much he could have, then…_He swallowed reflexively, recalling the man's relentless grip around his throat – dangerous and driven and quite precise. That much was sexy about the attack. _He likes to play rough, too._ Sylar continued scanning the profile of Peter's body until he couldn't justify standing there with a pair of plates in hand; then he moved to deposit them on the table.

XXX

Peter glanced back after Sylar moved, having been aware of the look (how could he not be?), but not doing anything about it. He went back to trying to disprove the adage about watched pots and boiling. He didn't mind being looked at – it was the intent behind the gaze that made him uncertain. It was hard to think anything about it without thinking about the events of the morning, so he avoided the subject entirely.

XXX

Cups and silverware were next then Sylar decided to try something. Peter was at the stove; the table and chair restricted the passage behind him; the goal of the fridge was beyond both. So he squeezed in behind the man, acting up that the chair was immobile and the light body-brush was necessary, groin to ass. It made him flush warm that Peter would tolerate this and his dick felt good against Peter once more.

XXX

Peter twitched forward at the contact, light was it was, hips against the stove in a polite attempt to create space. He twisted and looked back because there should have been enough room – and there was. Sylar could have moved the chair, which Peter now reached out with his foot to rudely and pointedly shove into place at the table. _He did that on purpose._ Peter gave him a nasty look, a 'what is wrong with you/I'm onto you' look and then back at the pan on the stove. Since nothing was happening there, he changed position to one more common for him in Sylar's kitchen – butt leaned against the counter, hands on the edge of the counter on either side. He took the corner with the stove on his left and sink to his right. It gave him an unobstructed view of the entire kitchen and more importantly, of whatever Sylar was up to. He hunched in on himself ever so slightly. Peter eyed Sylar's faux innocent act for a moment before picking up the egg carton and examining it instead, wanting to have his hands in front of him rather than at his sides. Despite taking these obviously defensive precautions, his conscious thoughts remained firmly in denial mode, trying to ignore the implications of what Sylar was doing. _Maybe there are directions for how to cook the eggs printed on the carton, like there are for pasta?_

XXX

A glare was all he received, hell; the chair got more action than he did in a retaliatory act. Other than that, Sylar was ignored, at least partially. Peter oriented on him and literally covered his ass, keeping an eye on Sylar as he pretended to read about eggs. Casually, he decided to snoop. He approached and got close alongside Peter, his focus on the pan of water (not yet hot and unlikely to burn him if used as a weapon) but to look in, it brought his shoulder against Peter's, as well as the sides of their hips and arms. It was a snug fit between them, if not very sexual…for a moment. There were no eggs in the water yet and the next thing he knew, the world was spinning and Peter stood, arm extended from a shove as he glared some more with Sylar now a few feet away. "What the hell?"

XXX

Peter had nothing to say. His teeth were bared, eyes fixed on his antagonist, waiting for a reason to escalate – any reason. He'd switched the eggs to his right hand, the carton held precariously between thumb and forefinger. His left arm, the side Sylar had been on, was coiling for another … whatever he needed to do. Dousing the guy with water sounded like a good idea. So far he'd only shoved rather than slugged. In Peter's opinion, he was being the very model of restraint.

XXX

"Seriously, Petrelli? The silent treatment? That's mature." Sylar rolled his eyes, completely dismissing the aggressive vibes that were rolling off Peter. "If you need help boiling _eggs_, let me know." To test the empath further, Sylar walked closer to him than he should have, though they didn't touch per se, under the guise of getting a drink of water.

XXX

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Peter shoved him again, putting the eggs down roughly to free up his right hand. He regretted not having much room to maneuver now, but it sure gave him great leverage to push the guy away. Sylar had him boxed in and kept crowding close, like he didn't have the whole rest of the apartment to be in. "I know what you're doing and it's not cool. Cut it the fuck out!"

XXX

The second shove didn't totally come from behind but it was a near thing; it came as Sylar was passing by, almost sending him into the table and chair, overshooting the sink and stumbling. "What the hell? I was checking the water," Sylar frowned. He had a legitimate curiosity and since Peter was close by, contact was a natural factor. Right? "You can't walk around with a five foot perimeter, Peter. It's just not going to work."_For one thing, I'm not good at keeping my hands to myself, as you already know. _"You get in my space all the time and you never ask and sometimes you don't even have a reason. And this is my kitchen," _but it's his food, _"but I'm sure that means nothing to you. So don't expect me to roll over and let you do whatever you want." He did have some limits after all.

XXX

"So that's what this is about?" Peter grabbed onto Sylar's last statement with a verbal attack. "You think I'm going to …" Peter lifted his brows in mock question before supplying the answer, "roll you over and have my way with you?"

XXX

_Um…yeah. How else could it possibly go? _Sylar thought.

XXX

"_**No**_, Sylar. What happened earlier was _you_, from the beginning. You sat there and egged me on," his voice was accusatory, though he wasn't following it up with his usual pointing. They were too close. Sylar might grab a limb extended too close to him and Peter didn't want to be short on appendages to hit the guy with if it came to that.

XXX

_Oh. No, it still stands. Of course it does. He just wants to blame me. I wasn't even talking about that part_. Whatever. He's going to talk about whatever he wants. Sylar's face was annoyed, barely holding back the eye-roll he wished to make.

XXX

"That's why you wanted me on the other side of the room, so you could taunt me and get away with it!" That was pure supposition on Peter's part and probably unfair. He didn't really believe it even, he was just saying vicious things because he felt restrained from expressing his ire physically.

XXX

"What?!" As he protested, Sylar knew that's exactly how it looked and only his testimony said otherwise.

XXX

Peter made another verbal leap, hoping and guessing he actually had said to Sylar that he considered their beds to be zones safe from ambush or assault. "The thing about being safe in your bed doesn't apply if you sit there and intentionally provoke me. It's not some childish 'I'm on base, you can't touch me' safe zone." Peter's voice went briefly sing-song-y for the nyah-nyah part. From Sylar's lack of confusion, Peter gathered he was understood – that was helpful, because otherwise explaining it would be weird. "I offered that in good faith – now you're destroying it."

XXX

Anger and shock were only just held in check, leaking through Sylar's attempt at calm explanation, "You demanded answers. You know how you get when anyone talks about Nathan. I was cooperating until you got rude and insulting. It had nothing to do with sitting on my own bed, you know, where I was sitting before you wanted to ask me questions. I'm not going to move off it if you're going to….attack me in my own apartment. That was what I was saying: it's my apartment and none of it is safe, obviously," he spat the last word. Peter was getting progressively worse, escalating from an unseen punch, to unsettling and handling his things without permission, licking food and now what looked like a murder attempt. _I don't think he has a line where he stops at. That's what I've been saying all along. He's going to kill me and he'll think it was an accident after I'm dead. 'Oops. You shouldn't have talked back to me._' "I'm not destroying anything. How was I supposed to know you were serious about the bed thing? You can be safe in yours but mine is a free-for-all?"

XXX

_I didn't 'demand' anything!_ Peter bristled, if such a thing was possible given how worked up he was already. But he let Sylar finish ranting back at him and even tried to listen – tough to do with the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. What made an impression was the 'obviously' and Sylar not feeling safe. It made Peter feel two inches tall, because Sylar was right. Peter _did_ want to beat the crap out of him. For both the mocking things he'd said recently and murderous things he'd done only months ago. Peter wanted to fuck the guy up so bad it hurt (as his jaw was quick to indicate). So yeah, Sylar wasn't feeling safe? It was a realistic observation. With an effort, Peter tore his eyes away from Sylar, looking at the floor to his left. He was panting, a big part of his brain rebelling against even taking his eyes off his enemy. Peter moved his feet restlessly, then turned and looked at the egg carton on his right, managing not to look at Sylar as he turned. He poked it, displacing it a few inches because he could. He still wanted to be pushing Sylar around. It hadn't really occurred to Peter how much of a detriment that lack of balance would be if they fought. But to take advantage of an injured man would be wrong – especially one who was supposedly his patient.

He huffed and griped, "It's not when 'anyone' talks about Nathan. It's when _you_ do." Nathan's murderer, talking blithely about him, was disrespectful and offensive on the face of it. _But you __**were**__ cooperating earlier. You were answering my questions._ Peter put his left hand over his eyes, unwinding a little and sagging against the counter. He shook very slightly from adrenaline. "I was serious about the bed thing," he said, voice dull.

He dropped his hand, resting it on the counter top next to him. Sylar wouldn't feel so damn unsafe if he wouldn't start shit in his own place. Peter said testily, "Just because it's your apartment doesn't mean you get to make fun of Nathan's death or rub up against my ass. Or any other part of me. Stop crowding me." He glared at Sylar briefly, then looked at the water on the stove for a long moment, seeing it had bubbles forming on the bottom of the pan.

XXX

_Okay, big deal – you were serious about the bed thing. It's not like that's much use now. I can't use it as 'home base.'_ It came as no surprise that he and he alone was barred from mentioning Nathan Petrelli (though Sylar had a feeling Peter was equally uptight when others mentioned him, too). The point was, Sylar was the only one who suffered ill consequences from it and it was all pointless because Sylar was the only person around to mention Nathan. The logic was circular and biased. "It doesn't matter where we are, it doesn't mean you get to make fun of what happened to me, attack me or abuse my things." Even as he said it, he knew he may as well have been talking to a brick wall. Sylar didn't know why he bothered except that it made him feel a little better to verbalize it. Peter's assumptions were bringing only trouble. Unlike Peter, Sylar was unable to change his reputation, pattern, past or origin. "If you're going to ignore that, you should leave," he stated bluntly, looking to instill the significance of the offenses onto the empath. Far be it from Sylar to declare that anything was over, let alone…almost desire it to be over. But Peter was done taking care of him, tolerating him, and talking wasn't going well even when he was getting explanations and answers about things he did not want to discuss.

XXX

Peter was trying to work out when he'd made fun of Sylar, and if Sylar was referring to some recent 'abuse' of his things, when Sylar moved on to ordering him out. Or rather, implying he should go if he wasn't going to perform to Sylar's satisfaction. _Is that what this is? I won't fuck him so he's throwing me out?_ He raised his brows, his body language loosening a bit in surprise that Sylar would go that far.

XXX

Sylar gestured at the door when Peter looked at him incredulously.

XXX

"You're serious?" Peter squawked out, simultaneously offended and thrilled. _I get to leave? I'm done? That's all?_ If Sylar refused his help (despite how much that stung by itself), then it freed Peter of the continual moral dilemma of taking care of him.

XXX

"I'm serious. Go find someone else to play with." Sylar waved him away. "When you don't find anyone else, maybe you'll…play nice with me." That was treading the line of insulting, parental in tone yet hopeful at the same time.

XXX

Peter hesitated, unsure of Sylar's intent – was this a punishment, or was Sylar seriously thinking it would change Peter's mind about anything between them? He remained incredulous. "You think absence is going to make the heart grow fonder, is that it?" Hardly. Being away from Sylar made him ignorable. Peter didn't expect to forget him, but what regard he'd gained for Sylar's humanity had been through association, not separation.

XXX

"Something like that." If Peter grew fonder in the absence of his presence, great, however Sylar's goal was different from that. He didn't know if he should feel some kind of way because Peter either wasn't getting it (still) or because Peter was purposefully not getting it (still). What made it worse was the ridiculous degrees of respect and care Peter willingly handed out without cost to every other human and non-human being regardless of their worth and deservingness. The medic was clearly capable. Unfortunately for Sylar, just as clear was the reason basic respect of property was being withheld. At the end, he was annoyed, looking to bother Peter right back. "I'd be a lot more inclined to believe you meant that if you hadn't sat still and let me rub on you," his voice and body language slid back into deep and deliciously dark again, subtle but present. "I thought you liked that kind of thing, attention and contact." There was no way Sylar was being Peter's act. He'd felt and heard the panted breaths, heard the frustrated noises, held the man's thigh and knee between his legs for a few precious seconds, seen the dilated eyes and straining erection. Yeah, it was all just hot air, living knee-deep in De Nile.

XXX

Anger surged back to the surface and Peter took a half-step towards Sylar, as close as he was likely to get without provoking an attack. Voice raised and eyes glittering, Peter spat out, "I am _**not**_ interested in you!" _Am I?_ Peter snarled, his left hand making a fist, his frustration at being misinterpreted and his appreciation of Sylar's form, if not the person he was, made violence look better and better as a way to hammer his point home – both to Sylar and himself.

XXX

Voice lowered with seriousness, he told the truth as he saw and understood it, "It's just that you're escalating, Peter. You're not going to stop at choking me next time. I might be used to it but I recognize the pattern. You're…overt with it." _Which is both refreshing and disturbing at the same time. How difficult is it for him, Mr. World Peace, to see I have a problem with being strangled in my apartment when he's a guest here and he thought 'beds were off-limits'? He's the one violating everything, not me._

XXX

Peter shuddered. There was nothing he could say to something so patently true. Choking Sylar out had not accomplished anything Peter wanted, so it wasn't likely he'd do it again. Next time … next time he'd do something else. And yes, he'd probably escalate, because he was getting desperate. He was desperate to figure out how to get things moving in a direction he wanted, just to be able to hang out without things going to blows or blow jobs, depending on whether it was Peter's demons or Sylar's who got to pick their agenda. There had to be a way to get a better pattern going.

He backed up, reversing that half-step closer to Sylar he'd taken only moments before. There was nothing else here that was his, so he headed to the door. If he couldn't make things better, then he could at least leave. He passed through the doorway, shutting it carefully behind him.


	79. It's Fun To Stay At The

Day 26, January 4, afternoon

Sylar would admit he was a little surprised when Peter turned on his heel without another word, leaving his stupid eggs behind just to provide further mockery. The Petrelli was nothing if not contradictory, bipolar, something. Sylar wondered if he'd pushed too far. Telling off one's imaginary companion wasn't the best way to determine sanity or to keep said companion around. Only time would give that answer. _(What if he doesn't come back?) He'll come back. He can't stay away. He probably won't do anything different, though – still doesn't think he's doing anything wrong._

So Sylar sat and stared into space replaying the argument, twisting it around in his mind to spot any flaws (on either side), including the contextual moments and managing to focus on the less arousing parts. He maintained his position that Peter was being psychotic, unfair and unkind while Sylar felt he'd at least tried to extend olive branches and be welcoming, taming down his own inherent craziness. When the water boiled, he was forced into action, boiling the eggs with the idea of being spiteful, as if Peter could somehow see him or care, but he really wanted to hold onto them and make useful missiles out of them when next he saw Peter or throw the damn things out. Let them get old and rotten. Or boil them and make them solid for throwing.

He ate a few of the eggs, warm just to try them that way, assuming the protein would do well for him. With nothing to keep him awake (except maybe the returning threat of more violence in his apartment home), Sylar napped hard but disturbed and lonely on the couch until it was dark. Once in bed, he curled up, feeling cold and remembering the night Peter had tucked him in so gently.

XXX

Peter was not broken up about their parting of the ways. It was clearly for the best if things had deteriorated to where they were shouting and shoving over lunch, about to get into a fight he didn't want to have. He wasn't happy about the rejection, but Sylar was (probably) able to take care of himself now. He was at least well enough to pick fights and be provocative. The best thing Peter could do for the guy was to get himself away from him so as not to violently and negatively impinge on Sylar's health. And, as it had occurred to him before, this let him off the hook, morally, for caretaking duties. He no longer had to stifle his enmity and render medical aid to someone he'd sooner let rot.

He walked off down the street with a fairly clear conscience, putting the matter behind him quickly. He didn't feel like lunch (his jaw was aching enough that even a sandwich sounded like too much), so he crossed to the building with the piano and entertained himself playing love songs – because he liked them, and finally Sylar wasn't there to hear them and perhaps take them wrong. After that, he wandered around checking restaurants until he found one that could make a milk shake. Thus satisfied, he made an early night of it, already thinking about the different things he might do when freed from the constraints of playing nursemaid.

XXX

Day 27, January 5

The first day, Sylar waited impatiently. How long was this going to take? Peter was so needy and people-friendly even Sylar was a good option to spend (or waste) time with after all. What could be more important or more entertaining than the only other person alive (especially when that person was offering Peter's favorite past times: nursing, saving people and/or fucking them). Since he was bored, Sylar now had the time and reason to replay the memory of Peter stalking across the room to choke him out in a sudden rage, then linger over his body and allow himself to be pulled atop Sylar, all the while panting, not resisting, and eventually getting hard over it. That Peter was hot for it was hot. Desire was involved and it didn't matter too much what the desire was for, just that it was aimed and associated with Sylar, who would reap the benefits. _If he's going to choke me out every time, that might cause some problems._ His head was still a horrible mess of pain. He took some of the painkillers that Peter had left, resentful of the fact that he was forced to care for himself now_. Isn't he supposed to be here and babysit me? All that guilty care but he didn't want to be here._ Doubt entered his mind then, that maybe giving Peter an easy out was going to backfire.

He stayed home, not up for a search in the gloomy grey yet somehow brightly sunshined between the clouds outdoors, not with his headache. Besides, he had to wait here for Peter. His time was spent reading and puttering around, annoying because he couldn't fully engage in something while waiting, lest he be interrupted. He thought that's what he did primarily but sleep was a large part of his day, blissful for being alone yet haunted for that same reason.

XXX

Peter rose from sleep with something of an erection and managed, just barely, to get it down enough to urinate. It stubbornly returned to full salute while he was brushing his teeth. Snagging a washcloth and some lotion, he walked into his bedroom. At least Sylar could not interrupt him _here_. Reveling in the freedom of having the whole day to himself, without obligation or responsibility, Peter let himself relax and took the opportunity to entertain himself. It had been far too long.

He stood before the foot of his bed, looking down on the rumpled covers and trying to decide what to fantasize about. _Who would I want to see there? Hm?__What would really work for me?_ His left hand stroked slowly at his firm flesh. _Who would I want to see in my bed?_ He spread his legs a little, kneading at himself as he tried to bring to mind the faces he most frequently used as his focus. But faces, here, were in short supply. For all the time he'd been here, he'd seen only one other than his own.

That one face was clearest, especially coupled with what they'd (almost) done so recently. _Sylar? Ha. Get real._ He tried to think of others, but the features were blurred. And anyway, his rebellious mind kept darting back to the one thing he was trying not to think about – Sylar's face, looming over him in the hallway a few weeks ago, or under him just the day before, the man's body wriggling so provocatively against Peter's. _Fine, Sylar then. It's just a fantasy, anyway. It doesn't have to mean anything._

Peter's eyes narrowed at the bed and he shook his head, turning sideways to it. _I don't want Sylar in my bed. I want him on his knees. I want him on his knees in front of me, where I can come on his face._ Peter lathered his hand with the lotion and started stroking harder with long, slow pulls from bottom to top_. I would love to see his face dripping with my come. I'd love to make him taste it, that arrogant prick. Maybe when he wiped it off, he'd wipe off some of that smugness, too._

He tried to think about degrading Sylar, or abusing him sexually, but it wasn't doing it for him so he changed the fantasy. _I know, I'd have him suck me. He'd want to do it. I'd let him. He'd still be angry, though. I'd look down on that gorgeously handsome face and he'd be glaring up at me with my cock in his mouth. He'd never bite me - he wouldn't - but I wouldn't know that for sure. That would be part of the danger, not knowing, but letting him do me anyway. _

Peter's breathing sped up – a willing participant did it for him way more than otherwise. His rapid pumping changed tempo as he rolled his palm around the head of his cock, imagining Sylar's tongue laving him, exploring the ridge of his corona and teasing the very tip of his tongue into Peter's slit. He groaned, arching back just a little as his hips jutted forward involuntarily. _Oh yeah._ He looked down with narrowed eyes, conjuring Sylar's face licking over him, lips puckered around his penis while those incredible, piercing dark eyes smoldered up, meeting Peter's own and promising to drown him in desire.

_Oh yeah. I'd be fucking his mouth and he'd be staring up at me, never letting me look away, totally focused on me. And he'd be good at it. You gotta know someone with lips like his is going to be good at it. Those lips would be wrapped around my dick, sucking and pulling, like he was fucking milking me. Oh yeah._

He shifted back to stroking, but this time in shorter jerks near the head of his dick, rubbing his index finger up and down against the frenulum. _And he'd want me so much. He'd want me to come. He'd be all into it, really enthusiastic. Angry, yeah, maybe, but really into it, really going to town, letting me in deep, then taking me shallow, then deep again - just whatever he needed to do to get me off. And he'd put his hands on my ass and spread it. Oh!_ Peter's legs shifted further apart as his hips moved in sync with his left hand. His right, damnably trapped in the brace, still managed to stroke his and tease his buttocks.

_He'd spread me. He's got such big hands. Long fingers. Oh God, yeah! He'd brush just his fingertips across me. _Peter ran his thumb up and down his crack, imagining Sylar's fingers probing so much deeper. His dick throbbed and he felt the beginning of his peak forming as a twist of glowing sensation in his gut, spreading fast through his veins. His breath was coming in short pants and he let loose brief whines that punctuated the wet sound of his lotioned hand pistoning up and down on his cockhead.

_His fingers would be playing with my ass while he sucked at my dick. His tongue would be all over it, his lips tight against me, just a little bit of teeth because he'd be trying so hard … oh my God … I'm so close … and then … I'd put my hands in his hair … and I'd stroke it. He's got such great hair and I think he likes mine. Oh God, baby … baby … I love this … please … I love it. I love yo- Wait, what?_ Peter teetered on the edge of release, the knowledge of what he'd almost thought/said to Sylar, even as a fantasy, thoroughly fucking with his head.

_What the fuck?_Peter's fantasies nearly always included him crooning endearments to his partners, usually much more coherently than he ever managed in real life (such being the essence of 'fantasy'), but to find himself dreaming of saying _**those**_ words to Sylar threw him so badly that he found himself holding a spongy, fast-shrinking package. It scared him. There were too many things it could mean - nearly all of them being things he didn't want to think about. What he most didn't want to think about was Sylar's words refuting Peter's stated lack of interest in him: 'I'd be a lot more inclined to believe you if you hadn't sat still and let me rub on you.' A part of Peter had enjoyed the hell out of that, and_** that**_ was no meaningless, easily dismissed fantasy.

With a loud, frustrated groan, he threw himself on the bed, landing face up, arms spread to the sides, penis wilted between his legs. _God-dammit!_ He huffed. His balls hurt now. He wasn't about to try to rub one out again - not until he got his head on straight. One thing was certain, his erection problem was taken care of, though it had done nothing for his frustration.

Lying on the bed moping wasn't Peter's style. After a brief, pointless period of fuming at himself, he got dressed and headed out. When he left, he wasn't sure where he was going, but he soon picked a goal – anything to distract himself and the more engaging and physical the better. He stopped at a few clothing stores for warmer gear, because it was frigid if sunny. After that, he made an expedition out to the hospital, restocking supplies like IV fluids, Zofran, a new trauma kit, and other things. He dug around in doctor's offices until he found some books to read – general anatomy, head trauma, broken bones, and the DSM-5. The hefty tomes were about all he thought he could comfortably pack through the cold, when combined with the supplies he'd already set by the door.

He lugged his new things to the building across the street from his apartment, opting to stash them in the rec room rather than clutter up his place with them. He lounged for an hour while he laid on the couch and read up on the structure of the hand, attempting briefly to meditate his own into healing faster. It didn't seem to work, but that had never stopped Peter in the past. _Maybe I just need to focus on it more. Won't hurt to keep my mind off of other things, like Sylar._

XXX

Day 28, January 6

Sylar didn't want to get up. He knew it was childish and pointless – no one was around to see or care and it had no effect on his day, such as it was. He was stuck at home, by reason of his condition or because he was waiting for Peter. The little punk thought it was funny to make him wait. But he would do just that because…that was the implied command, whether he liked it or not. The second day he worked on the clocks to make a point that he wasn't being controlled or made to do anything. It didn't go so well. His neck and back hurt in a dozen different places, mostly all related to Peter's rough handling, and his headache grew worse when he leaned over. Still, Sylar kept at it as long as he could with sanity and any measure of precision. It didn't feel right to try to fix something when he couldn't do a good job at it. He made himself a sandwich (peanut butter and jelly) and ate some crackers, otherwise lounging, trying to focus and read and stay awake.

XXX

Peter was disappointed by the lack of food in his apartment. For the previous few weeks, he'd been eating at Sylar's all the time, so his own cupboard was bare. The night before, he'd had to scavenge through neighboring apartments for dinner. He was done with that now. In the morning, he bundled up and went to the grocery store, filling a cart with everything he thought he'd need to handle a small siege, or getting snowed in again. It was cloudy and windy, still bitterly cold, but he didn't see any precipitation. Peter was glad to get inside, put everything away, and make himself a nice hot lunch of canned soup.

Despite the forbidding temperatures, he headed back out in the afternoon. The wind had settled down, which was good. His goal now was to learn the neighborhood. He'd seen and become familiar with storefronts as he'd walked past them on his many trips from Sylar's apartment to the grocery store, as well as his two trips to the hospital (although one of those was in blowing snow and hardly counted). But now he was going to make a systematic effort of it. When he wanted a hot chocolate or a certain type of bandage, he wanted to know off-hand where the nearest coffee shop or pharmacy was. He explored at ground level, not going into higher floors or individual offices. Not yet, anyway. This wasn't the same as his apartment search early on, when Sylar had accompanied him. Then, he hadn't known what he was looking for. Now he did – he wanted the lay of the land and aside from the chilly weather, this was the perfect time to get it.

XXX

Day 29, January 7

Waking up was miserable by himself. The weather was chilly with the promise of getting colder still. Peter didn't appear at all. And Sylar listened very carefully. _He just…left me? (Can he do that?) Of course he can, he will and he did. If it's a choice between you and the people-less world, he's taking the world. (What if he's already gone? What if I can't find him? What if I'm all alone again?)_ _I wonder if I should move… _About lunch time, Sylar could take no more. Groomed and jacketed and fed, he left his apartment to look for Peter. He went first to the man's apartment building of choice, standing outside and looking up at the windows to see if, by chance, he could spot Peter's floor at the very least. The smooth, mirrored face of the building seemed to be mocking him; 'Peter isn't here. He never was.' It was intimidating and frightening, the idea that he was abandoned and alone. Sylar was frantic and worried, hasty yet hesitant to enter the medic's building. _(He won't like me stalking him…He wanted space…Has he __booby__-trapped the place?)_ So he tried to move quickly and carefully to the stairs – less likely to result in convenient elevator accidents that way – but he knew he wouldn't make it very far, his toes were beginning to recover, but stairs made hard use of his blood-pressure and headache and spine.

When he got to the second floor, he gingerly stuck his head inside the door. These were nicer apartments, bigger, too, than Sylar's. That was a goddamn annoying, obvious, 'I'm better than you.' "Peter?" he called out, several times in varying volumes, still shouting the question, never an angry demand. _This was a stupid idea. All he has to do is ignore me. Unless I start breaking down doors…_It was so tempting, and karmic – breaking in Peter's door, attacking him…choking him out and rubbing on him some more in his own apartment…It made him fucking tingle but he would save it for a last resort, once he'd gone around Crazy Bend, if he still hadn't found Peter.

Sylar repeated the process for three more floors with no success, not that he expected any at that point. He had to rest before going down the stairs, not wanting to slip and bash his own brains out on some stupid mission, only to have Peter find him there weeks later and have a good laugh. He went home before dark, huddled against the weather, miserably munched more crackers and put himself to bed with less hope than he'd had in the morning.

XXX

Peter spent the entire day out roaming around. About halfway through, he'd stumbled across his greatest find yet – a YMCA, just a block and a half from his apartment. It had everything – a pool, an indoor track, racquetball and basketball courts, and all the equipment and machines he could dream of. This was one of the few buildings he went inside of to check it out (the other places he'd entered had been for warmth or food, but this was for pleasure). Despite the temptation to give up on his exploration and remain here, he eventually pushed on, reminding himself that getting out and looking around was exactly how he would find more places like this.

XXX

Day 30, January 8

Sylar woke up in a blurry funk. He didn't hurry per se, his mood and dread wouldn't allow it despite his worry, but once ready, he left once the sun was up. It was still cold with no indication if it would warm up later in the day. Sylar went to the other man's apartment and checked the lobby, peering up the stairwell to no avail. _Where is he? I didn't check anything above the fourth floor…He likes to be out, though. Check the hospital? Library? Porn shop?_ (Yes, he knew where several were). _Maybe that pool…_Sylar walked around the immediate vicinity until afternoon. He found Peter coming out of the building across the street, the one with the piano, where they'd stayed in the penthouse previously. Relief filled him and tension fled. He knew when Peter had seen him, giving him another of those up-and-down checking looks, maybe it meant something but most likely it didn't. Sylar approached him, wanted to grab him, hug him, touch him again, if only to make sure Peter was still real, or for darker reasons. "Peter!" he said when the other man seemed ready to walk past him like nothing strange had been going on, like walking by him was normal. When the nurse gave no answer, slowing to a halt to engage him and that was promising, Sylar lamely greeted him, "Hey."

XXX

Well, there was Sylar. That was good to know – that he was alive, up and around. Peter looked him over carefully, trying to assess how Sylar was moving, his posture, his skin tone, his expression, and from that, his general health. Peter didn't think the guy was doing very well – he was a little slow, hunched, pale, with dark circles under his eyes and not as alert as Peter had seen him in the past – but Peter didn't see anything that truly alarmed him. Sylar looked mobile, oriented, clean, properly dressed, and together. It was more than some people managed. Peter tried to move on and ignore him, because seeing Sylar didn't require interacting with him, but Sylar apparently didn't see things that way. After being called, Peter stopped, regarding Sylar coolly to find out what he wanted.

XXX

"What are you doing out here?"

XXX

Peter reached up and scratched at one eyebrow with a gloved hand, glancing away as he did. "Just making the rounds." When that didn't seem to satisfy, he added, "Exploring."

XXX

"What are you looking for?" Sylar tried to ask this politely, friendly because Peter didn't have to answer. Or talk to him at all, that much was clear. The nurse looked like he'd rather get back to his exploration and walk by without exchange. Sylar knew that and stubbornly wanted the opposite, if only to get on Peter's nerves and prove he wouldn't be easy to ignore.

XXX

_Places you can't kick me out of_. Peter snorted softly and looked away with half a smile. "Ways to spend the time." Sylar was still looking at him. The man was not going to be brushed off by Peter's cold shoulder, short responses, or inconsistent eye contact. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured down the street in the direction he'd been intending to go anyway, "I found a YMCA just up the street. Did you know that was there?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed an affirmative, nodding. He hoped that wasn't an accusation, like he'd been holding out information for some unknown reason.

XXX

"I got some free weights and stuff from there. They have a pool, too. I was going to go back and see if there was anything else I wanted. Extras, you know? Duplicates. It's a nice place." That said, Peter had still decided that for his morning workout, he preferred the weight room across the street. It was closer and smaller and less intimidating. The YMCA was vast and empty, which while that had its good points at times, on the whole Peter found it unsettling. He'd spent the morning moving everything he wanted to the smaller, more comfortable room. His plans for the afternoon had involved swimming, but Sylar's presence probably put the brakes on that. Probably. On autopilot, Peter started walking in the direction of the YMCA anyway. When he saw Sylar wasn't keeping up but was definitely following him, Peter just as automatically shortened his strides and fell in a few yards away – Sylar on the sidewalk, Peter on the street.

XXX

_Maybe he's just letting me come along so I can help lift things._ Sylar watched Peter from the corner of his eye in time to see the man sidling closer. Immediately he looked forward to keep his peripheral open; he stood straighter and tensed. Just because he could take being choked out didn't mean he necessarily enjoyed it or wanted to do it again (particularly if there was no sexual climax involved). It also didn't mean he wouldn't put himself in a situation that might end similarly if he felt he had to or that he would put himself into a stupid situation needlessly.

XXX

Peter had intended to walk closer, but Sylar's body language put him off. Peter looked away pointedly. Glancing back, he said quietly, "Sylar, if you're afraid I'm going to attack you, then why don't you stop when I get upset, when you're goading me?" _It's not like I don't give signals!_ He flapped his arms to either side and said, still in a low voice, but also frustrated and earnest, "I'm not going to attack you out here, for no reason." He fell silent_. This is probably too much of a conversation to have right after running into the guy. _Peter frowned, but even though his head was tilted forward a bit like he was looking down, it was also turned so he could watch Sylar. The occasional, avoidant eye contact of earlier was gone – now Peter wanted something from Sylar – an answer, if one was possible.

XXX

Sylar just shrugged. He had nothing (decent) to say and kept his mouth shut because opening it would result in Peter leaving, with or without another beating. To say things were complicated was an understatement. Sylar was angry, vengeful, resentful, wary yet needy, self-loathsome, humiliated all at once. _Such a liar_, he thought about everything Peter had said and he couldn't count how many 'inconsistencies' there were. It was easier, and a better strategy, to assume Peter was a frequent liar, at least where he was concerned. _Right, of course you're not going to attack me for 'no reason.' You never do._ He ignored the looks in his direction. Health and fucking survival had to rank somewhere on his list of priorities because sometimes Peter conveniently 'forgot.' _Why don't I stop? _"Because I like to see you get _so_ hot and bothered," Sylar replied, complete with a nasty side-eye.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a look, a 'you are _such_ an asshole' look of reproach. It was almost a glare. He wasn't sure if Sylar's statement was funny because it was so over-the-top and uncalled for, or if it was irritating as hell because Sylar didn't get the point. _It's not something we need to be joking about, Sylar!_ Peter sighed, looked away, and blew it off by means of a displeased grunt. _Fine. Be that way._ But after a few paces (still shortened to keep even with Sylar), he had to wonder, _Why is he joking about something so serious? Does he not care if he gets hurt? He was laughing when he thought I was going to hit him and when I went to choke him out … and at Mercy Heights, where he told me to kill him. And other times._ Peter frowned, staring off to the left at the empty courtyard with a currently non-functioning fountain that they were slowly passing. _You know, him being suicidal is not out of the question._

XXX

Disappointingly, Peter failed to respond to that barb (not including a nasty look of his own). Otherwise, Sylar was quite ignored and he felt that keenly. The conversation could not be deader, although Peter still walked with him. He didn't regret saying it. It wasn't like he had been the one to bring it up, either – no, that was all Peter, who would probably blame him for the outcome of such a stupid exchange. Shifting the focus, he asked more normally, "Why not just work out at the 'Y'?"

XXX

Peter pulled his head around to deign to look at Sylar again. After another huff to make his unhappiness clear about Sylar's previous line, his demeanor calmed and he answered. "It's … empty. Kind of big. There's nothing like a room full of twenty treadmills to remind you you're the only one there." He was quiet for a few more strides, then added, "Makes me want to start going room to room to see if I can find someone." Somewhere in the core of Peter's being, he felt that if he just kept looking hard enough, he'd find … something. The way out, a sign, an obstacle to overcome, or unlikeliest of unlikely, a person. Well, a person other than Sylar. Sylar didn't count, especially not when he was being an asshole. But at the moment, maybe he wasn't being that.

XXX

That had Sylar boiling again. _I'm someone! If he's that fucking lonely…(I'm not someone to him and he'll blame my behavior for that. What can I do-) I'm not going to sugarcoat myself. He needs me. _Sylar's eyes narrowed as he stared at Peter. After a while, he probed, "Is that just habit or wishful thinking or do you have difficulty believing me when I tell you there's no one else here?" His slighted feelings made an unsubtle appearance; "I'm good at finding people, even when they don't want to be found, wherever they are. I've had a lot of time to look and I didn't find anyone." He meant it also to imply that he'd _given_ Peter space and that he wasn't blind to Peter's snubs.

XXX

Peter glanced over, taking in Sylar's shift of mood. _So now he's pissed. Why? Because I didn't go looking for the guy who laughed about my brother being killed? Or the guy who did the killing in the first place?_ Peter rolled his eyes at Sylar's narrow-eyed stare and kept walking. But despite the emotional byplay and what sounded like an attempt at a threat (not much of one, really, so Peter ignored it), Peter answered Sylar's question. "Wishful thinking, I guess. Maybe habit. I just have this _feeling_." He raised his right hand and waved it at the city in emphasis, brace poking out of a glove he'd mutilated until it fit around the device. "It's not that I don't believe you," he said sincerely, "it's just that it looks like a city, looks like a place where people should be." He sighed. "I'm not used to it yet." He glanced over at Sylar, intending to sooth the guy's ruffled feathers by ceding seniority in the not-hotly-contested issue of who had been here longer. "I haven't had a lot of time to not find anyone." Looking away, he shrugged. "I'll probably get over it eventually."

They walked along in silence for a little while before Peter asked abruptly, "What was that like? All that time, no one here?" His gaze on Sylar was attentive and concerned, but also curious. How did someone cope with something like that? How did Sylar? For someone who seemed to nearly freak out when Peter left at night, he seemed to have handled Peter staying away for days just fine. Or was that just how it appeared?

XXX

Sylar frowned, looking ahead as they walked. It sounded like a stupid question but it wasn't. It was another one of those personal questions Peter wanted to know without a good reason. After maybe thirty seconds to think, he answered slowly. "My sanity was already in question so this is…" he trailed off with an incomplete, vague wave of his hand. "It can't be a hallucination or a dream if two people see it….assuming you're real, of course," Sylar intoned dryly.

XXX

"_I_ think I'm real," Peter interjected as though offering a piece of helpful evidence.

XXX

"I'm not used to people so that's not much of a change, not having to watch over my shoulder until you showed up. It's…empty." He fidgeted, trying to put more into words. He felt colorblind, hypersensitive to a void vacuum. He'd always been needy but it had become instinct to block things out and defend himself until now, when he (almost) didn't need to anymore. Now he felt the absence of pressure, awareness, contact. There were no human social constructs to worry about or enjoy. With Peter here, it would take one wrong move to turn a potentially fun, fulfilling situation into a one-man horror show. That was the only challenge once again – survival and sanity. Peter was both an irritant and a balm. All that passed through him for the most part and Sylar eventually blurted, "It's too quiet, what the hell do you think it was like, Peter? You don't have to deal with it." A shrug tried to dismiss it and he propelled himself into walking faster, hoping it hurt or to hurt himself, just something.

XXX

Peter shrugged, too, and let Sylar get ahead of him a little. One of the accusations Sylar had made repeatedly was that Peter was privileged, lucky, some kind of fortunate son. _Maybe he feels that way because he has Nathan's point of view from his memories? But … Nathan wasn't … well, he was privileged in a lot of ways. But he was also alcoholic, unfaithful, and … _Peter frowned and hunched his shoulders against the pang he felt inside at thinking negatively of his brother, under the circumstances. _Dead. And Sylar thinks I'm so lucky that I don't have to deal with being here alone. So lucky to have _him_ here with me. _He huffed and caught up with the guy as Sylar started slowing back down.

XXX

Sylar sighed. "It gets on your nerves in every way," he admitted, matching Peter's pace more intentionally. "I think that's the point." That was murmured with misery. There was no doubt in his mind that this was punishment or some form of karma. How could it not be? At least Peter wasn't laughing and otherwise humiliating him with the fact. Sylar glanced at his partner, then looked away to avoid detection. _(It could be worse). _The problem was discerning if it was going to get worse or not.

XXX

"There was never anyone else here, was there?"

XXX

"No," Sylar whispered, shaking his head. The question and answer were all encompassing.

XXX

"Did you ever have dreams like this, before? Nightmares, maybe?"

XXX

"Not-not like this, no…" Dreams of being abandoned and alone? Nightmares? Absolutely. But never an empty city. The affect was exactly the same on him. A child terrified his parents would disappear, leaving him to wander and eventually starve; that is if they didn't leave him locked away in his room, wondering where his family was, why he'd been forgotten. Or a lonely adult, searching for meaning and value through the reactions he could gain and deeds he could perform, banished to a world with no accomplishment or hope. He would starve a different way, his mind devouring itself.

XXX

"I used to have nightmares like this, sort of," Peter said softly, waving vaguely at the buildings again. "I'd be in New York. The city had been evacuated. But everyone I cared about was still there. They'd refused to leave, I guess. Then I'd explode." He shook his head against the memories. It made his skin crawl just to think about it. "I had that same nightmare over and over when I was in that coma after I ran into you at the Odessa stadium. Over and over." He looked ahead at the structure of the YMCA. It was surrounded by a now-pointless parking garage that had the function of camouflaging it from street view. Trying to take his thoughts away from the things that haunted him, he wondered if it had one of those spiral ramps. Those were cool to skateboard down, and the possibility of that was one benefit of a lack of cars or security guards.

XXX

Sylar was watching and listening intently, relieved to not be the focus for questions like these. He saw how much it bothered Peter; how could it not? It had bothered _Sylar_ even in the height of his bloodlust insanity. _In the future…he said I was the bomb. I blew up California._ Something shifted; he twitched and lengthening his strides though he didn't intend to, "/Right now I'd settle for you walkin' straight./" _Wait, what was that fr-?_ It had been the last thing Nathan said to Peter before he'd slipped into that coma, after running off, getting himself killed, arrested, then babbling on like the sick idiot he was…_Um…I didn't bring it up._ Sylar hesitated to slow down again because it would put him in range, target painted on the back of his head and everything. He was sure he didn't want to get hit today, or ever until he healed (and maybe even after that…) but he couldn't discern if he desired to talk or even be around Peter in general today.

XXX

_His voice … that's not Sylar! _Peter stopped in his tracks, heartbeat and breathing both accelerating in a fight-or-flight response very focused on 'fight'. He stared to bore a hole in the back of Sylar's head. He didn't recognize the words as anything Nathan had said to him, but he recognized the tone, even the body language as Sylar walked ahead of him. But then he thought, _If I hit him when he thinks he's Nathan, am I hitting him or Nathan?_ Peter jerked, brows furrowing, his expression turning from anger to confusion. _It's not like I've never hit Nathan, but I'm either hitting him or hitting Sylar while Sylar's … not in his right mind. Like beating up on someone who's in an altered state. It's one or the other._ Peter deflated, frustrated and at a loss as to how to resolve the dilemma unfolding in his head. The more he thought about it, the less justified was his angry response. He was still angry; he just couldn't see moral a way to do anything about it.

XXX

Nervously, Sylar cleared his throat. _I'm the one who can't walk straight. Some help I'm going to be to him._ "Where did you go after that? The coma?" It wasn't something Nathan knew – where Peter had gone after he'd woken from a coma and gone missing. Plus, Peter talking and him listening seemed to make everyone happier than if Sylar shared or asked questions.

XXX

Peter made an upset chuffing noise and hurried to catch up, lengthening his strides. Sylar sidestepped, almost tripping over himself, turning to face him while backing up. Peter made the same dismissive sound and pointed forward, under the gloomy bulk of the parking garage. "Door's that way," he said, otherwise ignoring Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar was still wide-eyed on high alert, the words not registering immediately. He didn't move but Peter did, leading the way into the building – Sylar let him, that way he could be (more) sure he wouldn't be ambushed. Peter was upset; he got that much. _There's no line to cross with him. There are no boundaries. Any little thing will start a fight. (Of course, that was a big thing and he hasn't hit me. Yet)._ Slouched and tense, he followed as far behind Peter as he thought he could get away with.


	80. Cold Shoulder

Day 30, January 8, afternoon

Peter walked along with shoulders hunched, brow beetled, and arms held tight to his body for a few strides, still steaming about the slip he knew was a slip and felt compelled to do something about. But Sylar was now acting like Sylar and every moment Peter didn't do anything made it even more awkward to belatedly make an issue of it. _Whatever,_ he finally thought. _What did he ask? Oh yeah, what I did after I woke up __from the coma_. "I was going to leave the city. I was on the phone, booking tickets and trying to hail a cab to the airport when I saw this guy I'd seen in the nightmares, but he was a stranger." Peter shrugged. "He wasn't the only stranger I saw in the dreams, but I knew he was important. In the nightmare I'd wished he'd left when he had the chance. So I thought … I don't know what I thought, maybe that I'd warn him? But as I left the curb and went over to him, he was rifling through this woman's wallet right in front of me, like no one could see him. 'Course, no one could; he was invisible."

Peter continued to the center of the athletic facility. "He and I got in a fight. He said he knew what my ability was, then he took off and told me to stay away from him. He was the first person I'd run into who seemed to know something about abilities, so I followed him." Peter shrugged and gave an ambivalent head tilt. "He wasn't happy about that. I think he threatened to kill me."

XXX

Not for the first time, Peter sounded quite insane. Sylar's eyes narrowed at the man's back, only slowly increasing his pace so he walked more abreast of the man. _I wonder if he has some kind of mental problem. But I guess I'd have to look closely at his parents to determine that and I'm not doing that. Dreams are a big part of his…flights of fancy, though, that much is clear; 'I dreamed about it so it will happen and I will do it.'_ Maybe Sylar was following along with what Peter was saying and maybe he wasn't, either way he inquired, "Did he try?"

XXX

"Eventually, yeah." Peter snorted. "But not right then. He caught up with me later that day. He said he'd changed his mind and he'd teach me how to control my abilities. I'm not sure that's what he was trying to do, especially knowing what I know now about my parents ..." Peter's expression was pained and dark for a moment, a scowl passing over his features. "He had a history with the Company. I think he was taking it out on me because of my last name, but I didn't know that at the time. He got me mobbed, nearly arrested, beat the crap out of me a lot, made fun of me and my family, and threw me off a thirty story building when I didn't know how to fly or regenerate. As far as he knew, it would have been fatal and he admitted that, said he didn't care." Peter crossed his arms defensively, breathing out heavily. Not happy. Murder attempts tended to have that effect. "Then he knocked me unconscious. The next lessons were with sticks." Peter rolled his eyes, remembering how partial Claude was to whacking him in the nuts. Regeneration or no, that was highly unappreciated. "Or rather, '_a_' stick, since I didn't get one."

XXX

_Someone taking it out on you because of your family? Hmm…That must happen a lot. _Peter nearly getting arrested was a funny, fitting image, though, even more so because it was voluntary and self-induced. What interested him more was that someone had already tried Sylar's primary idea: beating some sense into Peter. Obviously it hadn't worked. _You're so dumb, Peter, letting some weird stranger beat you up in the name of…whatever. And sticks? How…Karate Kid._ "He doesn't sound very competent," Sylar remarked. _I wonder what his name was._

XXX

"He wasn't. I don't know that I learned much from him, except about the bad side of the Company. They – Noah and Rene – came after him and he left. Got away and cleared out, leaving me to deal with everything myself." Peter didn't mention his role in getting Claude to safety. It sounded like bragging so he left it out. In a sarcastic and bitter voice, he said, "That was my wonderful mentor experience, Sylar – the one I was so lucky to have."

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows arched a little. _Then I can see why you still almost blew up New York and have a complex about your abilities and you still can't handle them properly. _"Didn't-didn't you ever just…you know, sit and experiment with your powers so you could understand them better?" That seemed the obvious course of action but he didn't know if it had ever been tried.

XXX

Peter stopped in the central atrium of the building, where hallways and stairs made access easy to the rest of the facility. He turned to face Sylar, looking at him like he had suggested Peter should have tried stripping naked and painting himself green to achieve control over his powers. It was _that_ nonsensical (and scandalizing that it might be that simple). Peter's brows pulled together and his lips pressed against each other. "Why-" He tilted his head a little. "I mean, that's-" He huffed and reached up his right hand, scratching at the middle of his forehead with the back of his thumb, then tugging off the headband he'd been wearing to keep his ears warm. "All alone?" He looked down, obviously not done thinking and not intending Sylar to answer right away. "I learned your ability from Gabriel in the future, but he was standing right there, telling me what to do. I didn't-, I mean, yeah, I figured it out, but I'd had your ability for years and never really … I needed him there." He shrugged helplessly and then shook his head in denial. "My ability doesn't work that way. I _use_ my abilities. I don't … 'experiment' with them." The last was said in a tone that implied such experimentation was a waste of time at best and an analog for self-pleasure at worst.

XXX

Sylar was confused by Peter's thought process: he 'needed' outside help when he seemed so confident that he had all the answers for everyone and possibly everything else. _To hell with it._ "Why would you think a person with a single ability could help you anyway? You're kind of a special case – _we're _special cases," Sylar corrected himself, gesturing between them.

XXX

Peter shifted his weight in the start of a movement like taking a step, but aborted before actually moving his feet more than a shuffle. He crossed his arms, unhappy about having his obviously poor judgment called into question. _Yeah, okay, it was stupid. (Of course it was stupid!) I didn't know what else to do …_ "He was the only one with an ability who I thought I could get to talk to me." Peter fell silent, feeling his face heat, and tried to find somewhere else to look. He sounded like such a loser. He felt like one, too. Funny how it took so few words to stir his insecurities – that people didn't like him or want him, that he was inferior and second-rate. Absently he noted he was breathing harder. _Calm down. I didn't have anyone else to go to. I did the best I could. _As it so often was, it wasn't good enough.

XXX

Sylar positioned himself about five feet away, more or less in front of Peter. Whether he was looking or not, he saw Peter's reaction to that and heard the honest admission. _He's ashamed when that happens occasionally. __I have__ to live it. Can he understand that?_ As it was, Sylar looked at Peter briefly, but didn't stare or call it out – what was there to say? "What was his name?" _I wonder if I 'met' him._

XXX

"Claude." Peter sighed. "He called himself Claude Rains. I don't know what his real name was." Peter tugged the glove off his left hand and stuffed it into a jacket pocket before starting to fiddle with the glove on his right. Once they were both put away, he unzipped his jacket. YMCAs were always warm and usually humid. This one, even in the middle of winter, was no exception.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows quirked up, almost disbelieving that one. _I'm not sure if that's classy or dumb. _"What was he like?"

XXX

"He was … angry. Antisocial. He didn't like people. I think he'd been hurt and hadn't worked out how to forgive the world for it. Or himself." Peter leaned against the railing around the central open area. Stairs spiraled up and down for those too athletic to be seen making use of the elevators set in the walls. On the other side of the railing and glass half-wall Peter was resting against was empty air to the floor below. He didn't mind. "Or do you mean what he looked like? He was middle-aged, white male, about six foot, medium build, able-bodied, short beard and brown hair, neither kept very well." _Or clean._ Peter kept that part to himself. No need to be any more disparaging than he already was. The guy's behavior was fair game; his hygiene less so. "English accent."

XXX

"How did he treat you?" _Was it anything like Chandra or…well, it obviously wasn't helpful like Danko was. Sort of. Better late than never._

XXX

"What do you mean? We didn't 'hang out' together. He helped himself to my beer and anything else I had that he wanted. He punched me in the face after I saved his life." Peter was silent a moment, thinking back on his tumultuous relationship with the invisible man. By comparison, Sylar was a lot easier to get along with. "He wanted me to dump my life and everyone in it. Renounce everyone and everything. Give people up. Never love them again, never think of them." Another moment of quiet passed. Peter's voice had a lot of resolve in it when he finished with, "I refused."

XXX

Sylar snorted. It wasn't a half bad idea. Maybe this Claude wasn't a total loss. "That's what the Company does to you, Peter." Whoever thought pushing specials out of normality, leaving them no options but to be on the run, stressed and most likely having accidents or committing crimes was an absolute moron. How could they expect anything other than what fell into their laps? So long as the 'normal' people were kept ignorant, if not safe, then all was well in the Company's eyes.

XXX

_The Company does … what? It makes you forget about everyone? (Like Rene did to me?) Or it twists your thinking so much that you think hiding from everyone is a good thing? (Like what Claude was doing?) _Peter huffed and stared at Sylar, trying and failing to will him into elaborating. _Whatever he's trying to say is bitter and cynical and probably not something I want to hear anyway. _So he changed the subject. "What about your experiences with mentors?"

XXX

"I already told you," Sylar said, annoyed. "Did you kill him; Claude?"

XXX

"No." The answer came immediately, but then Peter gave Sylar a weird look. _He thought I'd killed Gabriel's son, Noah, too. What does that mean about him that he keeps thinking I kill people?_ Peter shook it off. It was another subject he didn't really want to explore at the moment. Instead, he went back to something Sylar had said earlier. "What do you mean about sitting around and experimenting?" He had an ambivalent, prudish interest in the question. While Peter could certainly understand people experimenting with sex, or drugs, or altered mental states, the idea of using powers when you didn't know how they worked just seemed … wrong. And more than a little self-indulgent. Peter was of the opinion that abilities were divine, even if he was fuzzy on the details. To use them for selfish purposes seemed inappropriate in the extreme. Sacrilegious, maybe.

XXX

Something about Peter's tone or facial expression read of disapproval or outright moral shock. It had Sylar laughing at how out of character that was, or how hypocritical it was. "You're seriously going to turn your nose up at 'experimenting'? You're the one with the dildo and I caught you _hard _at work trying to 'experiment.' I take it you never played with the fun side of telekinesis or shapeshifting," Sylar intoned in a rumbling voice, with a naughty, knowing, smirking, smug expression. _Who's the experienced one now?_

XXX

Peter's response to that ran through the gamut – shock that Sylar would be vulgar enough to bring up Peter's sexual history, confusion about which dildo he was even talking about (it wasn't like Peter had one _here_; he hadn't even successfully jerked off, much less anything more involved); anger that Sylar had to be using some memory of Nathan's, embarrassment when Peter placed the college incident and wondered what else Sylar knew (he'd always assumed Nathan's lack of further questions to mean he knew more than he did), and then a double-take at Sylar's other insinuation about him being hard at work. _What is he talking about? When did he catch me using abilities like that? Or did Nathan? I never did any of that! Is he talking about that look I gave Nurse Hammer in the elevator? And wait, what _could_ you do with telekinesis?_ A vision of Mohinder on the ceiling came to mind. _Whoa …_ His face heated and his body tingled in a manner that he really wished it wouldn't. He never even got to the part of speculating about shape-shifting. His coat was stiflingly hot all of a sudden.

XXX

Eventually sobering after watching Peter make a few faces, he said, "I don't know from experience since my ability is understanding things and I didn't exactly hang around with other specials," _meaning I killed them because I knew their power better than they ever could._ "I meant exactly what I said. You never sat down and tried to learn your powers so you wouldn't have accidents or explosions. If you do it without stress and distractions, immediate danger, then you should be able to apply it to those situations. In theory," he shrugged, admitting it might not always be possible. "Abilities are fueled or…controlled even, by adrenaline. That much I do know."

XXX

Peter gladly tried to put aside the undesired mental image of sex on a high, shadowed ceiling with a crowd of oblivious onlookers below. "Like shooting a gun," he said, not sure if that fit in with what Sylar was saying. Dragging his mind out of the gutter wasn't exactly easy, but he was managing it. "Fate, destiny – I don't think that has anything to do with practice. It's not the same thing. It takes … faith. Belief. Abilities are not ordinary. They don't work that way."

XXX

"Practice works," Sylar stated firmly, not buying into the cop-out of 'faith and destiny.' He couldn't count the ways to reason why 'faith' didn't work, especially for Peter, who was the perfect example. The man should be able to feel his way through everything far better than logic-and-mechanics-oriented Sylar, instead Peter was constantly impulsive and half-cocked.

XXX

Peter touched his brow with one hand, then lowered it to swing his jacket open at the waist. "Listen, I'm not a theologian. I don't know. And I'm not a scientist who studies abilities, either." He paused a moment as a thought occurred to him. "The last person I knew who wanted to 'experiment' with abilities came at me with a syringe full of who-knows-what, but I'd seen what it did to the guy he gave it to before me." Peter grimaced, taking off his jacket even though the feeling of being overheated in it was fading. "He died, covered with cancerous growths. Mohinder thought I was a better subject since, as he said, my body was primed to accept abilities." He hesitated again, then said, "You know about that. You were there. You stopped him and saved my life." _'That's what brothers do for each other.'_ Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, regarding Sylar searchingly. Holding his coat by the collar, he swung it back and forth slowly.

XXX

"I can prove practice works and 'faith' doesn't. I don't put any 'faith' into my abilities. They're reliable and they do what I tell them to," _sometimes they act up when I don't want them_ but Peter didn't need to know that. "I practice and understand my abilities, ordinary or not. You use the 'pray and play' method and…well, how has that worked for you? The only other option is a crash course." Sylar remembered Elle's tortured past and his own, learning to hunt and kill people efficiently and effectively. "That…only works for some. Just…trust your abilities, they already know what to do. You're thinking too much and making a mess of your instincts and control." Sylar waved his hand dismissively. "Like you said," he spared a look over Peter's coatless body, "Your body is primed for a lot of things."

XXX

Peter wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with the urge to argue back, but he was lining up his answer. Then at Sylar's last words, the man checking him out and their brief meeting of the eyes, Peter's brows went up and his desire to debate vanished. A second passed, then another, both accompanied by continuing swishes of his swinging coat and the absence of Sylar doing anything threatening. Peter grinned suddenly, smirking to himself. _He thinks I'm hot!_ Ego thoroughly stroked, Peter threw the coat over his shoulder, laughed lightly, and started towards the elevators. "Come on, killer. Let's go check out the third floor. I think I want to add some resistance bands to my collection."

XXX

Sylar started to follow until Peter called him 'killer.' It shouldn't shock him but maybe he thought Peter would try to avoid the word and the reality, that Peter would have more tact. For all the other names he was frequently called to his face, that one didn't crop up often and it certainly was not a compliment. He couldn't say it was rude or even mean because it was true but…Sylar stopped, frowning at Peter's retreating back. He didn't know what to do; he was angry and…yes, hurt, but neither were acceptable responses. _Is he going to keep calling me that like it's funny? I'm not a freak show._ _That's all he sees._ Peter was significantly ahead of him before Sylar got over himself enough to put his feet into motion, not wanting the medic to get to the elevator, turn around and have to watch Sylar finish the walk under his joyful gaze. _Just…pretend that's normal. It happens all the time, right?_ Quietly, keeping his head down, Sylar slipped into the car beside Peter. _I wanna add you to my 'collection,' _he thought darkly.

XXX

As they stood in the elevator car, Peter thought about what Sylar had said. Now, instead of trying to refute him, he tried to understand. "I don't get what you were saying. You say 'practice', but then you say 'trust my instincts' and 'don't think about it too much'. Which is it?" Before Sylar could answer, Peter cut in with, "Or are you saying I need to practice enough so it's instinctive, like swinging a bat? A lot of the time, I don't even think about using my abilities. I just think of what I want to do and they activate all by them-, um, themselves." He cleared his throat, realizing one compliment and moment of open admiration had him gushing like an idiot about things that made him sound like the fucking loose cannon he often saw himself as. He didn't want Sylar or anyone else thinking of him that way – they'd lock him up or worse and he'd already seen how that worked out.

XXX

_No surprise there._ Sylar's theory/suspicion was confirmed. "Yeah, I know," he remarked about that. "You're making it a…mental thing when it isn't that. Abilities are a tool, they're an extension of you so they should do what you want. You don't think twice to reach for a cup because you practiced it enough as a kid and now it's instinctive – you're thirsty, you reach for the cup because you know you the outcome. Killing is instinctive for me; I've had a lot of practice," Sylar smiled widely, shark-like and toothy. He wasn't about to let that 'killer' nickname stick. If Peter was trying to rub it in or make him feel bad, Sylar would throw it right back and make Peter sick with it. He leaned back against the rail and crossed his arms. "So…who is it you want me to kill?" _Probably his mother, ender of worlds, behind every plot, killing her own son and Peter hasn't forgiven anyone for that. He can't do it himself so he hires out. When did I become the Petrelli's favorite hit man? _

XXX

Peter could not get out of that elevator car fast enough. He'd been elated by the earlier compliment, concerned that he'd put his foot in it by over-blurting, and then discovered his real error had been a casual, thoughtless slip of the tongue. And Sylar couldn't just leave it alone, or even simply make sure Peter knew it was unappreciated. No. Peter moved the fractional distance he had left to him to be against the far wall of the elevator car, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to get to the third floor. He said nothing, his mind having seized up with a failure to find anything physical that he could do to better the situation.

XXX

_Well?_ Sylar raised an eyebrow impatiently. Peter wasn't jumping on the Petrelli bandwagon with gusto – what was up with that? _Maybe he needs a little prompting._ "You wanted me to 'save' a bunch of people, didn't you? Including your girlfriend?" Still, Peter was ignoring him, so Sylar badgered further, leaving it open for Peter to respond, "So…?"

XXX

Peter swung around in front of Sylar, abandoning the futile and unconscious effort to distance himself. So he went the other way, getting in Sylar's face. "You're going to do what I want you to do, is that what you're offering? Then never kill anyone again, Sylar! It's simple!" The doors dinged open behind him. Revolted, skin crawling, Peter got the hell out of there before the doors were finished parting, turning sideways in his haste to escape.

XXX

"I wasn't offering," Sylar was…confused, insulted and doubting Peter's believability. _That cannot be all he wants._ It was that simple. As it was, he felt vindicated that Peter was so upset that he literally squirmed and dashed away. _That is who you're dealing with, Petrelli. You're the one making things…messy, so deal with it. But you can't. Don't fuck with me. _In a gruff voice, he barked at the man's back, "You said you couldn't stop either! Don't…don't even!"

XXX

Peter paced off down a hallway at random, ignoring whatever Sylar had to say behind him. He went inside of the furthest room from the elevator, thinking it would have served Sylar right if he'd just taken the stairs down and left the guy not quite sure where he went, or if he'd be back. The room he found himself in looked like a dance studio, with a smooth-finished wood floor, mirrors lining three walls with a rail at waist height, and lockers on the last wall. He paced in a slow circle, raking at his hair, throwing his coat against one of the walls. When he tired of moving himself around pointlessly, he put himself in the corner of the room, hands on the rails, staring at the door and the little glass window in it that allowed him to see a narrow slice of the hall. _I hate him._ Those words, those thoughts, could not convey the depth of his loathing at that moment, even though they were the strongest and simplest he had at his disposal.

He didn't know how Sylar would save Emma. It was possible it involved killing or hurting someone, or several someones. Peter _knew_ that, which was why he was so upset. There was no way he was going to let it come to that if he could at all help it. But there was the rub: he didn't know how to prevent it. He couldn't control Sylar. Once they got out, he wouldn't be able to stop him. How many times could he pull off something like at Mercy Heights? His gut tightened into a knot. Sweat formed on his skin. _There's no way. _He felt trapped. He felt stupid. _Stupid to have come here. Was I stupid to have trusted the dream? But what else did I have? Should I have trusted Ma? She wanted to let them die, just like before. I don't know what else I could have done! _He took in an unsteady breath, eyes locked on the bit of hallway he could see, waiting. He was perched in the corner of the room like a boxer ready to come out of his corner at someone. Fighting would make it easier.

XXX

Someone running away. How familiar. Sylar let him out of sight, let him have his moment to freak out or calm down, whichever; it wasn't important. It piqued Sylar's predatory nature; he could feel himself sliding into that well-worn suit, half-heartedly searching for his next victim to overpower. It was a head rush bordering on arousal of some kind. Slowly, he paced down the hall, peering into the door windows with curiosity. _Here, Petey, Petey, Petey…_ At the last door, he sighted him and Peter was staring right back at him – nervous, excited, cornered and hostile. Concussion or not, the idea of a fight, Peter being visibly ready, was wonderful. Sylar stared at him a moment, unwavering eye contact and largely unspoken but still very clear threat or dare being given. Then, in a calculated move, he turned and disappeared from Peter's vision, leaving him to wonder where he'd gone and what he was doing. _Enjoy the uncertainty, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter remained keyed up and on high alert for long minutes after Sylar had quit the window. He imagined the man lurking just out of sight, probably leaning against the wall waiting for Peter to stop overreacting (while simultaneously fueling that overreaction with his own behavior – it was like poking someone with a stick and then questioning why they jumped). Peter finally exhaled heavily and leaned his head back in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling. A few moments after he'd achieved that much equilibrium, he shut his eyes.

A few seconds of closed eyes was all he could manage right now in the way of calming down. He left the corner and started going through the lockers. _Compulsive_, he noted about his actions. _Like going through the apartments. Huh_. In any event, he didn't find anything he wanted – the lockers contained what he assumed was ballet paraphernalia. Mostly this took the form of straps, ribbons, and what looked like harnesses of some kind. He labeled them as ballet-related because he recognized the shoes (and also the room he was in).

The last locker he searched was next to the door. Peter carefully leaned, getting as much angle as he could to look out the window_. If he's out there, he's either flat to the wall, on the other side, or not close at all. Or crouching on the floor. That's where I'd be. But I don't think his mind works that way._ Peter moved to the other side of the door, checking that direction. To get there, Sylar would have had to duck under the window or crossed it when Peter wasn't looking, like when he was messing noisily with the lockers. _That would have been a good time. But he's not there either._ Peter double checked. _You know, what do I really think he's going to do, anyway?_ No real fear materialized in his thoughts. Mostly, he was concerned Sylar might continue to talk to him about things he didn't want to hear. That social pressure was the danger and Peter didn't discount it just because it wasn't physical. Yet it was nice to realize he wasn't physically afraid of Sylar. Not at the moment, at least.

He opened the door, walking out and checking both sides anyway, but Sylar was gone. _Fine._ Peter moved down the hall and went into the next room, setting his sights back on his original mission. Maybe, hope against hope, Sylar had been embarrassed and went home. _Not likely._ And Peter found that was not the case when he finished with his search of the other rooms that led off the hallway. He emerged back to the central atrium, finding Sylar leaning against the wall near the elevators.

XXX

Peter was either too stupid to see what he'd nearly started or he was ignoring it – or, more likely, making a show that he wasn't intimidated. Whichever it was, he appeared. Sylar's arms and legs were crossed, the picture of casual comfort as if nothing had happened. He wanted to see what Peter would do about the change. In an innocent voice, he inquired, "Find what you were looking for?" _If you didn't, you sure found me. _Peter insulting him was really getting on his nerves so…it was called for.

XXX

"Yeah." Peter ignored Sylar's tone, lifting his loot to show it off, which consisted of three resistance bands and some hand grips. His coat, since recovered from the floor of the dance room, was folded over his arm. He looked past him at the buttons to the elevator, then back at Sylar. Peter's expression was one of disgust and frankly, loathing at the idea of getting back in an elevator car with the guy. No telling what he might say this time. Peter had nothing else he wanted to do here besides go swimming, which he certainly wasn't going to do with Sylar around. "When are you going home?" he asked bluntly, knowing the answer wouldn't be anything he wanted to hear, and knowing that just like Sylar, he was poking his adversary with a stick.

XXX

_Kinky. Gonna strangle me with those, too? _Sylar snorted at the rude question. "When you're ready to put me to bed," he shot back, only a little seductive because Peter was so unappreciative. A glance was directed at the giant rubber bands before he turned around to open the elevator doors. When he turned back, Peter was gone, leaving only the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that happening," and headed off down the stairs. No elevator ride for him. The stairs sounded like a nice stretch of his legs. _That's what I need. Just get away from him – more, longer, again. It's not 'leaving' him if I'm still around. I never promised to keep him company – just not to leave the world._ He didn't hurry. It would be undignified to make it seem like a race and besides, with the elevator car right there and Peter heading down three flights of broad, curving stairs with his hands full, it wasn't likely he'd win if it was.

XXX

Sylar made a face. He wanted to follow after Peter, just…not using the stairs. If he didn't use the stairs, he might lose Peter in any number of floors, rooms, or even the building. Most likely Peter had to pass through the lobby at some point. Sylar stepped into the car, hitting the 'L' button. When the doors opened, he slid out and scanned the atrium. He tried to remind himself this happened all the time – Peter being out of his sight, location unknown, leaving him by himself. It seemed too easy to accomplish and it didn't make him feel any better. There was no sign of the man. _Did I miss him? Or did I beat him?_Sylar began to wander about and physically search, in case Peter was hiding or…waiting to ambush him…

XXX

Peter turned the last corner, seeing Sylar on the ground floor looking up at him. Peter huffed and then grunted unhappily, but kept coming down. He felt a great upwelling of aversion. He wasn't angry; he just didn't want to be near the guy. He didn't want the memories Sylar stirred up inside him. He didn't want to think about why he was here and how frustrating it was that Sylar couldn't be trusted to save anyone without killing someone else to do it. Peter didn't want to talk to him and have that occasional normal thing of getting excited and happy about interacting with someone only to have his enthusiasm crushed because of some accidental error of his. Peter knew he made too many mistakes. He couldn't _not_ make them – he wasn't that good and no amount of training by his father, coaching by his brother, and getting hit in the face by life was going to make him something he wasn't. The only way to avoid fucking up was not to talk to Sylar at all, which was fine with him.

Peter walked past Sylar like he wasn't there, heading for the door. He stopped near it to put on his headband and coat, leaving the gloves off because he needed the dexterity to hang onto everything with his left hand. He didn't look at Sylar or talk to him, even though he heard the man come up behind him.

XXX

"Where are you going?" Sylar frowned, walking to him. Peter wasn't hustling to get away from him, putting on his gear indoors, but he wasn't lingering around for Sylar. He didn't get close and Peter didn't let him get closer, hell, he'd barely looked at him. _What am I supposed to do, just…take his crap? This is not all my fault!_ It was dawning on him that Peter wished to be left alone when the silence reigned loudly even over the noises of the man's rustling clothes. "What are you gonna do?" he asked more softly.

XXX

Peter glanced at Sylar at that softer tone. _Yeah, hurts, doesn't it? To have someone take something you said and react totally different from how you wanted them to? How the hell did you expect me to react, Sylar? _He huffed again and headed out the door. He didn't want to actually say any of that to Sylar because he didn't want to deal with the response. He hunched against the cold, trying to tuck his right hand into the pocket of the jacket. It was only a couple blocks, but he knew it would feel longer with Sylar trailing along after him. This time, Peter made no attempt to regulate his pace to Sylar's, an act that left him feeling weirdly disjointed inside.

XXX

"Peter…" Sylar tried. He then followed at a distance when Peter made no effort to let him keep up yet he tagged along anyway, not knowing what else to do. _He started it…He made me do it; why would he think that was funny? Him, to me, of all people. That's all he sees me as? But I thought…I don't know what I thought_. Sylar resolutely kept after Peter, maybe not being aggressive or knowing how to counter this behavior…yet. He was only slightly worried about being attacked; his concern about letting Peter out of his sight was ever present. _It's been days since I've seen him!_ he felt he whined like some kind of addict needing his fix, rationalizing things (like Peter) that were very bad for him.

XXX

Peter dropped off his stuff in the exercise room of the Pegasus, which was the name of the apartment building across from his own – the name of the one with the piano and recreation room. It was a weird name, but he supposed it was better than the Icarus. He smiled a little. English had been one of his better subjects in school and Greek mythology, with the tales of heroes and gods, had been a favorite. He supposed he should look around for the name of the building he lived in, but he hadn't done it yet. He turned towards the door was Sylar was just showing up. The smile vanished, replaced by a deepening frown.

XXX

Sylar followed him in all three doors, hovering anxiously inside the personalized gym room. _Am I even supposed to be here? What are the odds he'll suddenly answer me or talk to me? _"Are you just going to try to ignore me…today?" he threw on the last word in an attempt to see how long Peter was going to try to punish him. He asked this as Peter neared him to leave the room, assuming it wasn't called for to punch his face or any other body part. _It's just one of those days when my voice is…upsetting._ That depressed him. It wasn't like the cure was not talking – that wasn't working either.

XXX

_Yes, I'm going to try to ignore you._ It was better than physical violence, Peter assumed, although he knew it was still 'violence' of a sort to refuse contact with someone so desperate for it. At the same time, he was so fucking tired of trying to play nice with the guy who had killed his brother. Passive though the silent act was, it was at least a blow against someone whom Peter, at times, dearly wanted to hurt. He walked out past Sylar without response.

XXX

Still, Sylar refused to shake. "That's not fair, you know. You started it. What did you expect me to do about it?" _Obviously not what I did but… Even though I just reminded him of something he thought was…casual and accepted and I didn't even do anything bad, so what the hell?_ "Why do you keep expecting me to take your shit, Petrelli? Is it…personal, the person you want me to kill; is that your issue?" _Like his fucking mother?_

XXX

He was going out the doors towards outside while Sylar talked, with the 'you started it' leaving Peter not sure if he'd missed something over the noise. Standing outside, he stopped to put on his gloves and, truth be told, hear the rest of what Sylar had to say. _Ah, the 'killer' thing. That's what he thinks I started. Okay. And yeah, you're right. I started that. I fucked up. Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn't talk to you. At all._ He turned left, walking off towards the river that was a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of Sylar's apartment and the rest of the city. _I wonder if the river's iced over enough for me to walk across it? I wonder if I'd die if I fell through the ice and … um, died? Would I really die? Would Sylar save me? I think he'd try. But that's because I matter to him. He'd be alone otherwise. But a thousand strangers in Central Park? Meaningless to him. _Peter shook his head, disgusted by that attitude.

XXX

Okay, last or first resort of communication (depending on how you looked at it) a failure, so Sylar moved on to his next option, something he hoped was peaceable enough. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Sylar yelled about the continued rudeness. "Goddamnit…" he said and sped up to grab Peter's arm and turn him forcibly around, standing none too close as he did it. "I won't go away just because you ignore me!"

XXX

_I should have been walking faster._ Peter got jerked around, Sylar's hand on his right bicep, Peter's left hand curling into a fist in case this was a fight. He'd let his 'ignore Sylar' mode extend beyond the man's words to his proximity as well. Peter stared at him. _Sucks for me, then,_ he thought in response to Sylar's words, but he couldn't think of anything snappy enough to justify breaking his silence. By now, talking would be conceding defeat; admitting Sylar had won and forced him to engage. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being convenient and started being a contest. He reached across and pried Sylar's fingers off his arm, staring threat at the guy the whole time, trying to communicate with eyes and expression alone that grabbing him was crossing the line into physical, which Peter would allow without retaliation only this once.

XXX

It was the glaring eye contact, demanding his submission, that got to him; that and the slow, cold way Peter pried his hand off like he was a some insect to be brushed aside, as casual as that. Sylar stood there and stared, feeling somehow betrayed by the continued treatment and silence. Not a single word, not an acknowledgement or affirmation. Sylar didn't really think about it - Goddamnit, he wanted a reaction of some kind! As soon as Peter looked away, Sylar raised that same shrugged-away hand and used it to shove at Peter's back. To show how much he equally failed to care, he turned on his heel and walked in the direction opposite of where Peter was going. He left his back exposed and the jumpy little Italian had strangulation devices, motive and now inclination to use them. _(Maybe I want him to do something like that again). Or maybe I just don't care. That's beyond rude – __i__t__'s mean. _He consoled himself with daydreams of Peter becoming lonely, looking for and finding him in his need, and saying something far-fetched about how Sylar wasn't _just_ a killer; however impossible that was.

XXX

Peter jerked at the unexpected shove, turning and bringing up his hands defensively. Eyes wide, he took in Sylar's retreating back, comprehending that the contact wasn't the first blow in a fight, but rather the last word in an argument they'd been carrying out without speaking. Huffing for his part in the 'conversation', Peter turned away again and headed off.

XXX

Sylar was more than happy to avoid Peter in turn. He holed himself up in his apartment, first sitting down with his clocks. It had been days since he'd touched them. It was almost as if Peter had never been here except for Sylar's raging head pains and aching toes. He was angry, the unfortunately-too-familiar low simmer of being treated unfairly with no solution but to suck it up and take it with the expectation of receiving more of the same. _He thinks I won't hurt him. His wants and needs aren't the only things here._ Still, he focused on his refusal to let Peter treat him like some lesser creature. (At the same time, a smaller part of him knew that his neediness would outweigh Petrelli's stubbornness and Sylar would be the one crawling back). He was wound up but forced focus on his precious mechanisms helped. Ironically, that included the one Peter had shaken a few weeks ago (that one was less therapeutic). When he began to overanalyze, he moved to the couch to curl up and read. It almost worked. Time felt slow without Peter even with all his clocks surrounding him, ticking away in perfect time in a place where that was meaningless except to his sense of order and contentment. When it grew dark, he got up and fixed himself dinner but mostly poked at it without interest. He spent another miserable night alone.


	81. Closed Encounters

Day 31, January 9th, Morning

Sylar stopped by Peter's apartment. If he allowed it, both men would gladly draw out this stupid confrontation and avoidance maneuver that was fast becoming habit, much to Sylar's disgust. What pissed him off today was the fact that he didn't know where Peter lived, specifically. Without that knowledge he'd never know if Peter was in the building or not. _This is about the time he gets up…I think._ Of course he didn't know that for certain either. When waiting in the lobby (because it was cold outside and he didn't feel like punishing himself more than Peter was sure to) didn't work, he wandered off. _What do I know about him? He likes being thanked, playing hero, having food made for him, exercising, exploring nonsensically and asking me personal questions and taking offense at my answers and questions. I don't feel like thanking him for starting a fight but maybe I can cook for him._ Sylar swung by the diner Peter had mentioned he often ate at but it looked like he'd just missed him – the dishes were still cooling and wet where they'd been cleaned. _Guess he already had breakfast._ _What would Peter look for? What's he interested in? Anything that doesn't involve me. That doesn't narrow anything down._ He circled outward, looking into buildings as he passed.

Sylar saw Peter at the damaged store; the man was slightly stooped presumably in the act of cleanup. It left his backside exposed to all kinds of contact and every flavor of sexual assault that Sylar's overactive imagination provided. Despite his mind being consumed with filth, he approached Peter after doing a visual weapons check. There was still the broom, dustpan and a bucket. He kept what he thought was a safe distance, not wanting to tempt Peter or be tempted himself. His greeting was an attempt at casual, "Hey," like nothing had happened.

XXX

Peter's head whipped around at the sound of a voice where none should have been, his body following a second later as he caught sight of Sylar. _Sneaky bastard!_ He scanned over Sylar, then around him as though Sylar might have brought backup to assist in an attack. But … he saw no danger. At least, none other than Sylar, standing there empty-handed and yet still by far the biggest danger Peter knew of. He breathed out slowly, remembering their tiff of the day before – calling Sylar 'killer', Sylar being threatening and unsettling in response, Peter deciding he was done talking to the man, and Sylar being upset by that. The possibility of going on without talking ran through Peter's mind, but it seemed petty, especially when Peter felt he was the one who had fucked things up to start with.

"Hey," he said with the greatest of reservation and an extra glance up and down Sylar, trying to get a better read on his attitude and intentions. Peter's hand on the broom handle flexed and released a few times.

XXX

"You're still cleaning this?" Sylar asked with some surprise in his voice, a curious frown on his face as he surveyed the damage. Most of the glass was beneath the eaves and thus free of snow, there was a line of melted snow-drips from the gutter denoting where the eave's protection ended. Beyond that was half-melted snow that would likely hide any remaining shards. He didn't offer to help – this was Peter's mess and he would be the one to clean it. When Peter seemed intent on finishing, Sylar leaned against the nearby wall.

XXX

Peter tilted his head at the question, his brows pulling together a beat later. He maneuvered, getting on the other side of the small pile he'd swept together, which put him facing Sylar. It was polite, but he was doing it because it was safer. He felt very uneasy about having Sylar here, where they'd had their last bad fight. The location had him overanalyzing everything Sylar said, looking for possible provocation.

"It's still a mess." He straightened a bit further, shoulders going back and chin up. The push broom was in one hand and the dustpan was dangling from his right, his index finger hooked through the hole in the end of it. "I haven't been out here since we both were, before. And I just got here," he added with a trace of heat, not liking the possible insinuation that he'd been working at this for hours or even days without progress. He waited a long beat, eyes not leaving Sylar's. "What are you here for?" he asked with the clear implication Sylar couldn't be here just to hang out (or, God forbid, help). He had to be here wanting something and probably not something Peter wanted to give. Or he'd come here to start shit, which Peter was mentally gearing up to match in kind.

XXX

Sylar's heart sank. Peter was in a markedly unfriendly mood this morning, with no provocation. Sylar mentally grit his teeth over his instinctive thoughts _(He started it yesterday!)_ He had no desire to be hit or to get into an altercation – it was cold, he was tired and strung out, lonely and sick. He didn't doubt Peter would hit him, what with the pre-emptive broom-gripping, and the supposed-empath was already rude. Sylar considered leaving since he was so far from welcome. He didn't enjoy being stared down; mostly he kept his own eyes on the broom when he wasn't glancing at Peter's eyes. _I didn't know I needed an excuse…I should have thought of that. Why didn't I think of that? I always need an excuse (I didn't when he was taking care of me…)_ His head and toe still hurt and he didn't feel one hundred percent so that would be his go-to excuse as needed – _you break it, you buy it._ But he wasn't going to be run off. "Just here to watch you work," he snitted back, barely polite. _I guess 'good morning' or an olive branch isn't going to cut it with him. Then what the hell does he want?_

XXX

_Great. Thanks. Just what I need – an audience._ Peter exhaled heavily and went to one knee to scoop up his latest pile. It was awkward work, setting up the dustpan with his right hand and then pulling the push broom towards him with his left. The leverage was bad, but he hadn't thought he'd be doing it under observation. Under a lot of circumstances, Peter liked to be watched. This was not one of them.

XXX

When Peter didn't comment – actually a relief, as a comment would probably start a fight – Sylar sighed after a moment. The only sound was that hyper-quiet noise of winter, no wind, the muffled world hidden in a snowdrift, and the sound of Peter sweeping and breathing. "How do you sleep? In your apartment," he asked randomly, but with purpose. He wanted to know if he was alone in sleeping poorly without company – Peter, who had the habit of sneaking into Nathan's room to pester and cuddle him for the slightest little thing. It wasn't that he'd been afraid of the dark or monsters particularly, as a kid, Peter hadn't liked people-less void even in sleep; unlike Sylar who had reason to be afraid of the monsters under his bed, inside his apartment and its inhabitants, or within his mind. They were the kind he felt would snatch him the moment his eyes were shut and no one but him knew they existed. Sylar straightened; he was just…curious.

XXX

"Well enough. Why do you ask?" Peter finished pushing the broom around for what he expected to be the last circuit of the exterior. At least until the ice and snow melted. He'd gotten up everything on the outside that there was to be picked up. Fortunately there was enough of a canopy that the interior hadn't suffered much weather damage yet.

XXX

"I was just curious," Sylar replied and desperately tried to keep it at that. He tried to think of three or more things at once to confuse his brain into silence. Those other-person memories were rising up again, /remembering Peter as a child…the ego strokes and the hope, the comfort he'd provided to his older brother…/ _Pi, a complication and string theory…C'mon…_He couldn't focus too much on his expression, but he was sure it looked tense.

XXX

Peter frowned. It wasn't enough of a reason and in fact, the passive-aggressive inquiry set him off. The polite thing to do was to inquire in return about Sylar's sleep, especially given the nightmares might have intensified in Peter's absence, and disturbed sleep might be medically important given the concussion. He wasn't feeling polite. Instead, he felt watched, confronted, and judged. And now the insinuation that Peter needed to spend his time meeting Sylar's needs for companionship? _Heh. Fuck him. Maybe if he'd stop killing people, he'd have someone around who wanted to spend time with him._

Standing next to one of the broken storefront windows, about fifteen feet from Sylar, Peter faced him, broom in his left hand, right hand empty. "How do _you_ sleep? Given what you've done in your life?" He held the broom forward, between them, a very similar pose to that he'd adopted before their last fight here. "You talked about changing. You've had a lot of opportunities, but there you were at Mercy Heights to _kick. My. Ass_." He gestured at the store with his right hand to distract from how he twisted the wooden broom handle several times with his left to unscrew it from the unwieldy base. "And here, the last time we were here. For the same reason, as far as I can tell." Which Peter was thinking might be the same reason why Sylar was here now, hence the weapon prep. "You got pissed and picked a fight. That's not someone I want to sleep near or hang out with, Sylar. Go the fuck on. You're well enough to threaten me in your apartment; you're well enough to be in it all by yourself."

XXX

Sylar just stared, trying to wade through the mean, judgmental aggression aimed directly at him. It wasn't pleasant; it hurt, but curiosity of where or why this was happening made him stay and figure it out. With a lot less emotion in general, Sylar replied, "I don't sleep well because of things that have been done to me, too. You're not some righteous, angelic victim who's safe to hang out with yourself, Petrelli. Look at you: I'm defenseless, standing out of reach, trying to start a normal conversation as I understand it, and you're getting ready to hit me," Sylar nodded at the broom handle, now free of the weighted broom end itself.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Sure," he said in a sarcastic tone. "You're just as defenseless now as you were last time we were here." He shifted the broom handle to be sure it was free from the base, since Sylar had clearly seen through his attempt at subterfuge. "And we both know how that turned out. Don't start with me. I'll mess you up, win or lose."

XXX

Sylar sighed and looked up at the cold grey-white sky for a moment. That much was peaceful and it made sense. _How he can feel threatened by me saying 'good fucking morning' when he's the one holding the damn broom is just…_Control, patience, logic, those were the things what he needed right now, and, unfortunately, Peter's company and possibly medical expertise. "I'm not starting anything. I'm just standing here, talking, without any threats but obviously you have something to say about feeling threatened." He looked back at Peter, trying to will some sense into the kid. "So what's going to make you feel better, safer?" Correcting himself because that was way too open-ended around the spitfire empath, "And don't say 'me leaving,' because I won't – you need to deal with whatever your issue is."

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed to slits as he stared Sylar down. A few tense seconds passed as he waited. _Is it a trick? (Of course it's a trick. He'd probably lose if we fought. He wants to know what he can do to calm me down.) That's probably not a bad idea – calming down._ Peter drew in a deep breath, tapping the metal end of the broom handle restlessly on the ground, because he really wanted to be beating Sylar with it. But he wasn't looking at Sylar while he did it – he turned his head to the side and dipped it. A wave of anger so all-encompassing it was dizzying passed through him. He remembered the joy he'd taken in trashing this place, intermixed with flashes of their fight here and frustrated impressions of his darker desires to gouge out Sylar's eyes and torture him in various ways. He lifted the stick to jab the end of it several times against the nearby brick wall, hard. Then he walked away, ten paces, before turning, whacking the stick against the wall carelessly but intentionally, and coming back with a body language that spoke more of going from point A to B than of any preparation to charge or attack.

He stopped next to the base of the broom, right where he'd started from. Finally, he managed to bring himself back to Sylar's question and give voice to things he'd been bottling up. "What the fuck are you here for if it's not to threaten me? I try to fix lunch for you the other day and you're crowding me. I tell you to cut it out and you tell me I don't get to have my own space. Or yesterday," he gestured, left-handed with the pole held vertically, then grimaced at it and propped it against the wall to get it out of his hand and out of the way (a very clear sign that Peter thought words might gain him more than bludgeoning instruments), "we're talking, things are okay, and then you start about killing people. That's not what I came here for, Sylar! I shouldn't have said what I did, but it was a fucking joke and if I can't … talk ..." He shook his head in frustration. "Then I won't fucking talk to you, okay?

"Why are you here? Why are you watching me? Why are you asking me about my sleep unless it's some lead-in about how you're not sleeping well and you want me to move back in with you or something?" He didn't wait for an answer, talking rapid-fire as fast as the thoughts came to him. "And what happens when I say no and tell you to stick it? Then we have another fight, just like the last couple times I've tried to walk away from you." He waved his hand at the broom handle, which he hadn't moved away from and was still ready at hand. "If that's what's going to happen this time, then I might as well win. _That's_ my issue."

He had no idea what Sylar would do with such an emotional dump, nor did he care. It felt good to give vent to the accumulated issues surrounding proximity to Sylar. He was trying to stay confined to recent events, things that had immediate bearing on his current anger. He'd even managed it without telling Sylar to take a hike, so there was that.

XXX

Sylar watched throughout Peter's entire process. He gave a lot of attention to it and tried to not look creepy or threatening or anything else while doing it. It was a comfort, and a small victory, when Peter set the broom handle aside. Only when Peter was finished did Sylar look away, contemplating the mostly-emotional, general information. Whatever Peter had said seemed to help him but it was of little use to Sylar as it was. _How much of that am I supposed to respond to? Probably none. I don't think he's…listening right now. _ "…Okay. So what is going to make you feel safer?" _I can't promise anything but I think I should know._

XXX

Peter snapped out the answer immediately. "Indicate in some way that you understand _**why**_ I feel threatened. You're getting that I am – right, I am – but do you understand _why_? Do you understand that you've killed, assaulted, or threatened to kill or assault, a lot of people I care about, and that means I take threats and threatening behavior from you _very_ seriously? Does any of that matter to you?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said simply, encompassing all the man's questions at once with as much sincerity as he could manage. _It matters, just probably not the way it matters to you. I would realize that but he doesn't…Of course being taken seriously is important and I haven't threatened him out of turn, just when I needed to. He's…doing the same thing?_ The commonality was surprising, and obvious now that he was aware of it, but he lacked the time he would like to spend pondering it. _He has to make sure I don't feel threatened so I don't threaten him; and I have to do the same for him, I guess?_ Sylar could feel his stress rising, but from somewhere, he summed up, "I don't trust you, Petrelli, and I never will. I can live with you because I have to and you need to live with me because you have to. You can't expect me to act any differently when you keep throwing things in my face and acting like you're better than me. We can always keep things the way they are; it's not shocking to me; but you don't play by the same rules so even that doesn't work."

XXX

Peter's weight shifted forward at 'yes'. He seemed to hang there for a moment, overbalanced forward until he settled back. A load of tension dropped from him – his shoulders relaxed, his color improved, his face smoothed. That helped. Maybe he wasn't just talking past Sylar; maybe they were understanding each other right now. Peter was listening when Sylar went on. His lips tightened at first, but he didn't answer right away. He blinked and looked down, eyes scanning slightly as he went over what Sylar had said, thinking about _exactly_ what he'd said and trying to work out what he _meant_.

Slowly, he said, "I can understand why you don't trust me. Not completely, at least. You trust me some. That's enough. We don't … _have_ to see each other. It's not a requirement." He hesitated. He wasn't sure he could hack the loneliness and he was fairly certain Sylar couldn't – not with the knowledge that Peter was out there somewhere. Sylar would literally have nothing else to do but spend his time tracking Peter down, which was a really good argument against trying to deliberately avoid him. "But if you mean we're going to see a lot of each other because we're the only ones here, then yeah, I agree with that." Grudgingly he added, "We have to be able to put up with each other and deal with our … issues." _Speaking of which,_ "You say I'm acting like I'm better than you. Can you tell me what I'm doing," Peter paused to get his wording right, aiming for non-defensive and non-contradictory, "when I'm acting like that?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth, but his brain stalled so he closed it. _There's something to that question…He can't make things much worse – it's not that. __It's t__he fact that he is better than me and he wants me to say as much. _"Ah…mmm….You just keep thinking things happen the way you say they happen," he changed the subject with half the force he could muster. Avoiding eye contact, he looked everywhere but at Peter.

XXX

_And …? What other way would they happen? Is he saying I'm lying? Wait, he's acting weird._ Peter tracked Sylar's sudden absence of eye contact. There was a small family of related emotions that could explain it: guilt, duplicity, shame, submission. It made what little Sylar had said be suspect of truth. Peter pressed for more information. "Yeah? Tell me more. It sounds like that's an 'issue'. I want to know what's causing it."

XXX

"I'm not gonna chase you down if you won't move closer. It's…" _a dumb idea? _"It's just more convenient." Sylar hunched his shoulders, turning aside. He paused before clearing his throat. _How is seeing each other not a requirement?_ "Is this the last of your projects or…?"

XXX

Peter's brows rose at Sylar's complete evasion of the topic he'd been the one to bring up – confronting issues and making things better, or at least survivable, between them. _He's embarrassed – embarrassed that I asked him what I was doing that meant I was acting better than him. Is that … because he doesn't want me to stop acting better than him? Or … because he thinks I am better?_ "Not going to answer my question, are you?"

Peter shrugged. He certainly wasn't going to push it if Sylar wasn't feeling up to enumerating Peter's faults. Instead, he reached for the broom, screwed the handle into the base, and headed for the ruined doorway, social convention and habit preventing him from stepping through the equally smashed display window, even if that would have been a shorter route to where he was going. Over his shoulder, he agreeably changed to Sylar's proffered substitute subject, saying, "This is what I was planning on doing this morning. I thought I'd be able to get everything cleaned up before lunch. Then I'd have to figure out how to actually fix it."

To Peter's surprise, once it was clear he was going inside the building, Sylar followed him in, sticking closer to him than he'd like. His goal now was to sweep up everything on the inside, clear out the ruined displays, and throw away anything that couldn't be salvaged. He assumed that once in the trash, the stuff would eventually disappear. It was interesting it hadn't vanished from the ground already. Peter suspected the damage had some kind of psychic significance. He wondered if maybe, in some way, it had accomplished exactly what he'd initially intended in striking a blow at Sylar's consciousness and forcing Sylar to take notice of him. He wondered, too, if the fact he'd given Sylar such a bad concussion at their fight here wasn't coincidental either. Musing, he swept as busily as a one and a half-handed man can, at one point telling Sylar in a low voice, "Get further back. You're in my way and I'm not going anywhere." What Peter had interpreted as Sylar's embarrassment had broken the impression of haughty, superior disapproval Sylar had been dishing out earlier. Now he was just there and his presence bothered Peter so much less.

XXX

After putting his foot in his mouth – and worse, being called on his backpedaling – Sylar was inclined to stay quiet. It wasn't necessarily a happy quiet but he wasn't exactly brimming with ways to further embarrass himself and call Peter's wrathful attention down on him. It was a little more insulated inside but the fact that it was shaded and without sun compared to where he'd been standing outside evened things out. He was leaned against the checkout counter, still out of Peter's immediate range with the broom, comfortable to watch since he hadn't been directed to and couldn't see how to help with only one set of tools anyway (besides, shouldn't Peter fix his own mess?) Sylar's eyes widened, then narrowed as he frowned a little. _Why would he need to say he's not going anywhere? _Either way, given how aggressive things had been just moments before, any warning to get back was well-heeded. Sylar hustled back, unsure how far 'further back' was, luckily not tripping on any glass or merchandise as he went and keeping an eye on Peter as he did so.

XXX

"Sylar, we live, like, a block apart. Two if you count that alley, but really, it's one block's distance. That's a lot more convenient than I'm comfortable with most days."

XXX

Sylar slumped, hands in his pockets. _I know but I can't keep tabs on you from two blocks away! I don't even know where you live and it's not fair. (I'm still worried I have to move…I don't want to. What if he disappears and I can't…)_ Sylar was only dealing with the lack of proximity because he had no choice and felt he would come unglued if he didn't and he feared the loss of his sanity more than most things but in the process of holding himself together, felt he was still coming apart, just more slowly. It stung to hear the part where even that proximity made Peter uncomfortable (to say the least). He thought he'd moved back far enough that he wouldn't be near any glass but he found an escaped piece, about the size of a marble, perfect for kicking around for the hell of it. _And I can hang onto it, hide it, and tell him he missed it after he's finished,_ he thought sadistically. As it was, Sylar amused himself with that piece of glass and his shoe. _He must have hit the window really hard to get glass back this far_, realizing some more, how angry and dangerous Peter was. _He said he did this before he found me._

XXX

Peter kept half an eye on Sylar. The guy looked really unhappy. Peter had rarely seen anyone who looked so much like they needed a hug – not that Peter was interested in giving one, but he would like to see Sylar happier. The source of Sylar's despondency could be any of several topics – Peter not wanting to be near him, some reflection on the destruction, the 'better than you' issue, or maybe something Peter had said in the course of his ranting. Or maybe it was all of those, since none of them really made for a cheery mood. Together, yeah, he could see how they could grind Sylar down and shut him up. It was satisfying in a way, but disturbing in another. Peter didn't like knowing he was the source of someone else's misery, even when that someone else was Sylar.

"You doing okay?"

XXX

Sylar just nodded and kept the eye contact to a minimum. _No__t only do I terrify him, I make him uncomfortable when he's aware of me when I'm not around. (Is that…fair? He does the same to m-) I'm not afraid of him and his fucking broom handle. He knows what I'm capable of and he's treating me like a credible threat like he fucking should. (Hmm…I'd use plywood to cover the windows…)_

XXX

_Huh. Kay. I'm getting the cold shoulder, but he's still here. And I swear he's getting closer._ Sylar hadn't moved that far off when asked – maybe a couple arm's lengths and when Peter looked back up the next time, he didn't even seem to be that far away anymore. He was messing with something underfoot and shuffling back. Peter finished the main part of sweeping and went to lean against the counter where Sylar had been earlier. The broom was left against the front wall of the store some ten or twenty feet away. "That's it with sweeping for now. Next I'll get all that stuff out of the way and haul it back to the dumpster." He gestured at the ruined displays. "I think they'll have a dumpster, right? It's a big store." He looked to Sylar for an affirmation even though he already knew the answer.

XXX

A glance told him Peter was looking at him. Sylar nodded and went back to playing with his find of destroyed window.

XXX

Peter kept going with the small talk, not letting silence fall between them even if he was struggling to find things to say. "Once I get all that out of the way, I'll sweep again."

XXX

_Why not just pick up all the big stuff then sweep once? But whatever keeps you busy and not…assaulting me is a good thing, I guess._ "Are you going to need hardware supplies?" He was curious if Peter's intent still matched the words Sylar thought he remembered, about fixing the store completely or as best he could given the circumstances. _Is he doing it out of guilt, do-rightness, or…does he know it would make me feel better?_

XXX

"Yeah, I will after I get this cleaned up. You walked me by a store a few weeks ago and pointed it out – I remember that. It was somewhere up north of here, but I didn't see it when I was out canvassing the neighborhood. Could you lead me there again, after lunch?" Peter knew he was giving the impression they'd eat lunch together, but that was intentional. He'd like the company. He wondered how well Sylar had been eating. He suspected the answer was 'not'.

XXX

Sylar nodded once more, this time answering verbally also, "Yeah." _He wants to go for a walk. I want to sleep. With him. Around. At this point, I think it would be hazardous to my health to sleep near him. _The subject of lunch was in question; Sylar's assumed they would meet up after lunch despite the more obvious lead-in to dining together. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food but he didn't feel like eating beyond that; certainly he wasn't anywhere near his full strength and that motivated him to keep the peace with Peter.

XXX

Peter nodded to him, pleased to see Sylar perking up some. He reached over in a long leaning motion and gave him a couple quick, encouraging pats on the upper arm. This was despite and maybe because of Sylar's comment during the argument in his apartment - that Peter got in his space without asking. What did that mean? Did this count? Was Sylar going to object to what Peter saw as normal, casual touch or had he been talking about his apartment rather than his person?

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened a little and he went still. It was a slow, purposeful motion, Peter's hand coming towards him, but it could easily be used to gain a handhold and yank him off balance or worse… Yet he allowed it. And nothing came of it. He didn't want to admit he breathed easier when Peter moved away.

XXX

"Come on. Help me load up a couple of those shopping carts with trash, then we'll push them out back to the dumpster." Helping made people feel better. Peter strongly believed that. If Sylar wasn't going to be difficult about the patting, then maybe they could get through doing something together without trying to kill each other.

The debris consisted of a handful of battered, headless mannequin torsos (not that Peter had ripped off arms, legs, or heads – they were made that way), a lot of scattered clothes, pegboard and display backboards, some signs, and pieces from one of the window frames Peter had bashed on repeatedly enough to dislodge it from the brick facade. He rolled a shopping cart over nearby, hoping that Sylar would join him, and tried to figure out how to get as much of the stuff as possible in it. "I suppose the big things, like the pegboard and stuff, should go on top, last. Maybe we should put the mannequins and clothes in first." He glanced over to Sylar for his opinion.

XXX

"Hmm. I can hold the big stuff on top." Sylar said, surveying what needed transport. His eyes caught on the mannequins – white, but still clearly and intentionally humanoid in structure, just as clearly lacking arms, legs and heads. This was probably the closest thing to a life-sized human around, except for Peter. There were pictures of people in any kind of printed material but they lacked faces. Sylar tried not to find it karmic and creepy that these torsos were mocking him, otherwise existing in his Hell. He still didn't want to touch them (rather, maybe he wanted to touch them too much, representing humans as they did, disgusting as that was – it wasn't like he could touch Peter). Carefully, Sylar squatted down and began to gather the clothes, standing and moving to squat again because it was easier on his head than bending over…and he still didn't want to be doing that anyway around Peter. When he had an armful, all the while keeping track of Peter, he dumped them in the cart, thinking how very similar it was to when he killed someone and had to handle the body. _I took Zane's clothes. _He swallowed and left the rest of the mannequins to Peter. "Maybe we should keep these for the next time you get angry," he muttered about mannequins and Peter's violent habits.

XXX

"Haha. Yeah, right." Peter took it as a joke, which was a deliberate choice. He had every reason to be angry at Sylar and the man's comment implied those reasons were insufficient. But Peter didn't want to fight, so he laughed it off. He hefted a mannequin over his shoulder in a faux show of strength (they were really light weight). "Better than beating on each other, that's for sure." He thought about tossing it into the cart in a further display of prowess, but … he'd never been happy about people taking liberties with the emergency services training dummies. He set it in the cart after pulled the metal pole out of its posterior. "I thought about getting a hanging bag for the workout room. Maybe I'll do that someday. It would give me something safe to hit when I get tense."

XXX

_Meaning he has to hit something when he's 'tense.' Great._ Sylar deliberately avoided considering that depressing reality, instead beginning to gather up the signs, righting what clothes hangers he could. It was a little more time consuming because he had to move slower, get lower to grab them up. He went after things he thought Peter couldn't, literally, handle with a single hand – the window frame and most of the displays.

XXX

The largest piece of pegboard was awkward in size and weight. Peter pulled it free from the other store displays and hauled it noisily and clumsily over next to the carts, where he paused while he tried to figure out how to deal with it in a way that didn't endanger everything nearby. "It's a little thick to kick in half," he mused. "I'm not sure it will stay on the cart, though." He reached down and lifted the nearest corner, not sure what he was going to do.

XXX

Sylar hastened to help Peter get the board up. It was heavy and unwieldy, a two-person job, assuming Peter would allow that. Sylar took the other end and helped lift and maneuver it onto the cart where it seemed likely to slide off regardless of placement. "I'll hold it." And then he noticed that the loaded cart was well inside the building – with the pegboard, it was unlikely to fit through the door. _I should have…thought of that. Why didn't I? Well, he brought it in here, which was half-smart._

XXX

"Okay," Peter nodded. "Then we'll just take one cart out at a time." He backed it up slowly, craning his head towards the back of the store. "You're taller. Do you see the way out back there? There should be a couple double doors."

XXX

_Oh, good. Maybe he already scouted- _"Yeah. There," he pointed, carefully, to his right, supporting the board on the cart with his left. "To your…left."

XXX

They walked it out, slow and easy, down the central aisle of the store and through the double doors in the back. There was, as Peter had expected, a set of freight doors in the back. A little exploration showed the dumpster not far from there. The stuff was piled in it without a problem, although they had to work together on the pegboard. Peter side-eyed Sylar as they headed back. Sometimes he was too close, like earlier; now he was staying oddly far away. It was like he was afraid Peter might try to run him down with the cart or something. Peter didn't miss the slight cant to Sylar's head that let him see Peter in his peripheral vision. There were moments when the man's fear of him was palpable.

_What did I do? So I kind of threatened to hit him with a broom handle. I don't think that's what his deal is. Yesterday I wouldn't talk to him and he got upset. A few days before that, we argued in his kitchen and he kicked me out. He wasn't afraid of me like this then. He was … he was pretty off yesterday, too. Not like this, though. He's not going to want to answer, 'what are you afraid of?' I need to make it less direct._

As they returned to the front, Peter asked, "When we were arguing in your apartment last time, you said I get in your space all the time … and you said I couldn't go around with my own space. What's going on with that? I don't understand. It sounds contradictory."

XXX

"It means if you treat my apartment like a free-for-all, then you don't have any right to personal space yourself. If I tried to act like you in your apartment, you'd…" Sylar sighed. _Kill me. Pull a gun. Something of that nature._ "You'd kick or drag me out." He opened his mouth to say more but it was off topic – Peter hadn't asked for it – so he didn't voice it. "It's very simple."

Reluctantly, Sylar crouched to get his hands on a mannequin. He threw it into the cart, glanced at Peter, having no idea how the other man would take anything he was saying as usual, and went for another figurine. He couldn't explain his discomfort about Peter, the topic, the damn life-like dolls, and he didn't try. He was beginning to realize his distresses would be or had to be overlooked to preserve a working interaction between them and he had to accept it.


	82. Hardware-ing

Day 31, January 9th, Morning

Peter watched Sylar's abrupt motions as they went about loading the cart for a second (and probably last) load. "What do you mean, a free-for-all? Do you mean the fight, that morning?" His brows were slightly pulled together, giving Sylar nearly all of his attention. This was important.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar nodded starting slow at first, a little jerky but getting smoother and faster. His voice strained, "Hitting me, breaking my things, stealing and using others, the food, attacking me when...when you said you wouldn't and I told you to stay across the room."

XXX

_'Stealing and using others?' What does that mean? Maybe stealing some of his stuff and using other stuff? Let's focus instead on the rest, on the things I think I understand._ Peter straightened, but not in a confrontational manner – more just getting up on his feet. "You're saying … that when you started making fun of my brother's death, I should have walked out instead of going for you, right?" His expression was serious. He wasn't doubting or disagreeing; he was figuring out where Sylar drew the line.

XXX

"I'm not telling you what to do, Peter," Sylar scoffed, "As if you'd listen." He noticed he was clinging protectively to the latest mannequin, keeping it between himself and Peter.

XXX

_No,_ Peter thought sadly, _I probably wouldn't_. He nodded slowly, eyes distant. "I broke my word," he said softly. "That's why you're afraid." He touched his forehead and sagged against the check-out counter, eyes moving uneasily between the floor and Sylar. _I fucked up. How do I fix this?_ An apology felt wrong, especially as he felt torn between competing loyalties. He looked pained. _But I told him my family was off-limits! How can he expect me to sit there and do nothing while he makes fun of Nathan's death?_ Peter shifted uncomfortably, talking to himself, as much as to Sylar. "But if I'm willing to break my word when all you've done is talk, then what does that mean to you about how I'd keep any other promise when you've killed my brother?" Peter swallowed. _What am I willing to honor? If it's Nathan's memory, then Sylar should already be dead. And if it's not, then he should be able to say what he wants. It's just words, right?_ Peter squirmed in place again, not at all liking where his thoughts were taking him. It tasted a lot like a betrayal of his brother and it was bitter on his tongue, leaving his chest feeling empty and hollow. Maybe Sylar had tricked him somehow. He'd have to think on it. In the meantime, there was a breach of trust to be healed or else Sylar's increasing and perhaps justified paranoid behavior was going to make life impossible.

Slowly, he said, "I see why you don't trust me. Or at least, I see it more. But we're still here together. How do we make this work?"

XXX

Sylar retorted, "I'm not afraid." He huffed an exasperated breath. "'We' don't do anything, because there is no 'we', right, Peter? You live with your actions because you won't do anything different. I adjust – those are the rules." Sylar shoved the torso into the cart roughly, glaring at Peter with challenge. "What else would you like to talk about, Peter?" he invited. It was just a formality because the Italian would talk about whatever he wished anyway. At least having this out in the open meant he didn't have to be subtle when he watched his back, like now, reaching for yet another damn mannequin. _How many did this guy take out, wishing it was me? And why am I still here helping him?_

XXX

Peter deflated, not that he had far to go. He became … less. "Yeah, I guess so," he mumbled, face tilting down. _No making up for it, no healing, no fixing. Just Sylar taking that kind of behavior from me as the new normal and adjusting accordingly, which includes being terrified of me even while he's desperate to be around me. The only reason he's doing that much is that I'm the only person to be around. If he had choices, he'd be elsewhere. Even Sylar thinks I'm a danger - a loose cannon. _The corner of Peter's mouth lifted bitterly, because the irony was rich, if undesired. He didn't look up as he asked his question: "How do I get you to stop provoking me about my family?" Sylar had asked what else Peter wanted to know, after all. Maybe he could address the problem from the other end, stopping Sylar from picking fights with him, since he felt depressingly sure that given the right bait, he'd swing on Sylar again, no matter what promises he'd made. He finished loading the cart mechanically. It felt hopeless; he felt stupid. He knew it would pass, but he still felt utterly bathed in regret and self-loathing. He looked around to see if there was anything else to pick up, avoiding all traces of eye contact as he did it. "I'm not going to stop defending them."_ Even the dead ones. Especially the dead ones._

XXX

"Here's an idea, Peter: stop asking about Nathan! You don't fucking own him or the mention of his name. I fucking _**was**_ him, Peter! I am not your gateway to Nathan. At least not until you can tell the damn difference between me and him and you understand that you and him and your family are not the only wounded victims here; not until you see what your mother and her friends did and what you're still doing. I don't expect you to do anything else, Peter; by all means defend those sick hypocrites. But don't you fucking _**bait**_ me! Don't _bait_ me and play that game! Because I promise it will get nasty and you can believe my word on that." Once that was out it felt like he could draw a cleaner, easier breath. Hell, he had no idea if he was on topic, answering the question given. And he didn't much care. Peter wasn't looking at him and somehow that made it okay to speak.

"You wanted me to be Nathan, well….You can't punish me for having any part of him just because you don't like it after the fact – you should have thought of that before you turned me into him! Then you wonder why I won't answer you and then say things you don't like? Fuck!" Sylar swept his hair back and gripped it tight, turning away from Peter. He couldn't get the emotion out and he knew he was going to do something violent; it was just a matter of what, how and against whom. Peter still wasn't looking at him even as he grabbed the last mannequin, pivoted and slammed it onto a multi-leveled clothes table, screaming his lungs out. The damn thing crumpled and broke, shattering into dusty pieces as Sylar was left holding the metal support bar. _I can break things, too!_ Committed now, he threw it at the counter right next to Peter, on purpose, to get his attention again or halfway threaten, whatever. It felt good but immediately after he felt guilty about everything and it was so frustrating he saw his eyes get hot and blurry. There was nothing he could do to fix his situation and what he'd done probably hadn't helped it any.

Sniffing once, Sylar turned on his heel and stomped out through the broken display window.

XXX

Peter had been holding very still the whole time, listening to the rant and watching Sylar's feet as they carried him about the floor and communicated his personal energy just as effectively as his face. When the metal bar hit the cash register near Peter, he jumped. He hadn't seen it coming and he raised his eyes out of self-preservation. Sylar had his attention, for a moment at least. When there was no impending attack, Peter's gaze slipped past the other man and roamed over the shattered mannequin. _This place breeds anger. Or maybe it just reveals it. _He felt oddly blank about that – philosophical, maybe. The strong emotion expressed on both sides left him feeling comfortably empty for the moment. He watched Sylar go without saying a word, giving a respectful silence for the things expressed. They weren't what he'd asked to know, but they were what Sylar had to say. Now that it was said, it gave Peter a different perspective on things.

_'Stop asking about Nathan.' 'Don't bait me.' 'You turned me into him.' (I did not. But he thinks I did. Or at least he blames me for it.) He's frustrated. He's hurt. Nathan's almost as sore a subject for him as it is for me. And then there's my family, which was my question to start with._ Peter pursed his lips and shot a last look through the window at Sylar's retreating back. Then he bent to pick up the metal rod that had been thrown at him and pushed the cart over to the new source of debris.

_I asked what would get him to stop picking fights with me over my family. He said … I think he means he's mad about them, too. That's why - he's mad enough to not care if it starts a fight. (Mad because his evil plans were thwarted? That would explain why I'm included among the guilty.) Not that it matters. Sometimes the most angry are the least justified. Is that because they don't feel they're getting enough respect?_ Peter kept musing and mulling things over as he rolled the cart to the rear and dumped the contents. He replaced it with the other carts and began the final sweep he'd intended to do. He was mostly through when he saw Sylar coming back. After a brief pause to regard him, Peter continued with his task until Sylar was at a conversational distance. Then he stopped, leaned on the broom, and looked at Sylar steadily and expectantly.

XXX

Sylar took yet another deep breath and stayed out of range. Hands in his pockets, curled in on himself he spoke before Peter could condemn him further, "Are you going to break in again?"

XXX

Peter glanced around the store. All of the front windows had been reduced to empty frames (and in one case, not even the frame was left). Even the thicker glass of the door was spiderwebbed. Breaking in here a second time was irrelevant. Peter certainly wasn't feeling any urge to take out other storefronts, but he didn't think that was what Sylar was talking about. "Break in where?"

XXX

"My apartment, my door, attacking me, is that going to be a…a thing?" He did not want to move. His apartment was more or less a home; it had been a very safe place until recently. As a killer, he wasn't supposed to have anything like that, but he'd made it anyway, made it himself, gathering up every book and treasure to keep close to him as a comfort and now…The idea of being on the run was nearly beyond his comprehension. He'd gotten soft and he badly wanted, perhaps even needed the stability of having something of his own.

XXX

Peter breathed out slowly and said very clearly, "No. Breaking in to your apartment is not going to be a 'thing'." In a slightly lower voice, he added in an attempt to excuse himself, "I've been knocking." He felt like an ill-trained dog, or that Sylar was insinuating he was. He thought he should argue and stand up for himself, but he didn't have it in him at the moment. He had, after all, broken into Sylar's apartment without a knock, a thought, or the slightest regard for Sylar's obvious fear. At the time, none of that had mattered to Peter, any more than he'd cared about smashing this store. He'd wanted something from Sylar and was blithely and callously willing to damage anything necessary to get it, including Sylar himself. It left Peter feeling ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been wrong and so he dropped his eyes in apology, watching Sylar's feet again, and waited.

XXX

Sylar's gaze was locked on Peter while he answered. It was the distinct lack of promise coupled with the explicit finality that worked. It made sense, simple yes or no, and he…he trusted it. Being attacked wasn't addressed but any polite/conceding/warning knocking equivocated no breaking and entering for an attack; not that Sylar would be inviting Peter back any time soon, if he could help it. _I don't have to move._ Relief made his ears ring from a sudden pressure being lifted, the burden eased. "Okay."

XXX

Peter looked up to watch the man go. Sylar was moving more freely, he noticed. _He believes me? After I broke my word? Well, he might not believe me, but he at least trusted me enough to ask. My answer meant something to him. _Peter finished the clean up and loitered around the place for another half hour, in the full knowledge that he was waiting in case Sylar came back to join him for lunch. Peter straightened things and tidied up, but there was no one here who wanted to be with him.

Day 32, January 10, Morning

Peter hadn't felt like spending the afternoon searching for the hardware store alone, so he frittered the time away playing pool and haphazardly searching some of the apartments in his building. It was frustrating and dull – the rooms in his building were nonsensically plain and boring, not at all interesting like the ones across the street in the Pegasus. Eventually he'd given up on it and made an early night of it.

He felt better in the morning. After a leisurely workout, a shower, and a trip down to a Starbucks that shared space with the Y, he'd returned with a pair of parfaits. He sat on the curb across from Sylar's apartment, eating one of them very slowly, wondering idly if boredom, the cold, or Sylar would be the first to stir him from his seat.

XXX

Still sour and pained, Sylar got up if for no other reason than to keep Peter away from his apartment. He'd been undisturbed all night, except for nightmares so that counted for something. Limping and bundled up against the cold like some overstuffed winter bird, he caught sight of Peter sitting outside his building. That sent up a warning flag before he rationalized the innocence of it – Peter was munching up some kind of ice cream or something…It was too odd a sight to hold much threat. _Do I need to say something about…stalking me or…?_ It depended on Peter's word (not in his good graces at the moment) and the medic's stance on 'killers and rights to privacy.' After the brief tangent, he dismissed it scornfully, _Why would he stalk me? Why is he __even__ here? He doesn't want to be. He wasn't…upset when I…about yesterday so this isn't an apology._

Slowly Sylar walked out, looking up and down both sides of the street as if checking for traffic. He approached Peter and stood eight or nine feet away this time, out of lunging distance. He saw that Peter's plastic cup held fruit and non-frozen yoghurt instead of ice cream.

XXX

Peter was mostly done with his meal and really starting to feel the chill on his butt when Sylar emerged. He was glad of the distraction from his discomfort, but not so glad about the way Sylar regarded him, like Peter was a danger. _Oh well,_ he mentally (attempted to) dismiss it. Another distraction was Sylar's continuing limp. _That's the same foot he's been favoring since … before the concussion? It's been weeks. Those aren't jammed toes. They're broken. Or at least one is._ There wasn't much to be done about it. The injury might have benefitted from being buddy-wrapped had Peter noticed it early on, but being in shoes and mostly off his feet immobilized the toes about as well or better than any brace or treatment might.

He picked up the plastic-wrapped spoon and then the container, both with his left hand, and extended them. "Have you had breakfast?"

XXX

Sylar glanced between the offering and Peter's eyes several times. It was clearly for him, unless Peter was especially hungry to eat two or sadistic to offer but renege. _He's not apologizing, right? Of course not, that's unheard of. Tricking me? To do what? Taking care of me?...Why? I'm still alive like I said I would be, taking care of myself._ He didn't greet with any obvious good morning and didn't ask what Peter was doing or how he'd slept. Slowly, he was learning. "Not really," he hedged to admit because his buffet of crackers, soup and reheated frozen meals wasn't doing him very well. He snuck forward to take the cup from Peter's hand. He looked it over carefully, then at Peter again. It was real food and his woeful stomach was in open rebellion because it even smelled good with the lid on. "Thanks." This time he sat about two feet away, what he hoped was still a polite (and safe) distance. Sylar popped the lid and stuck his spoon in, closing his nostrils to get the bite into his mouth. The granola was crunchy, the parfait fresh. He wondered if Peter had made it or found it; either way it was tasty, suitable, and satisfied his needs, nutritional or otherwise.

XXX

Peter shifted his weight a few times after Sylar settled. It warmed and relaxed him that Sylar hadn't taken the food and stomped off, or stood there looming over him to eat it. Instead, he'd sat close, or at least at a normal distance, and was being … okay about things. That was good; Peter was happy as he used his spoon to dig out the last bits of blueberry and yoghurt from the bottom of the tall, plastic cup.

Finished, he set it aside and leaned back, turning his head to regard Sylar for a moment. When Sylar looked up at him, Peter asked, "Would you still be interested in showing me where the hardware store is?"

XXX

Sylar paused, a little surprised headstrong Peter hadn't gone exploring on his own to find it. He hadn't expected the other man to wait or plan to involve him. _Am I needed or is he trying to suck up? But he has no reason to suck up._ He looked the empath over, giving a small nod, "Yeah." _One word answers; keep it very short, that's the key._ After several quiet, slightly awkward moments of chewing (because Peter kept looking at him and that wasn't the most comfortable thing now), Sylar remarked, "I've never had one of these before."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter smiled a little, hoping that was a good thing. Since Sylar had been very expressive so far about things he didn't like, Peter took the lack of condemnation as approval. "Hm," he said, a short, throaty noise of approval. He let his gaze roam around Sylar's face for a moment. _Do I really use him as a gateway to Nathan? I guess I had been thinking of him as the repository of Nathan's memories. And the guy who's supposed to save Emma. And the guy who killed all those people, along with me. The past and the future – do those really define a person – what they've done, what they will do – or is who they are something else? Who is Sylar?_

Sylar was a person who didn't like being stared at, so Peter looked away when his scrutiny was noticed. "Yeah, um, I had a friend in college who had yoghurt in his cereal every morning. Or maybe he had a little cereal with his yoghurt. He said having milk with cereal was nutritionally the same as putting a few tablespoons of sugar in a glass of milk." Peter looked back at Sylar, using the opportunity to catalogue his features – big nose, dark brows, pale skin that made the dark of his facial hair so much more pronounced than it would have been on a tanner person. He supposed he needed to keep acting like he was having a conversation rather than scoping Sylar out, which wasn't _exactly_ what he was doing. "Personally, I never saw the distinction. I mean, yoghurt's still basically milk, right?" Peter shrugged, realizing he was having this 'conversation' by himself. "Yeah." He picked up his empty cup and rolled it between his hands, his elbows on his knees and eyes on the cup. He could go on about Kevin's opinions on protein and fats and whatnot, but Peter wasn't in love with the sound of his own voice so much that he'd inflict it on an uninterested audience.

XXX

"I guess." Really, he wouldn't have thought yoghurt had so much sugar in it or…wasn't as healthy as he'd previously thought. _Maybe all the processing and curing and preservatives or something._

XXX

After a few more moments of silence, Peter twitched as he remembered something more pertinent to Sylar than Peter's college stories. He pulled a bottle of painkillers from his pocket, opening it and shaking out a few pills. "Here, you should take these." He didn't bother to ask if Sylar had taken a dose this morning; he doubted he had. "They're the same painkillers you were taking before. I went back to the hospital the other day and got some stuff, including more of these." He'd brought them along thinking the trip to the hardware store might be an all-day excursion and if so, Sylar would need to take a couple doses throughout the day.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar said, surprised again. _Those would help._ The illusion of the same caretaking Peter had given him before was making him feel better, almost disgustingly so. _You're so easy. He gives you a treat and you're ready to forget he lied and attacked you?_ He felt terribly conflicted, desperate for the comfort yet ashamed and insulted to need it or have it offered. "Thank you," he said, genuine but quiet, taking the pills and downing them quickly. Sylar kept his mouth full to avoid asking or saying anything offensive. It was silent aside for his spooning, because he was eating alone at this point. He wondered if he was supposed to converse, if that was…required or repellant. Picking the most neutral thing, Sylar cleared his throat and voiced softly, "What were you thinking of getting at the store?"

XXX

"I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know if they sell …" _It's not really selling. There's no one here to sell it._ "Um, if they have windows like that at a hardware store. I don't know how big they sell- um, carry. Maybe we'd have to find a specialty window place? I guess if they don't have windows, I could get some boards until we- or at least," he shot Sylar an uncertain look, not wanting to rope him into a project he might not want anything to do with, but not wanting to exclude him either, "until I find a glass store." _I hate glass,_ his mind tacked on unnecessarily. He could deal with 'windows', but the combination of glass and Sylar bothered him. He was also feeling super-awkward about the conversation and very insecure about his own performance in it. It had started out well enough, but now? He couldn't even speak correctly. He got to his feet to pace and stretch his legs after sitting for so long.

XXX

Sylar frowned down at his meal, snack-like cup. About Peter's unnecessary self-correcting, he thought, _Please don't have a complex about taking things without paying. I won't be able to handle that; it's so stupid. Do you even know what you're doing?_ Sylar wasn't aware the medic knew how to fix a window when he didn't know how to clean a dish (far less skill or technique involved). All that aside, he was warmed by it, almost as much as receiving breakfast if not more so, about the complete restoration of the building. _(He wants to fix it, for me, most likely. He thinks I care or he feels bad)._ It meant less than nothing outside of a gestural, intangible demonstration of….care? Friendship? Healing? Fixing was very much within his ken; it felt like Peter was speaking his language, for a little while at least. It dampened a bit when Peter glanced at him strangely_. Oh. He wants to work…alone. That makes sense, I guess. I can't- shouldn't talk and throw things._

He barely repressed his bodily jerk in reaction to Peter standing up, leaning away in case he needed a quick escape. _Fuck_, he thought of the other man's pacing. _He's impatient. What can I…? _Sylar regarded his two-thirds gone cup. _I guess I don't need to finish._ He stood also, gathering his trash, dumping it to show his readiness. "It's this way," he edged around Peter to be closer to the street as he passed to head north then west for the hardware store. _Maybe I can find a couch to sit in somewhere while he works and check in to…make sure…I don't know. Maybe just leave him alone. He likes that._

XXX

Peter rubbed at his forehead, chagrinned as he realized Sylar had read his standing and moving around as a signal to go, and was now foregoing finishing his food. _Do I stop him and … and what? Tell him to sit back down and finish his breakfast like he's a kid?_ Peter shook his head once and fell in, a step behind Sylar and a companionable distance off to the side. _He had more to eat than he would have otherwise. I'll just make sure we stop early for lunch – and next time, think before I jump up. _He blew air out, disgusted with himself again, but there was nothing for it. They didn't have the sort of comfortable relationship where he could explain without making a scene, and the failure of Sylar to eat the last of the parfait wasn't worth it. _'You live with your actions … I adjust – those are the rules.' _Peter wasn't happy about it, but the one at fault here was him.

XXX

"So what's your favorite fruit? You had fruit in your cup. If you don't mind my asking," he hastily tacked on the last as if it would help if Peter was upset by the question. _Does he like small talk? His small talk is different than mine. If he doesn't like it, he'll…(I don't like this_, he thought for the billionth time already. It was part of the adjustment period, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier). _Suck it up. _With the most recent incident, Peter had fallen into a category finally. While that was a relief, it was only so manageable. Peter was someone he wanted something from, a person who he would have otherwise hero-worshipped to the point of restraining order. Now, friendliness was gone, and Peter was someone he wanted to be around but had to avoid and yet had to deal with and perform for; walking on eggshells around a man who would snap at a single wrong word.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, increasing his pace to come even with Sylar. The earlier conversation that had seemed like such a mess to him had died and they'd spent the next several minutes walking in silence. He'd begun to wonder if their whole journey would pass like that, but he wasn't about to be the one to run his mouth without prompting. He was grateful for the topic. "No, I don't mind. Grapes." He gave a brief smile. "They're always different. They're sweet. They're small – self contained, individual bites. I like that. They don't stain like blueberries; they hold up better than strawberries; and they taste great with cheese."

He paused, thinking that it had been a while since he'd had grapes – a couple months, maybe more. He remembered popping a few in his mouth after interrupting brunch on his brother's terrace, spinning an impromptu line for a reporter and being the good Petrelli his family wanted him to be. He made a wry roll of his eyes. Surely he'd had some since then. That was years back, but since then he'd been … all over the place, and rarely buying groceries and never attending the sort of events where they were served. He cleared his expression before looking over to Sylar. "What's yours?"

XXX

This was the forced, uncaring conversation Sylar loved so much. _You don't care, so why ask me?_ 'Forbidden fruit?' he almost said, but didn't, knowing it wouldn't be appreciated. "Apples."

XXX

Peter nodded. "Can I ask how your toes are doing? I was noticing you're limping." He used the usual EMT phrasing without any leading comments, saying strictly what he'd seen and leaving it at that.

XXX

Sylar swallowed his fear of what the line of questioning might mean. "I…They're…still sore?" Already they felt better after the painkillers.

XXX

"I was thinking if they're still bothering you, they're probably broken. There's not much that can be done for them. It's like my hand – a brace if you need it, but really that's only to keep you from using them. You were off your feet a lot and that's the main thing. But getting out and walking some, now, is probably good, too." He looked ahead at the buildings, trying to remember how far afield they'd gotten on their walk last time. He was pretty sure the hardware store had been closer than the hospital, so he didn't expect the distance to be unmanageable. Especially since this time, he assumed Sylar would be taking him straight to their destination.

XXX

"I'll be fine," he assured, mild but serious. _I don't see how walking is going to help except to justify your errand, Peter. Just don't make me run, but you can't promise that, can you? Why is it that I have to give my word to help him if he gets hurt but his word is worthless?_

XXX

Peter walked along in quiet. _I don't know what else to say. Did he like the parfait? Kind of stupid to ask, though, because he's not going to tell me if he didn't. What is there to talk about with Sylar that isn't related to our past? Isn't everything related to that? 'What would you like to do with your life?' isn't really fair. It's too big, too philosophical. How do I get to know a person? What would I say to a date?_ "What do you like to do for fun?" he blurted. This world wasn't exactly a fun place and Peter feared hearing something like 'killing people', so he clarified quickly, "I mean, before the abilities, back when things were more normal."

XXX

"I mostly worked…" Sylar began slowly, feeling like he'd already answered this but maybe the previous answer wasn't good enough so he needed to come up with new material, if not outright lie. If only he could think of something to lie about, hobbies (aside from horology) weren't really his strong suit. "I'd go to the library, go for a walk_," to see if anyone would notice me. Not in New York anyway._ "See the sights if they were close enough; watch TV sometimes. Fix clocks. Play cards with my mom," _whom I'm not talking about and it was fun to play with her only if she wasn't talking; play solitaire by myself._ "Boring stuff," he shrugged.

XXX

Peter nodded. He'd heard this before, or a variation of it – working, reading, cooking, and so on. It was just hard for Peter to see those as 'fun'. They weren't recreational activities the way he thought of them. It sounded like his life recently, closed up in his apartment with a police scanner with his days consisting of nothing other than working, working out, eating enough to fuel his body, and obsessively looking for more ways to save people. It wasn't healthy had he knew that. He'd thought about it a lot as he took down the wall of clippings, trying to come to grips with why he'd been putting them up to start with. _Is that the same way he was? Did he become a killer because his life was closed off? Was that where I was going? Noah said I needed to get out, reconnect._ The memory came to mind of crouching over Sylar, hand to the man's forehead, intent on wiping Sylar out of existence. _Where did my compassion go? Why was I willing to do that to someone? 'No one wants him dead more than me, Ma' - I said that. I meant it!_ Although Peter could remember how he'd felt, it left him confused now. It seemed wrong, despite being true. His eyes flew to Sylar's, an unformed question on his lips.

XXX

"What did you do, Peter, besides working out and beating up bad guys?" Sylar cringed. It had just slipped out but he'd obviously meant it enough to say it. "I'm sorry," he said as he stopped walking and stood there. Peter thought he and all those other villains deserved the beating so that sufficiently justified it. _He only needs me for… _"The-the hardware store is right on Fourth Street – up there and to the right," backing up as he gave directions. When Peter made no move towards him, Sylar turned away with the intention of heading back to his apartment. _This wasn't going to work anyway._

XXX

"Sylar … N-" Peter cut himself off from forbidding Sylar to leave or making any demands. The snark was so transparent he wasn't bothered by it. He was upset much more by the evidence of simmering anger under Sylar's facade. "Please." He held his hands up and to the sides, palms out. "It's okay. Will you show me?"

XXX

Sylar turned back immediately, not looking forward to a lecture or an assault. In place, he waited with the appearance of patience, gazing in Peter's direction but not at his person.

XXX

"Come on," Peter cajoled. "I don't want to get lost. I need your help." It was the sort of appeal that would work on Peter. He realized that wasn't the best tack to take with Sylar. "This is your place, your city. You know the way around a lot better than I do." He waited a beat, then conceded, "I would like you with me." _Even if you're making mean-spirited comments. Maybe I've earned that. The only way to disprove it is to disprove it – leave it alone._

XXX

Sylar nodded once, slowly, and approached hesitantly. _Try harder, no, do better. I have to. Just don't say anything at all._ He rejoined Peter, feeling comforted but mostly feeling ill by the constant threat hanging over him. "Maybe it's better if you only ask me important questions, not anything about...not-important things..." he suggested lamely. _How about you don't ask me any damn thing at all? Can't talk about anything with me and of course, that's my fault._

XXX

Peter gave a shallow nod, even as he wanted to argue about it. _They weren't unimportant things. He's taking this too far. He acts like I've given him grounds to think I might attack him at any moment. It doesn't work that way! _I_ don't work that way! Can't he see that?_ Peter pursed his lips and walked in silence. Sylar had said a number of things, here and there, that made Peter think that maybe he _couldn't_ see that. At a loss as to what to do about it, he continued on.

They came to the hardware store soon enough. It was a couple blocks beyond where Peter had ranged before. Peter had noticed the street signs and building names in this world were low profile when present at all. In this case, it merely said, 'HARDWARE' without a brand or franchise name. At least the Starbucks and the YMCA had had proper names, although Peter had had to really look to find that much. 'HARDWARE' didn't surprise him, as the hospital was 'HOSPITAL' and the place he ate breakfast when not at Sylar's or his apartment was 'DINER'. The inside of the hospital was a lot like Mercy Heights, but with enough minor differences that he couldn't entirely rely on his memory. Then again, most hospitals had similar basic layouts, just like most hardware stores. This one, he found as they went inside, was like someone had tried to replicate a big box store's layout in the footprint of a larger-than-usual downtown brownstone. It almost worked. Everything seemed to be there, but it was all cramped and crowded.

XXX

Sylar hung back, aware of the stupidity of the location and its contents in glaring realism. _Was this a trick? It was still stupid to come here. _Worse than before, he was tense and hyperaware and it wouldn't do to let Peter see that. Every turn was another Mercy attack waiting to happen.

XXX

Peter wandered the aisles by himself, craning his neck to take in the placards directing him to 'Windows'. He walked past fasteners of every conceivable kind and many he'd never imagined. He'd thought Sylar had went off on some errand of his own, so silent was the other. Peter was standing in front of the Exteriors section, hands on hips, not sure where to start, when Sylar's voice sounded from his left. He barely managed not to start. _How the hell does he manage to ghost around like that?!_

XXX

"What are you looking for?"

XXX

Peter frowned, not entirely at the unnecessarily stealthy Sylar, but mostly at the aisles that encompassed his options. "Windows. But these are all housing windows." _I was afraid of that._

XXX

Had he been more relaxed, Sylar would have rolled his eyes. That much was obvious. He'd been inquiring about specifics. "How big a window do you need?"

XXX

"I don't know." He started down the aisle directly in front of him, passing square windows, rectangular windows, round windows, stained glass windows, transom windows, and various other configurations he couldn't identify but clearly weren't what he needed. "I didn't take any measurements." He wasn't even sure how many display windows the building had. _And I'll need something for the door, too._

XXX

Whatever that fucking store was, it was quickly becoming a place to be avoided – Sylar did not want to return to take measurements, alone or accompanied. "What kind of window?" Maybe he could help here and avoid the extra stop…

XXX

Peter grunted in annoyance. "I don't _know_." He started up the next aisle, but it was mostly shutters and the beginnings of siding. He paced down it quickly and went to the other side of the first lane he'd walked down. Here, at least, he had sliding glass doors, but nothing like the sturdy, commercial door he needed. Still, he had nowhere else to look, so he loitered next to some screen doors. "I only worked construction for one summer with Dad and Uncle Tim. Most of that was just doing what they told me to." Not that his obedience had ever been recognized.

XXX

"Do you know how to put a window in?" When Peter began to look at him, Sylar quickly cut him off, "Don't look at me - I don't know how." _I could figure it out but I don't know and I have no pride invested in admitting that, especially when it makes Peter look like a fool for not planning anything as usual. It's his mess and he's going to clean it up._

XXX

Peter laughed ruefully. "No, I don't either. But I sure know how to knock them down." _Well, what do I do now? _"Maybe there's a section where they sell plate glass?" _I'm not even sure what plate glass is. How is that different from normal glass?_ He turned and started to set off to a different part of the store.

XXX

Two minutes of normality was shattered when Peter moved towards him. In a goddamn hardware store. Sylar didn't question it, didn't think; he scrambled back out of the way, giving Peter a wide berth. He had only a twinge of self-conscious doubt that he wasn't hiding his…wariness very well, but Peter knew what he'd done, had to live with it and seemed okay with things the way there were now. What else could Peter possibly expect after what he'd done?

XXX

Peter slowed immediately, face falling as he realized Sylar was virtually running from him. It shamed him all over again. He wanted to complain that Sylar was overreacting, but Sylar had the right to react however he wanted. If those reactions had been less genuine, Peter would have had something to argue about, but as it was, they were sadly sincere. He ducked his head and walked slowly, giving Sylar plenty of time to get out of his way.

XXX

Breathing faster and stressing in general had him sweating. It took a moment for his brain to reboot enough to follow the medic, who was now ignoring him like nothing had happened. _What…what did happen?_ That first downward spiral of dread broke over him, not improving his clammy exterior. Standing in the store, with this man, was taking a lot out of him and Sylar felt sure he wouldn't be able to last the day like this.

XXX

The store had large panes of glass along with small ones. They were thick and thin and arranged next to a book hanging on a chain that Peter scooped up eagerly. It did not hold installation instructions per se, but listed the part numbers for matching up frames and closures with the number of panes, configuration, and thickness of glass. There were a lot of tables. He stood studying one for more than a minute before flipping through the rest of the book to see what else where was. "This … might be useful. I suppose I could divide the display window in half and install two … windows … on top of each other." He ended muttering, "But how would I brace it?" He flipped to the start of the book idly, about to put it down when a diagram caught his eye. It helpfully labeled and described the major components of a window. Another minute passed as he absorbed sashes, jambs, rails, stiles, and other terms. He reached up to tear the page out of the book and take it with him for later reference, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, maybe a shift of weight or just a sudden awareness, stopped him. He looked back at Sylar, standing a score or more of feet away, watching him. Tearing up more stuff seemed … unwise. He flipped the page instead, but there was nothing as useful on the other side.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. The noise had sounded like a page being ripped. He stood there, looking at threatening as he dared until the threat seemed to pass. _Some glorified page protector. I should isolate him in one of those bubble balls or maybe bubble wrap so he can't destroy anything else. Then if I got upset, all I'd have to do is push him a little and he'd fall over or go rolling. _

XXX

"I need to know what I'm doing. I saw some books when I walked in," he said to announce his intentions, striding off towards the entrance. Sylar was behind him, so Peter didn't need to slow his steps this time. Peter perused the 'how to' section of thick, glossy, soft-cover manuals describing all manner of home repairs. None were helpfully aimed at people who had destroyed commercial display windows, but there were several he thought might be applicable. He picked up three. He looked at the cash registers out of habit, his feet stirring a step in that direction before he caught himself. He hesitated a moment.

XXX

That caught his attention, despite (or maybe because of) everything else. "Does this bother you to take things 'without paying'?"

XXX

Peter's head came around towards Sylar. He grimaced. "It's just this place. I keep expecting people." He shrugged. "They keep not being here." With a huff he reminded himself that he took groceries all the time without a problem. With a single shake of his head, he started walking again, passing the registers without further pause. Once outside, he looked up and down the cold street. "I don't want to walk all the way back to read these, then find out I need to come back here to get something. Let's find a place near here where we can get out of the cold and sit somewhere comfortable. Okay?"

XXX

_Like I have a choice?_ Sylar wondered about the continued pluralities, but aloud he said, "Sure."


	83. Clutch

Day 32, January 10th, Afternoon

"Come to think of it," Peter said as he pointed out a low red building near the corner that said 'Taco House' on the awning, "if I can't figure out how to fix it right away, then I'll definitely need to go back there and get plywood and stuff – hammers, nails, boards, whatever." He was puzzling over how he'd manage to affix the plywood to the building's brick facade when he noticed Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar jerked and tried to pass it off as straightening up, but every muscle had already contracted hard, readying for flight. The trip through the local armory seemed like a softball, walk-through threat and this was the solidification. The image of being crucified on another plywood surface, this time a raised, upright one was a potent one. Peter wanted him involved after all. He nodded tensely and followed Peter into the taco place while strongly considering disappearing. There wasn't anywhere for him to be; the place he wanted to hide at was compromised; the man who would hunt him wasn't trustworthy or stable; and any love tap could be the last. Peter sat. Sylar remained standing, fidgeting against the cashier's counter. Peter was calm and carefree, seemingly oblivious to everything, and why should he care? _Putting me in my place and shutting me up, that's what he's wanted all along. What if he could put the fear of God into me – he'd do it. Make me compliant, right?_ It was obvious this was punishment, but it seemed like overkill compared to the offense. Sylar had gone to far, overstepped and crossed lines. It wasn't high in his considerations at the moment. _Did he do something to me? Things have been different since…_Curiosity won out, though the answer was likely to be an easy lie, unprovable and lacking comfort. He just…wanted to hear what Peter had to say. In a quiet but serious voice, he finally said what was bothering him. "What did you do to me when I was unconscious?"

XXX

Peter had noticed Sylar's tension, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if perhaps the current problem was due to the Mexican eatery, though he assumed it was something he'd said. That seemed more likely. Maybe Sylar was upset Peter might not fix the smashed storefront today? Reluctant to make things worse, Peter took a seat near a window, set out his books, and cracked one open. He was only staring at the page, though, when Sylar addressed him.

"When?" he asked cautiously.

XXX

"When you choked me out. What did you do to me then?" Sylar repeated, anxiety spiking at having to repeat himself. Peter thought so little about it.

XXX

Peter put down the book and closed it. This was going to be a conversation (or an argument – his bet was on argument, if the strain in Sylar's voice was any indication). "Nothing. I checked your pulse, then you woke up and we … talked."

XXX

"Didn't try to turn me into someone less irritating? No conversations with your brother? Didn't mess around with any of my fucked up mental functions to better suit you? None of that?" Sylar spat out, edgy and interrogating, gesturing to his own skull. His disbelief was very apparent. "What did you take, Petrelli?!"

XXX

"Nothing," Peter repeated insistently. He could understand Sylar's fear – it made perfect sense, other than the part about why Peter would wait until that particular moment if he had the ability to do any of the things Sylar was accusing him of. There had been so many better times. All he'd been trying to do at that point was shut Sylar up. "It was only a few seconds. Maybe a minute at most."

XXX

"I guess I'll never know, will I?" To think all the times he'd been stupid enough to sleep with Peter around, foolishly relieved by the lack of nightmares. He'd been so suckered in by his own loneliness. Pondering the evidence, or lack thereof, he came across something that confirmed it and felt his blood run cold. "You did…didn't you." It wasn't a question. Peter had telepathy, too, by his own admission. "That's why my head hurt worse when you left…" Sylar stood utterly still in a betrayed, horrified shock. _I need to move…_That was the least of his problems.

XXX

_When I left? His head hurt …? He's saying his headache got worse after I moved out, right? Probably because he wasn't taking his stupid painkillers!_ He made to stand. "Sylar, it's not-"

XXX

"Don't! Don't…." Sylar pointed at him and began sidling away towards the door. He didn't know where he was going except 'away.' It upset him greatly that Peter insisted on having his little unnecessary war and Sylar was forced to participate or perish. He had no idea what was going to happen to them; he would probably end up dead or very much worse and it was that 'worse' he was afraid to death of. Sylar remembered the last time he'd told Peter to stay away and knew it wouldn't work this time either. He backed out the door, his face a twisted wreck, his mouth open but unable to articulate – not an excuse or threat or 'it didn't have to be this way' because in Peter's mind, it did. After that, he ran.

XXX

"Sylar!" Peter's yell was not gentle or couth. It was loud and demanding, irritated as he finally gave vent to some of the frustration that had been building up inside. He went to the door immediately, but he didn't chase. _I chased him before; he just kept running until he got somewhere safe._ Peter used a different tactic this time, waiting until Sylar was out of sight and _then_ running to where he could see him again, hoping the man would go to ground quickly. Honestly, Peter was surprised Sylar could run at all, between the toes and the bad balance.

_Are bouts of paranoia symptomatic of concussions? I didn't think so … and why would it be cropping up now? Bad nutrition maybe? Bad … oh. Bad sleep. Insomnia can fuck up a lot of things. He keeps telling me he can't sleep without me there. (Then how the hell was he sleeping before I cleaned his fucking clock?) Doesn't matter. He isn't now. Maybe he's more sensitive now because of the concussion, or the headaches, or whatever. There! He went in that office building._

XXX

Sylar ran until he panicked himself into needing somewhere to hide. He didn't know or care if Peter was after him. Everything was blurry, too familiar, too…déjà vu. He felt like he'd been here before, done this before and it wasn't going to work out any better the second time. He dashed into a large building – more places to hide, possibly a back exit. It was a very bad choice. /Filthy and frightened of the large police officer, he'd been dragged in with cuffs on. The place was ill-lit, too gray, black, hostile and cold. He had been caught and confined, no knowledge of who or where he was and no chance of getting out – completely at the mercy of these strangers who clearly didn't like him./ This place reminded him of that in a heartbeat. The gold insignia plastered everywhere, the secure, threatening walls and doors, even the windows. It was a trap; an institution. The police station was a fatal mistake. Sylar would not be leaving with his mind intact, if he left at all.

XXX

At least, it looked like an office building to Peter. It was one of the shorter skyscrapers, with a brick facade and no windows for the first few floors. Most of the buildings in this area were taller and most of those had plenty of glass on the bottom story to open them up to view. Maybe that was why Sylar had dodged inside of this particular one – it looked easier to hide in from the outside. You could only see in through the doors and the view was distorted at that. Peter walked steadily to the door, finding the reason for the obstructed vision was that it was especially thick glass and reinforced with a mesh. Some wry corner of his mind suggested it would make a good replacement for the door he'd spiderwebbed at the ruined storefront. This was a door that might be able to stand up to the worst Peter could dish out. But he wasn't here shopping for doors. He was unwilling to let Sylar think the worst of him and genuinely concerned about the man's health. He went inside, passing through the foyer without much of a look around except to see that Sylar had gone further into the building. The next door was metal and just as reinforced as the one before, in its own way. Again, though, he wasn't paying attention to the surroundings much. He found Sylar a lot faster than he'd expected.

XXX

Sylar sat clumsily; shoulders slumped with knees tucked under himself like a doll with cut strings. Peter was inescapable; he'd won. There were restraints and weapons here, judgment and imprisonment also. The terror of what he faced broke his control. He cried hot, large, quick tears, not for show or to invoke pity. From here Peter would tie his mind into knots, stretch and abuse it without end. Sylar wouldn't know day from night, right from wrong, up from down unless Peter said so. His entire being could be turned inside out and turned against itself and Sylar would have no defense against it. It was the ultimate phobia and the ultimate punishment, so much worse than his body merely being tortured, which would be preferable. Soon he was unable to breathe, his head paining him like a harbinger of an evil fate, and his lungs began to stutter into gasping chokes for air around a stuffed nose. He could barely hear let alone see Peter's approach; perhaps that was a good thing.

XXX

_That_ gave Peter pause. He'd known Sylar was upset. He hadn't known he was _that_ upset, but it all clicked together now. Peter hesitated for a moment, taking in the small, confining room with its hard benches and unwelcoming array of equipment only peripherally, but still a part of his mind recognized the law enforcement setting. Maybe they were in booking; he wasn't sure. His eyes did not stray from Sylar. The man looked helpless and wretched and it twisted at Peter's heart, no matter who Sylar was to him otherwise. Right now, Sylar was a human being in pain and Peter responded. He moved forward, holding his hands out to either side, palms towards Sylar. He said softly, "Hey ... hey. I didn't take anything. I didn't." Peter squatted just as slowly, a double handful of feet from where Sylar sat, unwilling to take away what little agency Sylar had left by going all the way to him like Peter's instincts screamed at him to. "Can I come closer?" he asked with a tilt forward of his head, dipping his face and looking up in entreaty.

XXX

Sylar tried to quiet himself, holding his breath only to let it out in a rush to suck more in. He heard the other man – Peter had stopped a ways away to draw things out. Very seriously, trying to look up at Peter, his voice muted and dull without hope, "Can you dake the rest ob it? Peoble..._like_ me when I'b…gone." That was as close to asking, begging for mercy as he could get, not that he thought it would be granted. If the little hero took everything at once, Sylar would become no one or someone else immediately and the torturous transitions entirely avoided. It would almost be pain-free.

XXX

Peter took that as an invitation, no matter how twisted it was. "Can I take away who you are?" Peter's brows pulled together in distress – it was a horrible suggestion, and yet it was something he'd done. And yes, he would have rather had Nathan, then and probably even now, even knowing Nathan wasn't real, but Peter's feelings on that weren't as firm as they had been before. Sylar was asking him to kill him. Peter knew that and it tore at him. "Sylar," he said, voice low and gentle. "It's okay. It's going to be okay." He couldn't not think of the office worker with the gun, who had listened to his words, been affected by them, and then shot him anyway. This might turn out very badly; Peter knew he had no control over things. Sylar's problems almost certainly ran deeper than Peter could fix and his current pain and fear was something Peter's presence, by itself, had to be aggravating. But there was no one else here. If Peter left, Sylar would be alone and not just alone, but actively abandoned by the only other soul that existed for him. Being alone could be tolerable. Being lonely, being isolated, being rejected – those were the most venomous and toxic things Peter knew of and he would not inflict them on a human being whom he could look in the face. Not even his worst enemy.

He slid in close, probably way closer than Sylar had in mind. Peter did it with an awareness that Sylar might at any moment assault him. Peter tried to look as non-threatening as possible, his movements slow, hands low, expression open, eyes not leaving Sylar's face. He was not the hero he'd tried to be at with the office worker, wrapped up in his own grief and projecting it onto others. He wasn't even focusing so much on what Sylar was feeling – he just wanted to be there for him, to help, to let him know he wasn't alone. He knelt with one knee to the floor next to Sylar's left hip and Peter's other knee splayed to the side. If he had lowered his rump a few inches, he'd be sitting on Sylar's lap. As it was, he was in danger of being racked by the man by even a slight movement. Peter put his arms around Sylar – his right arm topmost, left arm under Sylar's right – and hugged him.

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes as more tears gushed out. At least he'd go gently at first and that was something. When Peter was in place Sylar's arms wrapped around him tight and clutching at the fabric of his coat. The other man being over him was threatening, yes, but Sylar didn't have a choice in what went on from here.

XXX

Having made it this far, Peter tried talking. "Easy … Hey … I know I could make a lot of promises to you, but I don't know if you'd believe any of them. So I hope you can believe _this_," he said, emphasizing his words by tightening the embrace – firm, secure, and holding Sylar close. He wished they didn't have their bulky jackets between them. It would have made the hug more human and less distant, but he made up for it with persistence. He held on and didn't let go, his chin on Sylar's shoulder, arms clasped around him. Peter was so deeply gratified and relieved when Sylar didn't shove him away. _Maybe this can work. Maybe I can help._

After a minute or two, Peter settled in and relaxed was much as the awkward pose allowed. He rubbed his hands slowly up and down Sylar's back and let his head loll slightly to the side, his breathing deepening. He shut his eyes and rocked them very slowly. He had not a word to say, not that he knew what he _could_ say that wouldn't cause problems. If Sylar couldn't believe his word, then he could at least believe Peter's actions.

XXX

Goddamnit it and Peter, but this felt safe – it _should_ have been a safe thing. Sylar no longer cared if this was just a mind trip before the other shoe fell. As it was, he wanted to believe this was comfort so much that he did believe it, at least while it lasted. It wouldn't hurt, when it happened. He would just wake up and be ignorant of his origin, of the past, of himself. He would be and do whatever Peter wanted. For now, he just cried and clutched harder but it felt better, this mockery of comfort. It was so very much needed.

Sylar could feel the heat of another human, could have smelt him had his nose been clear. Either this was some prolonged torment designed to freak him out or…it was genuine. The longer it went on, the more the second possibility seemed true and likely. This was…a voluntary hug. He cried calmly now, tears leaking silent onto Peter's shoulder as he clung to the longest, intentional, voluntary contact he, Sylar, had received in…ever? It was timely in his moment of need. He didn't know if Peter understood but…maybe that was okay. _Did I freak out over nothing? It's not nothing, it will never be 'nothing', but…he didn't do it. I don't think…not just now, anyway. I don't know about before. There's nothing I can do about it now._ Sylar eventually snuggled his face into Peter's chest as time went on, his tears beginning to dry from the relieved part of his upset. He could have easily fallen asleep there, though the floor was a little cold and hard.

XXX

Peter finally couldn't take the position. Not unless someone's life depended on it, which it didn't. (Or at least he didn't think so.) His muscles were on fire and he was so hot inside the stifling, heavy winter coat that he was sweating. He straightened a little, giving Sylar a brief squeeze as a signal that something was changing. He cleared his throat and said, "You want to go back to the Pegasus? We could go up to that penthouse, you could get some rest, and I'll stay with you and read my books." He hesitated, not sure what he was getting himself into with his next offer, but he took the plunge anyway. "I'll even read in bed with you if that helps." Peter was imagining something akin to sitting at the bedside of an ailing patient, except instead of sitting bedside, he'd actually be on the bed. He pushed back enough so he could see Sylar's face, though they were still very close. Peter's right hand rested on Sylar's shoulder, his left was at his side. "I'll keep the nightmares away, okay?" He rubbed just a little with his right hand, waiting for a response.

XXX

Sylar inhaled quickly, as if waking, when Peter pulled away. As much as he didn't want Peter to see him like this, a swollen, red, streaked mess, the close quarters wouldn't allow for him to hide – swiping his face on his sleeve was gross and not an option. He looked back at Peter, searching his face, his own eyes tinted with hope. His lip trembled before he firmed it, completely ashamed at his entire display of weakness but…it was being rewarded with the things he wanted most. He nodded timidly at first, then stronger. (_You used to be one of the nightmares, Peter. I want you to keep them away)._ They didn't have to be friends; Sylar didn't have to be liked, but this could very well solve a lot of their problems.

XXX

"Come on," Peter said, his tone still gentle and low. He stood, his legs cramping painfully. Squatting for a half hour or however long he had was not pleasant. He put his right hand on Sylar's shoulder to steady him and offered him his left to grab onto and pull himself up. With Peter's shaky legs and the additional weight, he lost his own balance and nearly went down. Peter wavered and ended up hanging onto Sylar as they other man finished standing, leaving the two of them clinging to one another yet again. Peter chuckled at how his gallant offer to help Sylar up had ended a bit ignominiously.

"Sorry about that." He patted Sylar a couple times and separated, moving his legs stiffly to stretch them. "My legs are messed up." He leaned against the nearest counter, giving it a quick scan. It was cluttered by various pieces of equipment. Peter recognized a fingerprint machine and breathalyzer right in front of him, but more important to him was the box of wipes and tissues situated between them. He grabbed the tissue box, pulling a couple out, and then offered the box to Sylar to let him clean himself up. Peter winced and stretched a little more, wiping at the moist blot on the front of his coat. He'd been spattered with worse.

XXX

Sylar tried to hold Peter up. His instincts were responsible for that when he felt like the other man would slip and face-plant unless he did something about it. Grateful and embarrassed he took the proffered tissues, cleaning his nose and face but it did nothing for his puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses. There was nothing to be done about it. It would get worse in the cold on the walk back and it was way too obvious that he'd lost his marbles and cried about it. It made him angry, but… maybe he shouldn't try to fix it or cover it up, not if Peter was responding to this current mess. "I'm sorry," he whispered, seeing Peter trying to brush off his coat. The rest of it, he wasn't sure he should apologize for.

XXX

Peter shrugged about the coat. "It's okay." He gave Sylar a brief, warm and lop-sided smile. "Let's go." He took charge, on a mission now even if it was a fairly minor one. He retraced his steps to the Taco House, where he'd left the books. He stayed even with Sylar and physically closer than they had on the walk out. He was only an arm's length away now. Peter smiled at him every now and then. He liked helping people. He liked having the opportunity to help. He hoped Sylar believed him, at least somewhat, that he wasn't out to get him, that he could be trusted at least a little. Things would be intolerable without that and here was a way Peter could prove himself. He felt filled with energy and determination, silly as it seemed given that the 'mission' involved simply lying in bed reading while Sylar napped.

XXX

Peter didn't touch him as they walked, but he stayed close, perhaps worried Sylar would bolt or fall if he wasn't close. Sylar tried for a few small, watery smiles in return because it seemed the thing to do. He hadn't gotten answers but Peter's behavior was usually the indicator and if Peter was caring for him then…he probably didn't have to worry, at least, not to the extent he feared and maybe not even about the things he was afraid of if Peter was too distracted or stupid to take advantage of opportunities. It made his muscles feel weak and rubbery with the lack of tension. The cold helped snap him out of his pleasant, warm haze until he wanted, even more desperately, to be snug in bed with someone else if only for warmth's sake. His toes twinged with each step, his head still pounding away, but he walked in a straight line and did not require assistance.

XXX

Peter was busy thinking as they walked through the lobby of the Pegasus building. He was going through his mental roster of the various supplies and things he'd stored in the rec room here. None of them were really helpful – the only thing Sylar might need were the painkillers already in Peter's pocket and the bed they were heading towards. No matter what the medical advances, 'rest' was something no pharmaceutical could duplicate.

The penthouse apartment was familiar and strangely relaxing when Peter walked into it. Maybe it was that it was a goal reached, but there was also something of how it was not a site of conflict. They'd had disagreements here – they'd had them everywhere – but there had been no fighting as there was at Sylar's, no destruction as at the storefront, and no feeling of invasion as Peter would feel if they'd gone to his apartment. This was shared. It wasn't Sylar's space; it wasn't Peter's. He set down the books and peeled off his winter wear, grateful to get out of the layers. It was all damp in spots and hadn't kept him as warm as he'd wanted on the way back. He felt chilled despite the heavy gear.

"If you want to clean up or something before we settle down, that'd be fine," he suggested. "I'm going to make some hot cocoa if I can find the ingredients." He left Sylar to his own process as Peter searched around in the kitchen. He found sugar and baking cocoa – that was good enough. Milk he had to raid out of a different apartment. _Mental note: stock this place up for food just like I stocked my own apartment. _He had not found marshmallows, nor looked for them, and only realized that after he had poured up two cups of steaming chocolately goodness. He might not know how to cook a lot of things, but cocoa was on the short list of what he knew._ Hot, sweet, full of calories, mood-lifting – just what Sylar needs._ It didn't hurt that Peter wanted it, too.

XXX

Sylar took that as a strong hint; he agreed and disappeared into the bathroom. There he washed his face and finger-combed his hair back, blowing his nose for good measure. He went to the master bedroom and stood there, unsure if he should lie down or if that was too lazy of him, expecting Peter to feed him in bed. Time passed or skipped around, he didn't know, but soon enough Peter was there, handing him a coffee mug of cocoa. "Thank you," Sylar said meaningfully. This felt so very strange but refusing any of this seemed very rude and undesired.

XXX

Peter sipped his drink. It was too hot to do much with. He set it on 'his' side of the bed, which was the left as you faced the headboard. It was the side nearer the outside wall and the side that left his more-functional left hand between him and any other residents of the bed. He claimed the side with his cup on the night stand and by moving the books to it. Then he announced, "I'm going to take a quick shower before we settle down." He scavenged in the drawers for a different t-shirt and underwear. The rest of his clothes could be reworn. Brief shower taken mainly just to rinse off the dried perspiration, he was finally ready.

XXX

Sylar tested the temperature of the cocoa instinctively. He hissed quietly when it was too hot, nodding to acknowledge Peter's shower. _A shower? Does that have to do with hugging me, my snot, or…?_ It was weirdly domestic, especially when Peter returned to climb in bed with him, smelling…fresh, from what little Sylar could detect. Peter's side was already chosen, so Sylar sat on the other. He would lie down when his cocoa was gone. It smelled good, too, and would taste the same when it was cool enough.

XXX

Peter sat on the bed cross-legged after pushing the pillows against the headboard to his satisfaction. He leaned against them and recovered his cup to blow on it slowly, watching it swirl in a tiny whirlpool as he blew on only one side of the cup. _Neat._ He looked over at Sylar's back, wondering about him. Once more his thoughts turned to what kind of a person Sylar was without their history, without abilities. _'Boring stuff' – reading, working … was he happy with that? Why did he lash out so much after getting his ability?_ He wished he could ask; wished he'd get an answer if he did. Spontaneously, Peter said, "I worry about you. I'm sorry about the way things are. Between us." He took a sip of his cocoa, watching the liquid instead of the back of Sylar's head. "I didn't do anything to you while you were unconscious. I can't … change who you are or take your memories. I don't have any abilities here. I can't even get us out."

XXX

Peter spoke but it wasn't what Sylar expected to hear. He didn't turn around or shift to see him better, instead he listened and pretended to be more involved with his cocoa than he really could be at that point. _Worried about me? Why would he be sorry? I __thought__ this was the way he wanted it. I suppose the only thing keeping him from doing that is the fact that he can't do it for some reason. Maybe he doesn't have abilities – __mine__ don't work. I can't…feel them. _"Then why did my head hurt worse when you left?"

XXX

"You probably weren't taking your painkillers," Peter said, even if he didn't believe it was anything that simple. "Were you?"

XXX

"No…" Sylar replied, feeling very low and very stupid. Peter didn't mock him about it, the question was factual, logical, and easily deducted. _I didn't know they made such a difference._

XXX

"Will you tell me how your head has been feeling lately?"

XXX

"Just…really bad headaches. One big one, really. It's…" _difficult to do anything, focus, talk, think_. "I want to sleep a lot but that's…." _difficult, too. He knows why, I guess. I don't want to have to go out and find you only to fight with you. I must be more fun to be around when I'm retarded and sick._

XXX

Peter reached up and rubbed at his own forehead in a sympathetic gesture, imagining Sylar's miserable catch-22. _Well enough to kick me out, but _not_ well enough take care of himself. Great. Of course, good reasoning ability and solid self-assessment are pretty asymptomatic for the mentally compromised._ Peter suppressed the sigh he wanted to make. He should have known better than to leave Sylar to his own devices without so much as checking on him. He knew what he'd been thinking – he hadn't cared. It was difficult to care for someone who was combative, threatening, and had killed you a few times in the past. Peter wasn't even sure if he should blame himself. "What have you eaten since I left?"

XXX

"Um…crackers and cheese. Some soup maybe? One of the dinners you left." It did not add up to the correct number of meals for the days Peter had been gone. _Hey, I fucking ate on my own. I told him I wouldn't starve and I didn't._ "It's hard to eat with…everything. Cocoa feels like a meal sometimes." He checked over his shoulder at Peter, then shrugged. Sylar knew that wasn't good, the shrunken stomach feeling.

XXX

"Yeah?" That was not a good sign – at all. He was no nutritionist, but if Sylar was saying he had no appetite and perhaps even a diminishing appetite rather than an increasing one, then that needed to be remedied immediately. "If you don't mind," Peter said softer and more gently than the rest of his words because this was a request, truly a request and one Sylar was at complete liberty to refuse, "I'd like to stick around and get some calories in you for a few days."

"How are your toes doing after that run?"

XXX

"They hurt to walk on. They did that before, they're…a little worse now," Sylar said, feeling guilty and stupid once more. He'd done that to himself, over nothing it would seem, if Peter was to be believed. By then his cocoa was cooled enough to drink, so he did. It still burned a little on his tongue, but it warmed up his insides quickly and he didn't hesitate to down it all. He set the empty mug on the bedside table and lay down atop the covers.

XXX

On top of the covers? That was not going to work. Peter drained his cup more hastily than he wanted and got up off the bed. He tugged at the blanket before Sylar could get too settled in. "Hop up. Underneath. You'll sleep better if you're warmer." He climbed under them himself, redistributing the books to the night stand and then moving himself up to where he was sitting against the pillows again, under the blanket only from the waist down. He waited a few beats, watching Sylar and trying to judge his own personal safety here. Things seemed okay. Peter carefully unstrapped his brace, which was still damp from the shower, and laid it on the night stand so his hand and the brace both could dry. He picked the thinnest book, pulling it over and opening in the middle for now, expecting to flip through it for a while before checking the table of contents and picking the parts he wanted to review.

XXX

Sylar sat again on the sheets, back to Peter as he unlaced his shoes. That sounded much more comfortable and looking back on it, he realized he hadn't done that so it didn't upset Peter's position or flip-flopping sense of personal space. Being invited was so much better! In socks, dress shirt and jeans, he lay back again, and rolled to face Peter, craning his head to watch him read for a moment. Sylar could very well sleep here, despite the issues from earlier. Softly, he said as he grew drowsy, "Don't touch my head at all, Peter." He kept his eyes open long enough to hear the confirmation, inching closer until he could smell the other man.

XXX

What a strange request. Or not really a request - it was an order that came with a question mark – a 'please don't do this' followed by a 'are you going to do it anyway?' Peter looked at said head, at Sylar's forehead, for a long couple of seconds, putting together Sylar's ability, the wiping of his memories, the concussion, and his current fears of being blotted out. They were all of a theme. He wondered if it meant anything similar about him that it was his _hand_ that had been broken. His eyes went back to Sylar's sleepy ones with a single nod. "Okay. I won't."

Sylar scooted close after that, stopping only a couple inches away. Peter could feel the heat from Sylar's body against his skin and the regular puffs of his breath moving the bared hairs on his forearm. He didn't want to pull away – it wasn't his personal space that was bothered. It was that if he moved at all, he might brush against Sylar and he hadn't been planning on being perfectly still. If nothing else, he'd be turning pages and switching books. The proximity was inconvenient and restrictive, not threatening. He thought about it for a while, then dismissed his concerns. If Sylar wanted to be that close to him, then Sylar could just deal. Speaking of things Sylar would have to deal with, Peter stuck his sock-clad foot to the left until it touched Sylar's shins. He pushed it between those shins and went back to his book smugly satisfied that he'd done something – asserted his dominance or whatever. He just knew he was happier having done it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes flew wide at what was a domineering, vaguely sexual move. At first, Sylar didn't even know what it was until he looked and deduced visually. _Shoving something between my legs…Is…that going to turn into more?_ Just as quickly, he checked Petrelli's face – it was smug and content. _Guess that's…what I wanted, him touching me and…if it involves sex, then I offered first I suppose._ While it wasn't his ideal of safety, Sylar was fairly certain that was the extent of Peter's moves…for now. And if it wasn't, well, he'd deal with it as it came because he had no other choice. _He didn't like that part about not touching my head._ Ducking his head back down, he let his eyes fall shut.

XXX

It was a need for lunch that finally stirred Peter out of the bed, though he was glad of the excuse to move. He was stiff and he was bored with reading about a subject that didn't interest him to start with. He learned mainly by doing. Despite the many pictures, he didn't think he was making much of the material. Also, he needed to pee.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and felt himself waking to some outside stimulus. _Huh?_ Sleeping what he assumed was a few hours felt like longer and that told him how tired he was. He saw Peter…going somewhere.

XXX

Peter turned back after setting his books aside and picking up his brace. Seeing Sylar awake was unsurprising, although the man had slept quietly enough and Peter, despite his Sylar-will-have-to-deal-with-it attitude, had in actuality moved very little while in the bed. "I'm going to make something for lunch. I'd like you to eat some." After the bathroom, he detoured over to his coat for the painkillers, setting the bottle prominently on the table before heading on to the kitchen. He didn't like the selection of foodstuffs, but had a feeling that leaving, even to go across the street and get food from his apartment, would not be taken well. There was enough to make it to tomorrow if they were happy with condensed soup. He'd seen some in the apartment where he'd gotten the milk earlier.

"I'm going to go down the hall to get some soup. I'll be right back."

XXX

Sylar sat up, both at the mention of food and Peter leaving. _He's come back every time he said he would…even sometimes he didn't say he was going to come back._ Looking over Peter's face, he couldn't think of a reason for Peter to ditch him now. _He hugged me earli__er._ "I'll eat."

XXX

Reconstituted cream of mushroom soup – it was easy to make, although Peter had yet to figure out how to avoid it being clumpy. It still tasted good. He kept an eye on how much Sylar ate, made sure he took his pills, and didn't engage in any conversation more stressful than a discussion of which of the four varieties of condensed soup Sylar might want for dinner: split pea and ham, cream of mushroom again, cream of asparagus (Peter's choice, not that he mentioned it), or chicken noodle. If Sylar wanted something other than the cream of asparagus, then Peter would simply fix two soups.


	84. Bedmates

Day 32, January 10th, afternoon

Sylar's gut was a self-devouring coil, awakened by the smell of the soup. He was definitely hungry. The warmth of the food was a bonus, not that the suite was cold. Sylar sat and ate, slowly but steady for the most part. "Any of those is fine," was his input about the next series of meals. _Soup is sick-people food. There's probably a reason for that and for him giving it to me. Or maybe his jaw is still hurting him._ When he was done, he thanked Peter and brought his bowl to the sink. Sylar felt better, stronger, if not more mentally agile, but he still wanted to sleep or at least rest. With Peter, of course. It was amazing how well things could work when they weren't fighting or talking. He was very content.

XXX

"You're welcome," Peter said in a low tone with a sideways glance at Sylar as he waited in line to put his bowl in the sink. _He thanked me. Just for the soup? I think it was just for the soup. Not for anything else. It's harder to thank for big things. And it's not like I'm doing it for thanks anyway._ But it was still nice. He rinsed out his bowl in turn and said when he was through, "I thought I'd spend the afternoon doing some sketches and maybe lay out what I was going to do with the repairs. You want to catch a few more Z's?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar said quickly, more enthusiastic. That was very agreeable. He only wished he could be up against Peter, but that was weird and probably forbidden. _I wonder if he's bored. He likes to be active. _Worried he was an inconvenience, he asked, "Is…Do you want to be doing something else?" Sylar was sure he wasn't up for another project or trip but where Peter would go, he would follow. "Do you need…'space'?" He asked that with even more reluctance, unhappy with the prospect. _Maybe he did that foot thing because he wants space, kicking me away to make room?_ All he knew was that pushing Peter into anything only set the Italian's stubborn victimhood or fight-or-flight on full-throttle.

XXX

Peter raised a brow at him. "That's … very considerate." He smiled for a half-second. He hadn't been expecting that and he was surprised Sylar had noticed or cared what Peter wanted. "No, I'm fine. I want you better. Getting you some rest is the best way to do that. I don't know how long you haven't been sleeping well, but," _you look terrible, like you're hungover,_ "I think you can use it. I'll go out tomorrow. Or we can both go out tomorrow. We'll need to go shopping if nothing else."

XXX

Sylar shrugged about his sleep quality. As he shuffled back to the bedroom, he murmured, "Is it really shopping if there's no one there?" _And no exchange of money?_ It sounded like he was going shopping with Peter and that was that. Under the covers, he sat and eased himself onto his back because it was easier for his headache to move slowly. He watched Peter to make sure he didn't slip away once Sylar was down. While the other man didn't look scheming, an escape didn't seem likely at this point. Peter's word might be shit, but the things he said seemed to hold truth. In a way, it was almost a better way to interact, not needing the promises.

XXX

Peter scouted around for the sketchbook he'd used previously, finally finding it on its edge between the nightstand and the bed. He didn't remember putting it there; didn't remember where he'd left it at all, which was obvious because he had to search for it. Peter caught himself having an existential concern about whether the location of things had permanence or whether their existence was a subjective something-or-other of his and Sylar's combined minds. _It doesn't matter! I wish I'd stop that. It's like the most pointless thoughts ever! _He huffed and climbed in bed, fluffing the covers and plumping the pillows, only to exit the bed immediately and stalk off to the guest bedroom with purpose. He raided it for pillows and returned to fortify his side a bit more.

He cast an eye over Sylar as Peter resettled himself. His expression softened. He supposed he wasn't being very soothing what with the unexplained huffiness or the pillow-mission. "You doing okay?" He reached over and gave Sylar a pat on the forearm. "I might be up and down a little bit, but I'll try not to move around much. I won't leave the apartment." _I promise. Do you believe me?_ He couldn't add those words, because he didn't think Sylar did. There was no particular reason why he would believe him, after all. A couple days wasn't much of a track record and Sylar was well able to say and do things that might run Peter off despite any promises he might make. He didn't know how to reconcile that. Peter exhaled and patted him again, turning back to arrange the sketchpad. If his foot reached out and touched Sylar's shin again a few minutes later, he would have denied having anything to do with it.

XXX

Sylar propped up on his elbows when Peter zipped away without reason, to the guest bedroom from the sounds of it. _No…not there! Come back!_ Come back he did, with pillows, explaining his absence. Sylar went still at the contact, looking back at Peter. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he replied though he was still confused and unsure of his status on Peter's annoyance radar. The empath seemed satisfied with what he'd said and another gentle pat later, he was minding his own business, completely unaware of Sylar's puzzlement. Settling in himself after that, he froze as he felt something, a foot surely, against his shin again! _Again? He's done that before. It's his…thing. That's all? I can handle that. It's…actually kind of nice._ Floating on the pleasant feelings, he turned to examine Peter with a normal gaze – taking in both the paper and pencil, the hands wielding them and the user's face as he drew. He'd never seen anyone else draw or emote creatively before (not that Peter could be considered a great artist, far from it; though he could probably convey an idea with some clarity) and he was curious to see what Peter looked like when he did those things. Mostly it was a calm or concentrated face.

XXX

He was being watched, Peter noticed. Sylar didn't have a book or activity of his own and didn't need them when he was supposed to be sleeping. He was resting, at least. Peter couldn't blame him for not dropping off immediately – not after the amount of rest they'd already had. There was a politics to looking at someone – who initiated eye contact, whose gaze lingered rather than being required to catch furtive glances. It was bold to stare, considered rude because openly regarding someone was a privilege you might not have. Peter looked over in acknowledgment with a brief smile before going back to what he was doing, knowingly extending that privilege to Sylar.

XXX

He'd been spotted, but there was no rebuke or question. This was allowed. Sylar made a hum of pleasure and rolled onto his side to continue to view the drawing process, close once more to Peter with that foot-to-shin contact going even as his lids slid into sleep.

He woke sometime in the evening when Peter rose, mentioned dinner and moved to the kitchen. _I must need the food if I'm digesting that quickly while asleep_, he noted.

XXX

It was cream of asparagus for dinner, with nothing more controversial as a conversational topic than Peter mentioning, "I still haven't figured out what plate glass is. I think it's just glass-glass, maybe single pane? They haven't mentioned it much." He'd swapped back and forth between books and sketching for the last couple hours. He thought he was getting slightly better at drawing, which was good given that his skills weren't particularly advanced beyond stick figures, flames, paisleys, and shadowboxed lettering.

Peter took his time cleaning up from the meal, then went over and stared out the windows for a little while at the dark, quiet, empty city. The slight sounds of Sylar moving around in the apartment behind him were comforting in the face of all that emptiness out there. The set of his shoulders relaxed and he shut his eyes after a while, just listening to those living noises. _Three years, alone. Head injury. Anxiety – separation anxiety, I guess. He wants me close._ Peter cocked his head slightly, taking in the sound. _It's not about me. It's about him. I understand. Some, I think._

He was calm when he opened his eyes and turned to his companion. "You want to hit the sack? I think I'm going to work on drawing, just in general."

XXX

"I think so." If he didn't have to stay awake, he wasn't going to and the offer was good. Sylar felt like a fuel gauge, slowly rising with every meal, contact and nap. It would probably never fill up, and if it did, he would certainly pretend it hadn't. He wasn't sure how to express his gratitude properly, remembering what he'd said before about thanks, promises and apologies. He wanted to put his arm around Peter's sketchbook-occupied waist, or clutch his arm to him as he slept. It would be warm, possibly soft, shifting with the other's breathing, an overall wonderful experience he'd never had. Sylar eyed those parts of Peter longingly until it grew circular and pointless. As it was, he laid the back of his hand against Peter's arm as he rested on his side, facing the man, keeping it casual. It was not rebuffed. _Hmmm. This is good night, right? I wonder if he'll stay here and sleep with me?_

XXX

It was much later when Peter's lids finally began to droop. He set everything aside and pulled over the brace, strapping it on to protect himself from rolling on his hand in the night. Then- He froze in the act of reaching to redistribute the many pillows. He turned and looked at Sylar, eyes wide, then back at the pillows. _Oh fuck. How the fuck did I not think …?!_ Somehow, in planning out the day, thinking about the importance of getting food and rest into Sylar, and a good night's sleep, and even the half-formed plans Peter had entertained for the next day – somehow in all of that it had never occurred to Peter that _he_ would be asleep, defenses down, during any of it. And if Sylar needed him close to rest, like within inches close, then … Peter stared at his bed partner, trying to figure out how he was going to avoid sleeping with Sylar when the situation required _sleeping with Sylar__._

There was no guarantee he wouldn't wake up molesting the guy again. Sylar had not appreciated it before. Peter had appreciated it even less because he'd taken measures to prevent it and Sylar had circumvented them. Peter had felt taken advantage of and the only reason he hadn't made a bigger deal out of it than he had was because sex hadn't been what Sylar was after. He knew now Sylar had been trying to get _this_, the proximity he was getting right now, which seemed necessary for his sanity and recovery.

Peter combed back his hair with his hand and reviewed his options. Trying to sneak out was not going to work – every time he'd left the bed, Sylar had woke quickly. He mulled it over and decided to opt for sleeping on top of the covers. They were both fully clothed – it should be safe. He might be a little cool and it might seem ridiculously prudish, but he could address the first with a blanket from the other bedroom and the second … well, he'd explain to Sylar in the morning. Such was overdue. His arrangements were made with a minimum of disturbance. Turning away to face the wall, Peter shut his eyes and eventually went to sleep.

Some time later, the sound of Peter's own voice woke him up from his dream. "It has glitter on it," he heard himself say. He sat up, bleary-eyed, hands flexing in memory of kneading the squishy material he wasn't handling now. Bemused, he looked over the side of the bed, but there was no box there.

XXX

Sylar awoke to an odd sensation, a sound. He caught the end of something (somehow aware it was the end of a sentence or similar), '…But it has glitter on it.' At first, Sylar, having remained unmoved throughout this wake-up call, couldn't string the words together to make a damn sentence. "Petey?" he grumbled as soon as he identified his bed partner, his tongue heavy and dry. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting off a hallway. Through that, he could see Peter's hands doing something curled or clutched in front of him. The other man woke and sat up to look around before noticing Sylar. _Um…is this bad?_ was his extremely unprepared response. "Petey?" he asked again.

XXX

"Huh?" Peter looked back. So Sylar really was in bed with him. Weird. He'd thought he was dreaming about that, too, because it was just as nonsensical as the rest. "I was giving your memories back, but they were made of red Play-Doh and one of them had glitter all over it." He laid back down with a sigh, letting Morpheus extend his shroud over him again without being the least troubled by a serial killer being in his bed. Mumbling now, he added, "I thought the glitter was unsanitary, but you didn't care."

XXX

A weird feeling twisted in his gut, unrelenting as it spread through him warmly. Peter wanted to give him his memories back. It made all the difference in the world, that unrehearsed and unexpected admission. It was a very nice thought to snuggle up with, glitter or unsanitariness notwithstanding.

Day 33, January 11, Morning

Sylar woke to breakfast sounds. A languorous stretch preceded his rise from the shared bed. Even his headache seemed happy to allow some warm fuzziness in his head this morning. He padded out. "G'morning," he croaked, ruffling his hair back and stretching his back once more, feeling his days old clothing rub against his skin in an annoying reminder that brought him back to earth somewhat. _Need pajamas. And a shower._ He waited until the food was served and Peter was occupied to ask about their (shared!) night. "So my memories are red Play-Doh with glitter on them?"

XXX

Peter slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of Sylar before settling with his own. He'd already put out jelly, butter, and maple syrup as possible toppings. He put jelly and butter on his own as he tried to place what Sylar was talking about. It sounded familiar, like something that had happened just recently. After a moment, the dream came back to him. He scanned Sylar's features carefully before speaking, very sensitive to how any discussion of mental faculties might be taken.

"Um … yeah." He took a bite of oatmeal, then fussed with stirring in the butter without mixing the jelly too much. "It was a dream." He looked at Sylar to be sure that was understood. Peter didn't want to be held accountable for his weird subconscious. Sylar's expression was interested enough for Peter to elaborate cautiously, "They were made out of Play-Doh and kind of long," he gestured to show a length of a couple feet. "Real narrow." He made an 'okay' sign with his left hand, showing a diameter of an inch or so. "They were in a box next to bed. I was handing them to you, trying to do it without them breaking. And I had to get the right ones, because there were other strands in the box that were blue and gray, but those weren't yours."

XXX

Sylar frowned for a few seconds, listening and taking that in. _They're fragile? He was being careful? He has more memories than just mine?_ "What about the glitter?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I pulled one out and it had glitter on it. I didn't know if it was one of yours or not. But you took it anyway, so I guess it was."

XXX

A curious shrug as Sylar ignored his food, "Why was the glitter unsanitary?"

XXX

Peter smiled a little, embarrassed, and picked his spoon up for another bite, this time carefully carving off a bit of jelly to go with a spoonful of oatmeal. "Well … We're eating breakfast here, but … um … don't take this wrong. It was just a dream." Having given this warning, he waited a beat for Sylar to be ready. "The top of your head was gone and you were putting the memories back in. You were fine though. I mean, you were calm, alert, oriented, all of that – but … you didn't have anything in your skull. I was handing them to you and you were coiling the Play-Doh in there. You were talking to me." He hoped Sylar didn't take this as any repressed desire to mess with his head. "All I was doing was giving them back. I guess, if we're talking about meaning … I know I wish I _could_ give them back."

XXX

Sylar sat back straight in his chair. He didn't ask how his head came to be open – it seemed obvious. _Maybe that's why he keeps hitting my head. He thinks my head being opened is fitting. _"Are you being serious?" He gave Peter a penetrating stare. This was not a joke-worthy topic.

XXX

"Yes. Dead serious. It's not something that belongs to me."

XXX

_Good choice of words._ "I appreciate the thought," Sylar intoned a little stiffly, "but I already...have them back..." _At least…I think I have them all back. I'll never know. Would I really be upset if I didn't have them all?_

XXX

Peter smiled wanly. "Yeah. I know." Perhaps Sylar had missed his point. Peter was carrying a book that contained all the secrets to Sylar's life and when Sylar perplexed him, enraged him, or terrified him, Peter wasn't opening that book for the answers. It was a strain, a burden, and a temptation to leave it shut. "My point is that it's something of yours I'm carrying, that I shouldn't have taken in the first place. For better or worse, I've made your past a part of me." His eyes skated to and from Sylar's face, uneasy with what he was saying. "It's going to take me a while to figure out how to deal with that." He was quiet for a moment. "I'd like to give them back … but I can't."

XXX

_I can't say I blame you for wanting to get rid of them,_ because clearly Peter wanted that. _Giving them to me is just…a convenient ploy? He admits he shouldn't have taken them, though._ _You should really leave my past where it is. I wish they wouldn't benefit you just having them as a pressure point._ Sylar said nothing, but he wanted to voice 'You should really leave my past where it is,' as impossible as that was for Peter to do.

XXX

"That's all there was to the dream. Maybe we should talk about … me sleeping with you?" He leaned back, a nervous smile creasing his features as his hand went to his hair to fidget with it. "I think I can put my sleeping habits under my list of 'things I never thought I'd need to discuss with Sylar.'" He gave a throaty, rueful laugh before swallowing and getting more serious. He leaned back to the table. "Um … when … you know, when you got in bed with me a week or so ago, after that I said something about me not being the best of bed partners." Actually, he was pretty sure he'd said he wasn't a _platonic_ bed partner. "That's … true." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling now with his spoon. "I … touch people I'm sleeping with." He rolled his eyes, looking anywhere but at Sylar for a moment. "And sometimes, as you found out, I do more than just touch. That's … as far as it goes. I mean, I wake up, but … sometimes I'm already …" _I sound like a rapist! (And that's kinda what it is, Pete. Which is why it's so fucking important to talk to him about this. He needs to know who it is he keeps trying to get in bed with.) I've never raped anyone!_ "Just wake me up. Please."

XXX

Sylar faked a small smile about being the last person to be told about Peter's bed habits, not that he necessarily needed the information. It was an annoying reminder of how low he was on…any of Peter's lists about anything. He addressed his oatmeal now as Peter spoke until he got to the part about waking him up, then he looked up under his brows. _Are you kidding me? Wake _**him** _up? When he's hard and in bed with me? Right, and he won't blame me for whatever placement he's in. _He was absolutely ignoring that.

XXX

Peter put his elbows on the table and raked at his hair. This was a very stressful conversation to have, but the worst part was out. He switched to something less violating. "I talk in my sleep sometimes. You know that, too. I've had other people complain that I'll follow them around in the bed trying to be up against them or touching - well, I mean in contact with them, I don't grope people." _Usually. Should I tell him that? I think he's probably figured that out from what I already said._ "There are things we can do about this. If we have to sleep together, we're going to have to have some separation, like me on top of the covers. And … dressed, like last night." He swallowed again, very uneasy with how much of a dangerous pervert this made him sound like. He tried to get a read on how Sylar was taking all of this. Nathan knew some of it, but Peter had never slept with him as an adult, after developing an active sex drive. A kid's adorable snuggling up to you and murmuring in his sleep became a lot less attractive in a fully grown man.

XXX

It was about this time some part of Sylar (or God forbid, Nathan) started to realize this would make an excellent alibi for when Peter _did_ grope him: 'But I was asleep!' Since that was in play, Sylar tuned out most of it, except the parts about separation by clothes or bedding. It made sense but Sylar didn't think it was necessary. _(It's not like I've ever slept with anyone. I don't know what I'm like…Should I tell him that? If I fuck it up, it will be over. He's…making an effort here)._ "Okay," he said simply, hoping to not only cease the rush of admissions/confessions and to give his own input. "I don't know what I do when I sleep. I don't have as many…" he trailed off and reconsidered what he was going to say, which basically amounted to 'I know who and where I am and I'll remember things better without my abilities.' "I don't have my abilities. I already told you what not to do when I have…disturbances." Very much Sylar hoped that his nightmares' record with sleeping with Peter was steady because otherwise it would get embarrassing quickly and he didn't need to be more vulnerable than he already was. _May_ _I eat now? _He held Peter's eyes until he was cleared to disengage and focus elsewhere.

XXX

Peter nodded, reciting what he remembered of Sylar's directions to show he had paid attention and give an opportunity for Sylar to correct him if he was wrong. "If you're having a nightmare, I don't touch you. Use a pillow or something else to wake you up then." He thought, but Sylar didn't seem to have as many issues with sleeping. Aside from the big one – that he needed someone sleeping with or near him. "And … I should never touch your head." He looked down, his lips drawing together as he wondered if Sylar's prohibition on that was due to Sylar cutting open heads, Peter forcing out his memories, or something done to him by the Company. _The answer is probably 'all of the above'._ "As far as that sort of thing goes," he said quietly, "I'd really prefer if you didn't point at me, or at least, not at my head."

XXX

Sylar tilted his head. _For someone who's lived through as much as he has, he still thinks death is the worst thing that can happen to him._ "I don't point at your head, I point at your face," he clarified, mostly to himself. It was mild but a little defensive. _If I pointed at your head, you'd know it. _And in Sylar's book, powerless pointing was better than violence. It was an acknowledgement though, the best he could safely give. He didn't know how successful he would be in that endeavor because Nathan pointed far more than Sylar (who was aware of what the gesture meant) and what was left of the senator was…unpredictable.

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar for a moment, thinking about the pointing incident that had last upset him. It had been right here at this very table, with Sylar not pointing at Peter's head, but merely at a glass which was directly in line between Sylar's finger and Peter's head (or face, if you wanted to be ridiculously pedantic). He looked down and curled his lips inward, biting at them to keep from saying anything – 'It doesn't matter!' 'You know what I meant!' and 'I don't fucking care what you thought you were pointing at!' He exhaled and looked at Sylar's bowl, then his own, his lips pursed. _Don't argue with him over breakfast. Just don't. Yesterday went fine because we didn't talk about anything. Just leave it._ He glanced up at Sylar to say, "Alright," like the word was dragged between his teeth by force.

He finished eating, then stared into the middle distance, off to the side. After a moment, he realized it might be helpful to share his plans with Sylar, rather than expecting the guy to figure it out as they went along. "I was thinking," he said, refocusing on his companion, "that we're going to end up back here tonight." Peter scratched at the back of his neck, still uncomfortable about the 'sleeping together' thing. But there seemed nothing to be done about it at the moment. Odd dreams aside, the night had gone fine. "So we need to go out and get some food for this place. I'd like to swing by the storefront I was working on the other day and take another look at the settings, maybe measure some things off. I don't have a measuring tape … I'm sure the hardware store has one. So maybe food first, come back here, unload, then back to the hardware store and the storefront?"

XXX

Everything but the sleeping sounded like a lot of effort, manageable only if conversation and helping were minimal and fighting was nonexistent. Sylar glanced up, "Okay," he said and went back to eating.

XXX

Peter nodded. "Okay. Before any of that, though, I'm going to go downstairs and work out, then across to clean up at my apartment. We can meet up later downstairs. I'll probably be a couple hours." He glanced at Sylar's bowl, this time keeping his ass planted until Sylar was done – no more shorting Sylar on his meals just because Peter wanted to move around the room. He asked, "How are your toes doing? I want to take a look at them before we go anywhere."

XXX

Sylar blinked at him. _He made another mess in his apartment? Is he only neat around me? No…he licks utensils…_Sylar eyed his spoon, nearly finished with his oatmeal. He left that alone as there was nothing to be done about it now. He flexed his socked foot; still seated he made a walking motion with it to apply pressure. "They're…They'll be fine." _I wish you'd take a look at something else more han__ds__ on…_He couldn't help the look he cast over Peter's bodily profile, even while sitting. His spoon was set in his bowl. "Do you want to do it now?" Sylar was internally smug at his own innuendo, boosting his mood and some of his blood flow.

XXX

Peter did a double-take at the way Sylar was looking at him. There was desire there, smoldering in Sylar's eyes. _Uh … huh._ Peter's brows climbed slightly and he didn't look away, didn't back down. _And I might be in bed with this guy tonight?_ "Finish your breakfast," he said, his tone a dare. _I guess I should be happy he's feeling good enough to start shit. I will wear his ass out if I need to. We'll see how he is after a full day._

XXX

For a moment their eyes held until Peter made his command. Sylar grinned widely, very amused and pleased with himself (and Peter) at having been caught. "I'm done," he said, and it was true.

XXX

Peter made a pointed look in Sylar's bowl, rolled his eyes slightly at the remaining couple of bites and rose. "I'll go wash my hands." It wasn't necessary, but it was habitual and more importantly, it got him away from Sylar for a few needed moments while Peter marshaled his patience and metaphorically put his nurse-hat on. Scrubbed up, he returned and went to one knee next to Sylar's left side. "It's this one, right?" By now, his tone was clear and neutral. He looked to Sylar for affirmation before touching him.

XXX

Before _you touch my feet? Whatever, Peter._ Sylar turned in his seat, elbow on the table as he awaited instructions. It surprised him when Peter approached him at the table – he'd thought they examination would take place somewhere more comfortable and less subservient for Peter. _Like the bed? _"Uh, yeah, yes." He raised the leg to elevate the foot.

XXX

Peter pulled the sock loose carefully. He started by tugging to loosen the sock on the top of the foot and then on the sole, then peeled it down over the heel before pinching it up on the sole and pulling off and upwards so as not to stress the toes. He cupped the heel of Sylar's foot with his left hand. He took a moment to review the body part in question, looking especially at the toes relative to one another for size and discoloration. He gently brushed off stray sock-lint from Sylar's sole before pronating the foot to watch the flex of tendons and movement of bones. "If there's any displacement, I'm not seeing it. That's a good thing. Which ones are bothering you?" He was fairly sure of which ones (after all, Sylar had told him before, but Peter been concussed at the time and as far as that went, so had Sylar), but he still asked for confirmation, looking up.

XXX

"The index and middle," Sylar pointed. His big toe hurt on the end, but it didn't bother him to walk or run.

XXX

Peter took the pinkie toe between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, squeezing lightly on the joint where the toe joined the foot. He shifted his left hand to bring his thumb and fingertips into contact so he could better feel it if Sylar tensed. _This little piggy went to market_, he thought as he moved up a joint, squeezing gently on the next knuckle and manipulating it up and down. He looked up at Sylar to check for any pain reaction, then moved on to the next toe. He skipped the mentioned index and middle without so much as touching them, repeating his check on the big toe. Human curiosity made him want to check the others, too, but messing with something until it hurt was a guaranteed way to _hurt_. Sylar said they pained him and without an x-ray machine, that was all Peter had to go on. Well, that and the very faint bruising he could see around the ends and the knuckles. He set the foot back on the floor and offered Sylar his sock.

XXX

He watched Peter work, soaking in the attention and care at such close quarters. His caretaking companion was very gentle, almost unduly so, in handling his foot. It bordered on ridiculous, but it was wonderful – warm, careful hands holding his heel like it was fragile. Peter checked his face a few times; Sylar had no need to signal anything so he didn't, wondering if that was the right response. He was disappointed when the nurse didn't replace his sock.

XXX

"They look okay. Let me know if they start hurting you more as they day goes on. You took your painkillers, right?" Peter looked around, checking for the bottle. He set it in front of Sylar and took away the bowls and utensils.

XXX

_I won't get hooked on these, will I?_ he thought as he swallowed the usual dose. "I can walk," he insisted, standing to back it up and begin helping with cleaning up the butter, syrup and jelly.

XXX

"I know, but there's no reason to tough it out." Peter rinsed the dishes and set them aside. "I'm going to go work out and clean up. I'll be back in a few hours."

XXX

"What am I supposed to do?" _I should shower, that's what he's probably going to go do. Why can't he shower here?_ Just because Peter said (not promised) he would return, and he had nearly every time, didn't mean Sylar was happy or comfortable with the separation. It would seem empty and cold without Peter here. He would need different, new reasons, other than the truthful paranoia that Peter would not return, to keep the man with him.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a surprised look. _Since when am I in charge of how you spend your time?_ His mouth opened to say that (and probably in a sharp tone), but he remembered Sylar crying on his knees, asking Peter to take it all away – everything. And again, in the hospital nailed to the plywood, trying to order Peter to kill him. _Am I stuck here because he won't let me go? Has the carnival … Emma … everything already happened and I'm trapped in Sylar's head forever because he doesn't want to be alone?_ Peter's brows pulled together in an expression that was concerned, both for the life he might be missing and the genuine need Sylar's clinginess demonstrated.

"Um." He cleared his throat, tilting his head in uncertainty as he tried to feel his way through the new role being thrust upon him. He wasn't rejecting it; he was just unfamiliar with it. Peter didn't know what to make of that much responsibility. "Whatever you want - you could clean up, read, take a nap. I'm just going to be downstairs at first …" He trailed off, not wanting to invite Sylar to work out with him, but not wanting to disinvite him either. Peter was fine with Sylar being in the rec room if it made him happy to be where he could hear Peter.

XXX

"Oh," he replied to the undesirable answer. It was the unfortunate side effect of being 'sick,' which is what he was after all. As Peter went about doing the dishes, Sylar tried, "Am I allowed to take showers now?"

XXX

"Allowed?" This time he couldn't stop himself from blurting. "Yes," he answered after a beat, not sure if he should let Sylar put him in a position of being responsible for what the other man did. "I would think you'd rather go down the street to your place, though. One of the things I want to get while we're out shopping is shampoo, razors and stuff, for here. I don't know about you, but I don't remember liking the stuff that was in here."

XXX

Sylar shrugged, "They're fine for me." It was sort of a lie but he didn't feel like trekking over the ice back to his apartment for hair product. He began to unbutton his shirt. He peeled it off, letting it fall from his shoulders and into his hand. "I'll see you later," he rumbled a sort of invitation, now standing shirtless in front of Peter. He looked him in the eye for a moment before he turned and walked to the bathroom. He was arrogant enough to demand Peter's attention and to assume he had it until he disappeared into the hall.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar undressed, alarm warring with … interest? curiosity? something, but his throat was dry and his eyes kept flicking between Sylar's fingers and face. _Is he just going to strip right here? What the hell is he doing?! _But no, it was just the shirt. He swallowed as Sylar turned and headed off. For a moment Peter looked back to the sink, but he was done. He looked back at Sylar's retreating form, calling out, "Close the door this time!" Then shook his head. He didn't know why he cared, given that he was leaving anyway, but care he did. The guy was scandalously good-looking, which was inconvenient as hell. Peter shook his head again and went out, shutting the front door firmly (but not slamming it) because he wasn't quite sure Sylar had clued that Peter wasn't sticking around.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Whatever, Peter! _He mentally called back in response. It wasn't like doors were any protection against a motivated Petrelli. To make something of a point on multiple levels, he left the door open a crack. Despite the 'doctor's' okay, he went carefully in the shower. _Has anything changed since_ _I…lost my marbles in front of him? He thinks less of me. He won't break in, he won't…attack me, or so he says. So long as we don't talk about anything and so long as I don't say anything, we__'re__ fine. Is he still going to take my mind bit by bit?_ He wasn't thrilled to be left alone at all, but especially in the potentially dangerous bathroom where he was not visited; his thoughts were not good company. The shampoo wasn't great either.

XXX

Peter pushed himself fairly hard during his workout. He was tense, wound up by Sylar's open display of interest in him. It complicated things enormously, in ways Peter didn't want to think about. It would be easier to blow off if he hadn't been expecting to share such close quarters with him. The only thing he could think of was to tire Sylar out as much as possible without setting back his recovery, but that itself was such a fine line that it seemed impossible. _I've done impossible things before. I'm _here _trying to do an impossible thing – getting Mr. Serial Killer to save people. But I don't have to deal with any of that right now. Right now I have to shower. Then we'll go get groceries. Who knows what else might happen? I won't get anywhere by worrying about it._ He threw his sweat towel on the nearest bench and set off for his apartment and a hot shower. When he arrived back at the penthouse, he was clean, shaved, and felt human again. He knocked, waited for some signal of Sylar's awareness of him, and walked in when he got it. "Hey." Peter made a bob of his head at the door. "You ready to go?" He moved over to where he'd shed his cold weather gear the day before. He hadn't needed it for the short walk across the street to his apartment building, but he would for the grocery store. He gave everything a cursory check for dryness and started putting things on.


	85. Grocery Shopping

Day 33, January 11, Morning

Sylar was sitting on the couch, thinking it would keep him awake but he zoned out quickly after sitting. He came to when Peter arrived. _Go? Oh yeah_. "Yes." Just as clearly he wasn't ready because he had to hunt down his coat and shoes, both near the bed where he'd left them to sleep with Peter. Putting them on went without a hitch, other than his prevalent concussion symptoms. Peter wasn't hustling him (because he has his own clothes to put on) and soon enough they were down the elevator, to the street and entering the grocery store where Peter got a cart.

Sylar tagged behind Peter, watching him more than anything else. He wanted to see what Peter's eyes lingered on, and maybe the man's face would explain why he chose that specific product. It didn't work like that; Peter frowned or had no expression as he considered the options. They seemed random but he shouldn't be so surprised. It was interesting to see the vegan foods Peter selected, they seemed very…basic, but they were good for you. _One cannot live on cheese and lettuce alone._ Sylar looked over the empath's body several times more without getting caught. After Peter had moved ahead to the next food item, Sylar went behind and got a bag of apples, eventually putting them in the cart. He noticed there was no meat on the menu, no surprises there either.

XXX

Peter cruised down the first aisle after finishing in the produce section, skipping the banks of freezers between the sections. If food didn't tend to go bad here, then he was going to go nuts with fresh stuff. _Speaking of nuts …_ he dropped a container of name-brand chunky peanut butter in the cart along with a store-brand one of honey. (The peanut butter because he'd had that brand and knew it tasted good; the honey because he didn't remember ever noticing a brand on any honey he'd had. Honey was honey, right?) Then he reached the shrine to caffeine – the traditional American plethora of tea and coffee choices. He breezed by the tea, preferring something stouter. "Are you okay with coffee in the morning?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said, thinking that was obvious. They'd had coffee together before; Sylar had even talked about the stuff. "Is it bad for concussions, the caffeine?" He didn't think so, assumed not since the nurse was offering it. It was one more thing Peter could fix for him in the kitchen (that itself was amusing), it was a social thing, a normal habit or vice; though Sylar didn't need to drink coffee every morning since he wasn't exactly on the run anymore. Poor or worse sleep was a factor still, when he had to be alert around Peter. _He's sleeping with me. For now._

XXX

"I don't know. We'll find out." A little less flippantly, he turned to look at Sylar and amended, "Start slow. See how you tolerate it. There are plenty of other things to drink if you don't want to risk it." He turned back to the scores of selections. It wasn't like ordering at the coffee shop, or making espresso with the fancy monstrosities so many of the more expensive homes Peter had been in had possessed. Peter frowned, trying to remember if the upscale penthouse they were inhabiting even had the simplest of coffee maker. "There's no way I'm doing instant," he muttered, then asked Sylar at a more normal tone, "What kind of coffee do you like?" He reached up and touched his chin contemplatively, weighing his choices carefully.

XXX

Sylar frowned, oddly put off by that reply. Peter amended it so…"I never really experimented….with coffee," Sylar was quick to clarify. The conversation about experimenting making it a little awkward. "Anything is fine." _I've never tried Italian-made coffee before_, he thought, amused.

XXX

"Okay." Peter nodded decisively, grabbing the medium-sized, high-end, name-brand container that pleased him the most at that particular moment. His careful process was to slowly review all of his possible selections, then almost impulsively grab whatever looked like a good idea and move on. It was a method. He set the canister in the cart, added some creamer he was familiar with, and continued looping through the grocery area and finally dairy. After that, he headed to the other side of the store for personal care. Picking out an extra toothbrush and tube of paste was simple enough, but then he came to … hair. There were even more choices than coffee and this was quite a bit more important.

XXX

Here Peter came to a grinding halt. He barely moved for long minutes, staring at the shampoos and conditioners. Sure the guy had some upkeep with that rebellious mop of hair but was it really this complicated? Sylar grew fidgety, then impatient. When he could take the standstill no more, he left and went down a different aisle; quite sure he wouldn't be missed. He was unfamiliar with condoms but he managed to make a decision faster than Peter and hair care. Returning with a box of Trojans and a bottle of basic unscented lotion from Peter's same aisle, he threw them in the cart, pointedly, waiting to see when Peter noticed and how he reacted. There was no uncomfortable check-out to pass so Peter was the only would who could see the items.

XXX

Peter had settled on a shampoo, which was in the cart. The brand-suggested conditioner option was in his hand, but he hadn't finished thinking about all the other possibilities (mousse, gel … and what about hair dye?!) when Sylar returned. Peter made a bland, acknowledging, "Hmm," noise before deciding he needed to get moving before Sylar left on another expedition. (And that he, Peter, didn't have anyone to help him apply the blue coloring to his hair anyway.) He looked in the cart to see what Sylar had gone for, saw the conspicuous box immediately, and stared at it, face blanking as his blood pressure shot up and muscles tensed.

XXX

"What? You don't use them?" _With men_, was the implied climax of that question. Sylar was itching with curiosity.

XXX

"I'm not going to use them wi-" Peter cut off the end of the ill-thought outburst. _No, that sounds like I'm _going _to have sex with him, just not use condoms._ "I mean, we don't-" _Wait, that has the same problem. _"No! It-" _Dammit! _Frustration made him grit his teeth. His jaw chose that moment to spasm and his expression turned to a pained grimace.

XXX

"Not your brand?" Sylar silkily inquired with all the innocence he had. "They have more."

XXX

Put on the spot so unexpectedly (and clearly that was Sylar's plan), Peter didn't find the best words, but he had to say _something_. He bit out, "There is nothing we are going to do that needs condoms." It was at least better than the other things he'd almost said before.

XXX

Sylar shrugged one shoulder. It satisfied his curiosity. He removed them from the cart, setting them on the shelf. Then he smirked. That answer could mean a lot of things: Peter never used condoms or didn't care to, he didn't use them with men, or Peter thought Sylar wasn't worth using them on, which could really go either way, a good or bad thing. The whole thing was a prank in itself anyway – Peter would take it seriously and nothing would come of it.

XXX

Peter shook his head, calming down and tearing into himself internally for being so easy to provoke. Just as he was telling himself not to rise to Sylar's bait, he put the conditioner he'd been carrying into the cart and noticed the lotion. _That wasn't there before._ Lips tight, he asked, "What is that for?"

XXX

"We're getting supplies. It's winter. I don't want to get dry skin," he emphasized the last two words, his meaning apparent: the dry skin of my dick. "You can use some, too. Never know when you might…need some," that was said with a glance at Peter's groin.

XXX

_Fine,_ Peter thought snippily. _It's the only wet either one of us is going to get. _He looked past Sylar at the section of lotions. It wasn't that bad a point. Truth be told, Peter had a preference for self-pleasuring and this worked, but he'd rather have two bottles so as not to have to deal with … sharing. _If I just grab a second one right in front of him, is that bold or weird? Ah, to hell with it. _Peter took down a second bottle to match Sylar's and tossed it in the cart without comment.

XXX

/"Remember what I taught you about lube?"/ Oh, he should have seen that one coming. Sex was so prevalent in Nathan's – and in Peter's, apparently – life that the slightest mention would trigger something. /Nathan had had to give his little brother the talk, several of them throughout the years as the boy grew. First was birds and bees, second was 'be careful' and masturbation tips, and third and other ones were about the graphic specifics of seduction, porn and protection. Very much Nathan had stressed the protection part, regardless of what their parents and the church were drilling into Peter. Meredith and Claire and that tragedy that still followed him wouldn't happen to Peter if he could help prevent it./ Sylar colored from embarrassment and fear. Quickly his good, playful mood vanished as his safety was questioned, his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched as he took a shuffling step back. "I-I'm….I…." This one was more than just crossing the usual line.

XXX

It took Peter a moment to process that as something not entirely from Sylar. Had Sylar just blown it off and walked away, Peter wouldn't have been sure, but the second the guilty body language started (and Peter was giving him eagle-eyed, suspicious attention at that point), he knew. Those words coming out of Sylar's mouth were a profound violation – that some of his most private moments with his brother were to be blurted out for humor or shock value was reprehensible. It was indefensible. Peter grabbed at him with his left hand, fingers tangling in the heavy fabric of the coat as he sought to slam Sylar back, into the rows of flimsy shelving of hair care products.

XXX

_Ah, fuck_, was all Sylar had to think about this serious overstep that was going to get him hurt. Sure enough, Peter advanced and Sylar backed up, as if 'getting out of Peter's way' would solve the problem. He kept trying to back up until the medic helped him with that, shoving Sylar's spine into the metal shelves with some force. "Ah!" he said in a pained and unhappy tone. His hands jerked up halfway but dropped in the face of inevitability as he squirmed and dreaded what came next. It just didn't seem fair.

XXX

Peter snarled at him. "'Remember' …?" He dipped his head down a little in exaggerated query. "You think that's funny? Huh?" He shoved at Sylar again.

XXX

"N-No," Sylar replied with resolve. His head was back, hoping it was out of reach, as he watched Peter's free hand, the right one. _He can't hit me with that, or he won't, right_? Whether he got smacked or not seemed dependent on how he responded – Peter wasn't going to beat him, based on the hold and the holding pattern they were in. Sylar didn't know what to make of that. (He didn't think he should be spared any punishment but he was being offered a chance of sorts).

XXX

"Sylar, I am _trying_-" Peter stopped, staring at the hand gripping Sylar's front and holding him in place so Peter could vent at him. '_Here lies Peter Petrelli – He tried_' and '_You act; I adjust_' flashed through his mind. Whatever he did, Sylar was going to react to it … because that was the world Sylar was living in. If Peter treated him brutally, then Sylar would act like Peter was a brute. Peter's chest heaved. That wasn't how he wanted to be. He let go with an effort – not shoving, not embellishing the gesture. He just let go and took a step back, teeth slightly bared because he still wanted to tear into Sylar for reminding Peter of how many of his private moments were inside Sylar's skull. "I am being-" _No, that doesn't work either. If I have to tell him I'm doing my best be decent, then I'm not doing a good job. I shouldn't have to tell him. What I say doesn't matter; it's what I do._ He looked down, sealing his lips together and letting his shoulders sag as the fight left him. Peter glanced up, tilting his head to one side as he said, "You can't help it, can you?" He drew in a deep breath and expelled it along with his rage.

XXX

Sylar watched as Peter tried to work through another reply or possibly a lecture. He took a deeper breath when he was freed, adjusting the hang and fit of his coat with barely a glance spared for it, feeling jittery. "I don't think it makes a difference to you either way," he admitted, resigned about that.

XXX

Peter looked up at him, voice strained. "It's the difference between malice and an accident. It's important." He took another step back, nodded, and worked his lips uncomfortably. His voice was normal when he spoke again. "Come on. I think we missed the bakery section somewhere and I don't want to leave here without some raisin bread."

XXX

_Why does that hurt him so much? I'm not saying…bad memories. Just his memories. And he's gone (and I'm here) and that's what matters to Peter, I guess._ Sylar waited until Peter was well past him with the cart before considering moving in any direction. He kept screwing up every time they talked and even when they didn't – he still didn't know if he was invited along. The least punishment Peter could enact was sending him home alone right now.

XXX

Peter looked back, realizing Sylar wasn't following. It made him feel small and mean, knowing he'd just attacked Sylar for something Sylar couldn't stop, something Sylar hadn't wanted. But it had been inflicted on him anyway and now he was trapped here with Peter, who felt way too hair-trigger towards the guy. Peter made a wide, inclusive wave with one arm and gentled his voice further to say, "Come on, buddy. You need to come tell me white or wheat for sandwich bread. It's okay. I was an ass. I'll cut it out." Peter looked down and to the side, deflating as he realized how much his temper interfered with normal interactions. "Or I can meet up with you somewhere else. Whatever you want." _Whatever makes you feel safe._

XXX

"I don't have a preference," Sylar said, quiet and quick, as if bread was the most important thing to talk about or do at the moment – it wasn't and he really didn't care which bread was chosen. He was being offered a way out but there was a right and wrong answer. _Do I stay with Peter because I need supervision and he wants to berate me some more or…am I unbearable now and he needs space and that's a hint to leave?_ He rocked his weight forward, then back, almost taking a step. "Um…Should I leave?"

XXX

Peter stopped, turned, and looked at Sylar with an expression that went from disappointed to thoughtful within a few seconds. _Do I want him to leave? I can't snap at him if he's not here. Maybe he doesn't feel safe around me. He really _isn't_ safe around me, but I think he wants to be around me. Is it better for him to leave? _Peter's eyes dropped to Sylar's feet. Although the questions he'd been asking himself were all about Sylar and Sylar's safety, his feelings were more predictably rooted in what he himself wanted. He didn't want to feel like he was such an ogre that even Sylar, lonely and desperate for companionship, couldn't stand his company. He wanted the illusion of friendliness they had at times between them – open animosity was tiring and wrong. He wanted to be thought well of and he couldn't get that unless he acted right. Quietly, Peter said, "I want you to stay."

XXX

Sylar nodded once, looking meaningfully at the mess of shampoo and wishing he could clean it up but left it and he slunk behind Peter once more, hands shamefully in his pockets. He considered apologizing because, well, this accident was an extremely embarrassing one, but then he remembered the conversation about apologies and intentions. _I didn't get the condoms and lotion to piss him off or talk like Nathan. Does Peter think I did that part on purpose? Yeah._

XXX

They finished the last bit of shopping with very little talking, then Peter rolled the entire cart full of groceries right out of the store and along the sidewalk, which was smoother than the street itself. It felt very weird and rebellious to be walking off with a cart like he was either homeless or brazen, both of which possibilities cheered him in turns. He wished he had more of an audience for his defiance of social norms. Sylar looked very subdued, so Peter didn't mention how cool it made him feel. Besides, he chided himself, the feeling was dumb.

He turned his thoughts back to the more important issue of how he could better deal with Sylar airing Nathan's memories. _First, I need to understand what's going on._ In a serious tone, he recapped what Sylar had told him before. "Let me know if this is how it works: I say things, sometimes that triggers memories in you, and it also triggers you to say it, out loud. Is that it?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar whispered. _Remember the last time I talked about Nathan and this whole thing? (I threw a mannequin at him?) No, before that._

XXX

"So it just bypasses your filter?" _No internal censor, no choice, no veto power?_

XXX

_Like 'self-control'? It…overrides it, _"Umm…" Vaguely his noise sounded affirmative but the equal part didn't. Was admission a good idea, permanently labeling this…thing as unintentional? Oh, God, this couldn't end well. _How can I get in trouble when all I do is answer the questions he asks?_

XXX

That wasn't much of an answer. Peter gave Sylar a slightly longer, expectant look, but Sylar didn't elaborate. "Okay." Peter didn't push it. _Maybe he can control it; maybe he can't. Maybe he can only control it some of the time. Maybe he controls it fine ninety-nine percent of the time and I only hear about the one percent that slips through. In any case, I think he's _trying_ to control it. Let's go with that._ "The lube thing - that's kind of funny." Peter chuckled a little, although the incident was still too recent for his laugh to be anything other than forced. "You have all those memories, right? What about that treehouse where Nathan got me drunk when I was a kid?"

XXX

/"Yeah, that one we built? We used to hide in it after stealing Dad's scotch-"/ Sylar's gut sank as Peter's goal became obvious. He faced Peter and backed away, jerking his hands from his pockets to raise them in self-defense before Peter made any such move. His chest hitched up and down roughly. "That's not fair!" Bait and hit him, the system was beautiful for all its sadism.

XXX

It took Peter a moment, during which he stood mostly still, hands still on the cart handle and leaning slightly away in case Sylar did something aggressive. Then he figured it out. _He thinks I did that on purpose? He's that easy to trigger? Huh. Okay._ It was the best illustration the recollections were involuntary Sylar could have made – so good it left Peter slightly suspicious, but so authentic he purged his doubts. "It's okay," he said, taking a few slow, short steps forward to indicate there was no bad blood. _Just walking and talking. It's all good._ "I was just wondering if you had everything, like even the obscure stuff." Peter made a one-shouldered shrug. "The stuff you know about me … that's really embarrassing." He looked over at Sylar carefully, trying to read if the guy understood how weird a position this put Peter in.

XXX

Sylar glanced at Peter's face, then his eyes and just as quickly, he looked away before returning to repeat the circuit. By his own words, he was damned, 'if you did it, you meant it' although how he could 'mean' what Nathan had just said made no sense. "You're…my brother. It doesn't sound weird – or embarrassing – until I say it."

XXX

Peter gave him a hard, but considering look. "You're not saying … that you really are my brother, right? You're saying, maybe, that when one of those memories is set off, you're seeing it from Nathan's perspective. And so, from his point of view, he was there, it's his memory, it's not embarrassing for him to say that to me. Is that it?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said ambiguous in its honesty. He wanted to be Peter's brother but he wasn't; he thought he was Peter's brother but he wasn't; who was Peter's brother and who would treat the empath better? "It's only embarrassing for you to realize I know things."

XXX

Peter puckered his lips slightly as he thought that over. He swallowed and sighed. "You know, this isn't much of a secret, Sylar, but it's not something I talk about with just anyone. But my brother was really self-absorbed and I don't think he thought through how his actions affected others." Peter paused for a moment and said as an aside, "Family problem." He went on, "But the things you remember about me are still embarrassing for me, some of it, and it would be even if it's Nathan saying it. Even back when it was Nathan who _did_ say things like that, it was embarrassing." _Is that Nathan trying to talk to me out of Sylar? Is Sylar just repressing him? Is it okay for me to tell Nathan through Sylar that Nathan was a bastard at times?_ Peter frowned tightly. _Leave it alone. There's no way to know. Not unless I get out of here and still have telepathy and even then, who knows? Until then, he's who he says he is and that's Sylar._

Peter itched to talk about Nathan with someone. There were so many things he hadn't had a chance to say at the funeral, things he wanted to get out, but things he shouldn't burden anyone to listen to it. It was all snarled up inside of him and Sylar was hardly the person to talk to about it. He tugged off a glove to wiped at his eyes – they weren't damp, but they stung. "You ever lose someone you cared about?"

XXX

Sylar was very stuck about Peter crying over this. It forced him to answer, albeit quietly. "Yes." '_Lost' is such generous word for what happened._

XXX

"You run across things that remind you of them, after, and sometimes it just brings it all back up again in your mind. I miss him. Hearing you talk like him is hard. I'm sorry that was done to you." More quietly he said, "I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, too." _He can't get away from it. He probably remembers how Nathan died. Does that feel like _he _died, like that was his own death?_ Peter gave a brief sideways bob of his head, thinking about how Claire had said dying was no big deal. Even though it had happened to Peter several times, it had never been anything other than a big deal. Every time it had mattered. _Maybe I'm not as tough as she is. _He looked over to see how Sylar was taking it.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and went still, remembering his walk on the dark side – shapeshifting into his mother to have a conversation with…someone, with her, he didn't know. He remembered the snow globe, the murder weapon; the musty smell of her tea and the dust of her house…the blood and her soap on the softness of her sweater. In that moment, all he could think about was if Peter somehow began quoting her, hounding him until he had no peace and pouring salt on every wound he still possessed. "Don't ever do that, Peter," he warned in advance, finding himself breathing faster, clammy against his coat. "It could be dangerous." He didn't know if he expected Peter to abide by that or not, if it was even possible.

XXX

"Don't do what?" Peter asked very cautiously, stopping the cart as he remembered how negatively Sylar had responded in the past to Peter's attempts to empathize with him. Was this another case of that? It didn't look like it. Sylar looked lost within himself. It was very different than the times he'd snapped at Peter for trying to recognize the difficulties of Sylar's life.

XXX

"Don't talk like…those people, if you…go looking. I can't explain," he didn't know why he said that part because if Peter saw the memory, then the explanation would be pointless. Perhaps he was making an effort at being polite, while he could. "They said things that…Well, you said you…chose not to look," Sylar finished weakly, angry at himself for that and a lot of things, upsetting Peter to tears was one of the unintentional ones.

XXX

Peter waited, cart not moving as he worked through that. _Don't talk like … the people you've lost, the ones you cared about? Wait, why would I?_ He looked puzzled for a moment, before his eyes widened and face cleared in realization. _Oh! Because he's saying I'd be having a memory flashback like he does with Nathan._ "Um, I don't know if it works that way for me – the memories, that is. In the dreams I've had, it was from your point of view, no one else's. If anything, I think I'd be talking like you, like the way you do with Nathan." Peter fell silent and looked down, thinking about losing himself and turning into some twisted reflection of Sylar. He shifted slightly, voice quieting to nearly a whisper, "I think it might be a really good idea for me not to go looking too much at your memories, if … you know … I want to stay _me_." He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder, "And I do, so … you're probably safe."

XXX

Peter sounded repulsed and frightened of the possibility of becoming Sylar. It was sad and insulting, but he couldn't blame Peter. It wasn't like he had his powers to make the transition worth anything. It was both better and worse that Peter only saw the memories from Sylar's perspective – there were no voices but the nurse also got to see and possibly feel whatever Sylar had felt at the time. Lips pursed, he nodded, nothing to say to any of that.

XXX

"Do you want to talk about any of it though?" He was deliberately vague about what Sylar might want to talk about – Peter wanted to know everything, but he had a right to none of it. He restarted the cart trying to get them on their way again, waiting to see what Sylar would tell him.

XXX

Sylar was caught off-balance by that. He'd never had anyone around let alone the opportunity to divulge any grief and guilt. There wasn't time to break down; it just wasn't safe. The offer was unexpected. Peter had just been upset, Sylar had just screwed up and instead of…trying to do what Peter needed and wanted, fixing, explaining the mistake, he was being asked to talk about his loss. For a moment, he simply stared at Peter until the other man began to move again. Sylar followed instinctively as he actually thought about the question and the process involved. He didn't know where to start. _I must not understand him. It's rhetorical or something. _"What would I have to say? I didn't 'misplace' them; I'm responsible, right? That's how it works. They died; it was a long time ago." Sylar shrugged it all away, reassuring himself he hadn't said too much and that he'd deflected properly.

XXX

Peter clued immediately to the 'I'm responsible' and he gave Sylar a longish look, contemplative rather than incisive. He was trying to decide if Sylar automatically thought Peter would blame him even when he hadn't done anything wrong, or if Sylar had actually done something wrong – it was a tough question. Peter's earlier speculation that Sylar had turned his ability first on one of his relations came to mind (which meant only his mother, unless there was someone else Sylar had stubbornly not mentioned). The prohibition against asking about Sylar's mother was another factor. But Sylar hadn't ruled this off-limits yet and maybe it was just that he didn't know how to relate something that had mattered deeply to him. "Tell me what happened," was what Peter said.

XXX

Since Peter wouldn't leave it alone, he had to answer. Heaving a sigh, he spoke, voice tense, "Words betray the soul and people become their actions. Some people are monsters and...They do bad and horrible things. That's what happened to them. All of them. They were murdered. That probably doesn't surprise you and I guess it's only fair."

XXX

_That sounds like a riddle,_ Peter thought. _Or a poem. Is he quoting something to me __with part of that__?__ It's not one I've heard before, if he is, but he's read a lot. 'People become their actions' – that's like him saying it was my actions that counted, not intentions or anything I had to say. _"Hm." _It might not be his mother he's talking about. I asked for loved ones, right? Or was it 'close to you'? I think that was it. Could be friends. He's said he didn't have friends, though. There was Chandra. 'All of them', multiple. Maybe people killed by the Company? Or him. _Peter exhaled heavily and twisted his hands restlessly on the handle of the shopping cart. The plastic was okay, but the metal portion was getting uncomfortably cold in the chill air.

"I'm sorry." _Even if he killed them?_ "No matter what happened, they mattered to you." He gave Sylar another look that was longer than a glance. _Maybe if he'd had some people close to him who had helped, whom he wouldn't call 'monsters', then things would have turned out better._

Offering a different topic, Peter said, "Let's talk about what we're going to eat for lunch. Out of all this stuff we just bought, what do you want to have first?"

XXX

Sylar forced himself to sigh and move on from the depressing subject. "I don't know. Do you know how to make pancakes?" He left out a word 'do you _even_ know how,' pleased about that and his tone. _Or am I supposed to make the food now? I thought he said something about me cooking but I don't think I've ever prepared anything for him. He…didn't want to eat with me or something. _"Oh. Never mind." Sylar shook his head. Peter could neither stir the batter nor flip the pancakes with his broken hand. "My…head still hurts but I can try to cook something." _Am I supposed to offer that? It's not like you got a lot for me to work with. _There was no meat or even broth to make a stew of all the damn veggies Peter had gathered; it seemed like a bunch of glorified (healthy) snack food. He was a good cook but not a miracle worker, especially when he let an incompetent bachelor do the shopping without forewarning that he, Sylar, was going to be doing the cooking.

XXX

_Yeah, I just made pancakes a few days ago … _Peter shrugged though when Sylar said 'never mind', assuming he'd remembered that and the headache/concussion was interfering with his memory. Instead, Peter gave a cheerful, "Okay," and wondered what Sylar would come up with.

XXX

It was Sylar's idea to bring the whole cart up with them. He'd done that before with books and his own apartment. Once it was parked in the hallway, they carried the items inside to the kitchen. Whatever Peter placed on the counter, Sylar would arrange more or less in a loose category by type. He began a slow process of eliminating what was truly useless for any cooked dinner meal by putting it away. There wasn't much there and that had left him staring at the options, wracking his already tired brain to dream up some dinner, anything besides plain biscuits and pancakes.

XXX

He noticed Sylar had stopped, but Peter went ahead with trying to put away a couple tubes of biscuits from the diminished stacks of groceries.

XXX

"Hey," Sylar said, a little snappily, when he saw Peter messing up the arrangement. It got the other man's attention soon enough, with a questioning look so he obviously had to explain the obvious. "Leave it out. This isn't what I usually get to cook with. If you'd wanted me to _cook_, you should have gotten ingredients I can cook."

XXX

Peter looked at the food uncertainly. It was the same sort of food he'd usually get for himself, except he generally didn't buy so much fresh food at once, because otherwise he ended up tossing most of it in the trash. Also, if Sylar didn't like the food, then he should have done something about it. Peter frowned, trying to remember how long ago it had been when they'd had the discussion about Sylar taking over cooking. _But if he can't remember that I made pancakes a little while ago, then he's not going to remember that conversation, either. _"You don't have to do it," he said, but his voice was disappointed anyway. "I can put something together."

XXX

Every second seemed to irritate him. Peter was just too clueless. Maybe he'd intentionally gotten insufficient ingredients for…some reason, just to watch Sylar struggle with it. None too kindly, he sassed, "Well, then what are you planning to make, Chef Boiardi?"

XXX

Peter squared off from Sylar, head drawing back at what he saw as an unwarranted challenge. Had he not been feeding this guy for weeks now? "Yoghurt, fruit, and some raisin bread would make a nice lunch. Or hummus ..." _Chips? Do I have chips? Some pita chips would be perfect._ He seemed to have overlooked getting chips. _Whatever. There's probably some around here somewhere. Would toast work?_ "... and some of the vegetables. Or cheese toast. Cheese toast is good." _Would cheese toast and hummus work? Hey, that sounds good. I ought to try that._

XXX

"Exactly. Rabbit food. That's why I'm trying to cook. Now will you shut up if you have no useful suggestions and let me get back to it?" He didn't really wait for an answer; instead snatching the biscuits to replace them on the counter and turning away back to his contemplations, ignoring the other's presence. _Go away! _he spared the time to think.

XXX

Peter snorted. But since he was really looking forward to not having to do it himself, he put his hands up in surrender and vacated the kitchen. "Let me know if you want any help," he said, knowing the moment the words left his mouth that it virtually guaranteed Sylar wouldn't ask. He thought about it and made a mental shrug. As long as Sylar didn't catch the place on fire or hurt himself, it didn't matter. He certainly wasn't going to stay in the kitchen with an irate Sylar and risk some repeat of the boiling eggs incident. Peter got his sketchpad, moved it from the night stand to the living area (where he had an indirect line of sight to the kitchen), and settled in.

XXX

It took him much longer than he would have liked to make a plan and to complete it. Thank God Peter wasn't hovering or talking and otherwise wasting time. Steaming carrots and broccoli (those damned fresh vegetables with no correlating main dish), mixing and making pancakes went smoothly, if slowly, by himself. When he was done, he raised his voice a little, "It's ready. Get your plate." There was maple syrup around here somewhere but in the process of getting out serving utensils he forgot about it.

XXX

Peter put his stuff aside and hurried to set the table, leaving Sylar to manage getting the food on the table. He craned his neck to look at the meal as Sylar carried things by, perplexed by the dishes. He was still perplexed when he sat down, turning from the stack of pancakes to the steamed vegetables. _Um … what am I supposed to do with this? Is this how Sylar feels about my meals? Huh. _He gamely forked over a couple pancakes, noticing they were … well, cooked properly, not burned, and so on. That was a good sign. _Maybe I can treat it like a crepe? _Peter put a thin layer of carrots and broccoli down the middle and rolled the pancake around them like it was a cannoli. He picked it up, caught the look on Sylar's face, and took a bite anyway.

XXX

_Um…_Sylar frowned and stared rudely, waiting for Peter to…quit whatever the hell he was doing and eat like a normal person. _Maybe that's asking too much of him. It's pancakes and vegetables. If it's gross, it's his own fault – I didn't make them to be eaten together like that._

XXX

"Mm!" Peter said, surprised the taste was okay. It would be better with some herbed butter, or even just butter period since he wasn't sure how 'herbed butter' was made (he only knew he'd had it in restaurants and it needed something savory to offset the vegetables). He fetched some after taking another bite, unrolling his pancake to add plain butter (the only kind they had), then finishing it off. "I bet this would be pretty good with just carrots and some of that maple syrup." His second (and then third) pancake featured that combination, which wasn't the sort of thing he'd go out of his way to eat, but it was definitely edible and ... interesting. He liked interesting.

"You should make sure you take your pills." Peter thought about the day so far, from Sylar's perspective – there was whatever he'd done while Peter was working out and cleaning up, the trip to the store, getting assaulted, coming back, handling cooking all by himself … _He was pretty grouchy earlier. Does that mean he's worn out? Or was he just grouchy? He was forgetting things, too. Well … it's not like I'm in a hurry to get back out in the cold. _"The hot meal was good. Thank you." It weighed pleasantly in Peter's stomach. "I was thinking maybe we could put off the rest of the stuff until tomorrow, and stay in and get some rest. What do you think?"

XXX

_Oh yeah._ Sylar felt dense as he didn't notice or remember the bottle on the table with them, taking his dose anyway. Again, he looked at Peter funny. _You told me to cook, so I did._ It wasn't that strange because he knew it was a social custom but those things didn't usually apply to him. Sylar lifted his chin once in a sort of nod, going back to his own dinner – eating pancakes with fork and syrup as God intended. The medic had continued to eat in his own weird way, seemingly happy about it, too. "I don't mind if you want to rest." It would be a relief not to have to do more, though the hot meal did help, the effort to make it didn't. _I must still be fucked up. I wonder if he can tell that? What happens if he makes me push too far? I'll ask him later._ It was still light out but digestion made his eyelids heavy. Sylar anticipated sleeping with Peter and dreaded it – the slightest wrong thing could be disastrous.


	86. Brain Injury Medicine

Day 33, January 11, Afternoon

Sylar finished his food some time after Peter and began to clean up. The kitchen wasn't a bomb zone but it wasn't particularly tidy either; he was a little embarrassed about that. Peter pitched in and was doing the dishes when Sylar finally blurted, "What's the worst thing that can happen to- with a concussion?"

XXX

Peter glanced over, raising a brow and trying to get a grip on what Sylar was after with that question, at this point in time, with that degree of worry on his face. "What do you mean?"

XXX

"How do they die? Like a headache or bumping their head on something?"

XXX

_'They.' Okay, I guess I can pretend we're talking hypothetically. And we might be – I'm not sure what he's looking for._ "People don't die from concussions very often. Usually, it's whatever gave them the concussion – like a motor vehicle accident or a fall," _or a fistfight with the brother of the guy you murdered_, "that kills them. There can be bleeding in the brain or enough swelling to cause death, but the time period for that is minutes to hours from time of injury. If you make it past a day, you're fine. Or at least, not in danger of dying from that. I picked up a book about it while I was at the hospital, but I really haven't had a chance to read it much. I ought to go get it before we get settled in." Peter leaned against the counter. He started on drying some of the cleaned dishes, not that they really needed it, but he welcomed the opportunity to talk about something fairly neutral. "But back to your question, once a person makes it past the first twenty-four hours, the only treatment is time and rest." His brow furrowed. It seemed like it had been quite a while since the fight – weeks at least. All of the bruises had faded and Peter's broken hand was even feeling better. But Sylar's toes were still a problem, his headache was constant, he still had memory problems and even a half-day of light exertion was too much for him. And sleep disturbances – weren't those a symptom, too? _Why does he still have these problems? Why isn't he healing?_

XXX

"Concussions aren't...permanent, are they?"

XXX

"They aren't supposed to be," Peter blurted, before recovering some of his mislaid bedside manner. "I mean no – no, they aren't. You're improving, but I should do another of those exams on you." But was he really improving? Peter was now consumed with doubts. _Sylar shouldn't be needing to sleep all the time. Or am I over-focusing on yesterday and today when that's just a blip caused by him not getting any or enough sleep for a long time – like three or four days? And he wasn't eating right then either, or taking his painkillers, and it's not like he's in a low stress, relaxing environment, ever._

XXX

"Oh. I wasn't talking about me. I was just curious." Sylar ended the conversation by wandering into the guest room and finding a pair of pajamas, or clothes that would fit the purpose. In the bathroom he took out his new toothbrush and toothpaste. That done, he started in on the pajamas.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar go. The suspicious expression on Peter's face didn't have anything to do with Sylar's motives – he didn't doubt those. But he was beginning to think he had to be overlooking something from a medical standpoint. For what wasn't the first time, he fretted that he wasn't a doctor, didn't have that level of training, and didn't have the answers he wanted. But maybe he knew where to find them. "I'm going to go down and get that book. I'll be right back," Peter called out, going to the door.

XXX

"Wait, what?!" Sylar left the room for a few moments and Peter was slipping out? For how long? His shirt was half unbuttoned, that was as far as he'd gotten when he emerged quickly from the bathroom. _Oh, God. Is this going to be another trek across town for a stupid book? I shouldn't have asked._ "Wait, I'll come with you." Fortunately his shoes were still on and all he had to do was locate his coat. They left together because Peter didn't protest, but he did take the cart down. The book was in the Pegasus rec room along with a stack of other Peter books. Sylar tried to glance at the titles without being obvious but they looked like big medical journals or something equally boring (unless they were about brains or other of Sylar's various psychological disorders, in which case it would be interesting if Peter was reading up about that). That was all – he returned with the empath to the suite and he was able to finish getting into the pajamas and slide into bed like it was familiar (and more comfortable with the pajamas instead of jeans). Once again, he rolled over to be able to breathe Peter in, closer than he'd been before because it was comforting.

XXX

Peter settled in on top of the main set of covers, the extra one he'd used the night before loosely bunched around his sock-clad feet. He'd restored his mound of pillows, as he was planning on reading. He was also planning on giving Sylar another MMSE, but thought letting him get some rest first would be better than springing it on him right away. Peter read. At first he felt Sylar's eyes on him, but at some point when Peter glanced over, he saw Sylar's lids had closed. He sighed and watched for a few minutes, admiring. Sylar looked so much younger and vulnerable when asleep – everyone did, but few of them roused the fear and defensiveness in Peter that Sylar did while he was awake, alert, and threatening. Peter shook his head a little at how Sylar could be threatening even when he was miserable, concussed, and in pain. Looking at him now in repose, Peter could shed some of the preconceptions. Sylar did not look as haggard as he had the day before. Was it possible he hadn't slept at all in Peter's absence? At least not in any meaningful way? Peter frowned and went back to his book. From what he was reading, that was entirely, and disappointingly, possible.

XXX

Sylar woke up and knew Peter was gone before his eyes opened. There was light coming from the kitchen, the refrigerator to be exact. It was…absurdly domestic. _This is the part where I say, 'come back to bed,'_ Sylar thought hazily, without rancor. He watched as the other man returned with a bowl, presumably filled with food and…a small knife across it. Sylar woke up a little more, eyeing it suspiciously for a moment but Peter's unconcerned approach sold it. He rolled over with a pleased noise all the same, stretching some. _I should have left that clock here, the one he gave me._

XXX

Peter set the bowl between them and picked up the book as his rump took its place on the bed. The knife slid off the bowl with the motion. "I thought about those questions you were asking earlier about head injuries. It's hard to address concussions definitively because they're all unique. It's not like a broken bone that tends to have the same mechanics." He hesitated, thinking about Sylar's rephrasing of how they could rest if that was what _Peter_ wanted to do for the afternoon, and how Sylar wasn't asking about concussions for _himself_ – he was just curious in general. "Most symptoms resolve in less than two weeks – dizziness, headaches, mental fatigue, sensitivity – the rule is ten days to two weeks and the patient can resume normal activities, like a full course load in school or return to work."

"But," Peter shrugged, "like I said, every case is different. Predicting what happens can get especially dicey if you- if the patient has multiple concussions, like they have one and then a few days later take another blow to head that's even worse." He remembered Sylar throwing up after their first fight, the one in the male child's bedroom that had been stopped by Peter breaking his hand and Sylar brandishing the baseball bat at him. He'd been concussed then – Sylar had, definitely. Then Peter had head-butted him only a few days later, not to mention whatever punches he might have landed. "When that happens, symptoms don't always resolve in two weeks and sometimes new ones crop up, like mood changes or sleep disturbances." That one, in particular, had jumped out at Peter. "Some people sleep a lot; some hardly at all;" _and the kicker is,_ "others get very specific and can only sleep under certain circumstances." _Like while Peter Petrelli is in the room with you._ It wasn't unheard of for it to be _that_ specific – to people, locations, or conditions. Anxiety and irritability were common as well – more extreme mood swings weren't unusual either. "It's called post-concussion syndrome. The good news is people don't die from it. It just takes a little longer to heal." He ate one of the grapes, then nudged the bowl. "The apple's for you; the knife's in case you wanted to peel it or cut it up. I don't know how you prefer to eat apples."

Peter watched Sylar for a few moments to find out how he ate the fruit, then asked, "How are you feeling today?"

XXX

Sylar listened, attentive and quiet. It felt weird, too, having specific medical care like this, having his questions about his symptoms answered as clearly as Peter – the sometime enemy – was able. _He…thinks that's a symptom?_ Sylar wondered immediately about his odd sleep habits. _Is it a symptom? _It sounded like Peter wasn't laying blame on him or thinking he was a freak; instead it was just a medical happenstance, an unremarkable one at that. That hardly ever happened, having his behavior attributed to a legitimate (and apparently acceptable) reason. He frowned thoughtfully, considering how nice a feeling that was until Peter's off-topic comments caught his attention. "What?" _Why can't I eat an apple like a regular person, why would he….? The knife is for me?_ Peter obviously felt safe to give Sylar even a tiny blade, or it was a test, either way, it would amount to the same thing. "Oh. Um…Thank you." _Now am I supposed to use the knife because he brought it?_ The other man was watching and waiting, so Sylar quickly snatched it up and sunk his teeth in, staring back. It was a much more satisfying mouthful to hear the skin of the apple pop and the flesh tear. As a child, he used to think the opposite – cutting, peeling and little, juicy mouthfuls - were more fun. "I'm fine. The food, the….pills help." _And the rest helps, too; knowing you're around but I'll never tell you that._

XXX

"You know, there are stronger painkillers out there, for migraines. They tend to come with side effects like nausea, though. But if you'd like to give them a try, tell me and I'll go get some. We can treat the nausea symptomatically with Zofran." That would involve another trip to the hospital since he hadn't found a pharmacy yet, but he would welcome the opportunity to get out and do something constructive. Peter didn't want to be Sylar's emotional support or medical aide, but he felt he had to be. No one else was here and Sylar needed him, genuinely. Peter liked to be needed, wanted it, craved it – but to have it coming from Sylar was hard to handle. He knew, though, that it was something he _had_ to handle.

"Would you let me go through an MMSE with you again? I think the last time I did one was more than a week ago." The test would give him a better sense of how oriented Sylar was and how irritable. If he was too cranky to go through it at all, that told Peter something by itself.

XXX

"I just wish they'd last longer, but they do alright." Sylar wasn't sold on more meds. If they cleared his head so he could think better, he would be interested. "You wake me up just for that?" Sylar chuckled briefly. He was still tired, of course, but the sleepiness was fading slowly and he remained…comfortable where he was.

XXX

"No, I woke you up because I wanted a snack." Peter tossed a grape at his mouth, missing, but managing to catch it before it fell to the bedspread. He laughed at himself and placed it in his mouth to make sure it made it the second time. He was cheered by Sylar being cooperative. Had Sylar remained asleep, he would have simply gone back to reading. "But as long as you're awake, tell me what year it is."

XXX

"It's…" Sylar paused to calculate. It was in the new year, he was quite sure. "2013."

XXX

"What season is it?" Peter twisted and reached over to retrieve the sketchpad from the night stand, along with the pencil. Not only would Sylar need it later, Peter needed it now to record the score.

XXX

"Winter. January. Spring doesn't start until…March or so."

XXX

"Okay." That took care of the follow-up about the month. "What's today's date?" That was a good question. Peter had no idea. He wondered how he'd score that. The date was regular knowledge in a world that functioned off it, where most human interactions – work, play, television programs, social events, and more – ran off an agreed upon reckoning of the date. Here, though, it didn't matter. Time was meaningless. It was whatever day he and Sylar thought it was.

XXX

"It's about two weeks…into January…"

XXX

Peter nodded. That was about as right as he suspected he could get. They'd had his birthday, then Christmas (really crappy Christmas that he'd prefer not to think about, so he didn't), New Year's Eve, and then … it had been a while. "Do you know what day of the week it is?"

XXX

"Um…." It was embarrassing not to know this. Did Peter even know the answer?

XXX

"It's okay," Peter said. "I'm not sure either. We should probably just pick one. Do you know what country you're in?"

XXX

"The United States," Sylar looked at him suspiciously. "It is, right? You think….Yeah. Yeah," he firmed his reply.

XXX

Peter gave a single nod. "What city are we in?" he asked more slowly, like this one was maybe more of a trick question, which to a large extent, Peter thought it was. _What I really ought to have done was sit down with the questions and work out some substitutions that work better here than what I memorized as a paramedic back in the real world._

XXX

"New York, New York." That came easily and surely. He watched Peter to see if Peter still thought he was in La La Land or in California or something ridiculous.

XXX

Peter slid his tongue along between teeth and upper lip, but he didn't argue about it. Sylar was consistent in reporting they were in New York and that was probably more important than anything else. "Okay. Do you remember the name of the building or what floor we're on?"

XXX

"The Pegasus suite. Peter's playground," Sylar grinned a little about that. _And I'm in his bed. _"The top floor."

XXX

Peter laughed lightly at the name. _That's cool. He thinks this is mine? Like I actually have a place here and I don't have to defend it from him? Of course, I think this is more like 'ours', but whatever. _"Yeah, that's where we are." He smiled again, noticing and responding to Sylar's warmth. Peter relaxed and sat up straighter where he was, with one leg bent in front of him and the other hanging off the side of the bed. The hanging one swung once or twice. "I'm going to tell you three words. You'll have to repeat them back to me later: apricot, pen, table. Got it?"

XXX

"Yeah. Apricot, pen, table."

XXX

"Spell 'world' backwards." Peter noticed they were moving through the questions quickly and easily. He glanced down and scribbled a note, 'date, day', on the pad. He couldn't think of any other questions Sylar had gotten wrong.

XXX

"D-L-R-O-W."

XXX

"Okay. What were the three words I asked you to remember earlier?"

XXX

"Apricot, pen, table."

XXX

"What's this?" Peter lifted his left arm, pointing at his watch. It still didn't work. He wasn't sure if he continued to wear it as a joke or as defiance against the place, or maybe just habit, but it was still useful as a prop for the test.

XXX

"Wristwatch," Sylar said with an 'are you serious?' attitude. How could he ever forget that?

XXX

Peter shrugged at Sylar's attitude. It seemed simple, but the test was designed specifically to highlight when people were having trouble with the simplest of things. He held up the pencil. "And what's this?"

XXX

The look deepened, "Pencil."

XXX

"Some of the questions are supposed to be easy," Peter said. "A lot of things get tricky when the brain isn't working right. Can you repeat to me, exactly, 'no ifs, ands, or buts'?"

XXX

"No ifs, ands, or buts." _I'd watch your butt, if I was you, Peter…_Sylar thought lecherously.

XXX

"That's one of the harder ones." Peter carefully tore out the sheet the sketch pad was open to, the one with the note he'd written on it and some badly-done drapery drawn towards the top of the page. He wrote, 'Close your eyes,' on the back of it and said, "Follow the directions I'm about to show you." He held up the page.

XXX

Sylar smirked. _I might like this game._ He closed his eyes, busily thinking a way to be naughty but Peter instructed him to open his eyes too soon.

XXX

"You can open your eyes." He closed the sketchbook, putting the removed page on top of it with the pencil and offering them to Sylar. "Now write a sentence – any sentence."

XXX

'I like forbidden fruit.' Sylar handed that back, his smirk very much alive.

XXX

Peter looked at that, blinking (_that's insulting and gross; is that about me?_), then half-smiling (_actually, that's kind of cool; apples are the forbidden fruit, aren't they? It's not about me; it's just a play on words_), then losing his smile (_wait, what if it _is_ about me and he's saying I'm the forbidden thing because I've told him to fuck off?_), then smiling more warmly as he looked up at Sylar (_either way, he's flirting with me because he thinks I'm hot_). He looked at Sylar's smirk. _Yeah, he's totally into me_. Peter's eyes lingered on Sylar's lips as he tried to ignore the part of his brain that was saying this was a very bad thing to encourage in the person you were sharing a bed with and weren't interested in actually fucking. But it was hard to hear over the sound of how awesome he thought Sylar might think he was. He took in the rest of the man. Sylar was distractingly handsome, even if a little scruffy and adorably rumpled sitting there in his pajamas. Or, Peter abruptly realized, not Sylar's pajamas but those sweats Peter had worn last time he was here. _He's wearing my clothes …_ Peter's fingers and toes flexed and released slightly as he had a funny feeling in his chest about that. He supposed the clothes were better than the too-tight, too-small stuff Sylar had worn the last time they were here and even still, the sweatpants were too short for him, riding up on his calves, but fine in the waist.

Peter cleared his throat and fidgeted with the paper, his mind shorting out on the matter of Sylar's measurements. _What am I supposed to be doing? There's more questions, right? I'm supposed to be doing something else._ "Um, yeah, you've got to copy a drawing. Hang on." Trying not to look at Sylar's sentence, Peter carefully drew two pentagons with an intersecting, four-sided area, struggling to be professional about this.

XXX

Sylar took the pencil with his left hand and copied the drawing. The trickiest part even on a flat surface was getting the lengths of each line correct. It looked better than what he remembered from the other test.

XXX

Peter took back the paper and evaluated the drawing. _Good enough._ "Are you left or right handed?" He assumed left because Sylar had just been drawing with that hand, but the next question was based on the answer, so he had to make sure.

XXX

"Left." He used his right for a fair amount of things also, which was fortunate.

XXX

"Now take this page in your right hand, fold it in half, and set it on the bed." Peter offered the page with the drawings and notes on it.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the paper in hand. To get the edges even like he wanted, he would need the assistance of another surface, preferably his left hand, but it the directions implied he had to use only his right. Aiming as well as he could, he brought his fingers to his thumb, folding the paper between them and set it on the bed. The edges were probably uneven.

XXX

Peter collected the sheet of paper, smoothing it out. "That's it. I'd say you're as mentally competent as I am." He cringed inside, remembering too late Sylar was especially sensitive to anything to do with being 'crazy'. He tried to cover by moving on. They'd been talking well; maybe he had enough conversation karma that Sylar would overlook it. "That means you've recovered from the concussion – the primary damage is healed. All that's left is to resolve the secondary symptoms through pain management and rest."

XXX

Sylar soured. _That's insulting._ He supposed that was good to know, that Peter thought Peter was mentally incompetent. He wondered if he was mentally incompetent (if that's what it meant to be on a level with Peter Petrelli). _How did I not know that until now? I'm not, though. Why does he think that? Does he think I'm retarded on a good day? _Peter's recent care came at him through a different light – caring for someone who was too stupid to do it themselves, a charity case. That very much bothered Sylar, in more ways than one.

XXX

He looked down at the sentence Sylar had written, thinking about the energy he, personally, got from defying social norms. A lot of his life choices had been driven by doing what other people thought he shouldn't. Was Sylar the same way? _Of course, I ended up in nursing and he ended up killing people. That's not fair, though. Once I had my powers, I was …_ Peter frowned in thought. _I was trying not to blow up New York. Which is kind of the same thing as killing people. It's just that I didn't and he did. Is the difference that small? Did something … tiny … happen that set me off in one direction and him in another?_

Peter swallowed and readjusted himself on the bed, setting the sketchbook back on the nightstand and getting out the unnecessarily massive tome, 'Brain Injury Medicine,' again. He didn't want to think about the morality of Sylar's life choices – Peter had seen the end result (murders) and already made his mind up about it (condemning). Anything else made him uncomfortable, but it didn't quell that curious itch inside him that he wasn't seeing the whole picture. "I think I'll do some more reading."

He flipped through on his way to finish the chapter about sleep disturbances, pausing at an earlier spot he'd marked to quote it to Sylar, "It may be that the single most important cognitive function typically disrupted by TBI (that's traumatic brain injury, like a concussion) is some aspect of memory." He looked over at Sylar. "I'm not taking your memories. But if you're feeling like things aren't right … then you're feeling like things aren't right. I'm just saying … what you're feeling is real. That's what it says here."

XXX

_But you did take my memories! If I'm so fucked up you could tell me the moon was made of cheese and you think I'd probably believe you! You don't see it as a problem!_ And what did that mean, 'what he was feeling was real'? Like it wasn't real before? Not to Peter anyway. Was it real in any sense? Sylar was so confused, he faked a weak grin in response to the look. _Um…Good? I have an excuse…right? _Badly he wanted away from this topic. He was more focused on where he was and with whom, even though that didn't make much more sense than anything else about his day. "Who was the first person you ever slept with?"

XXX

"Slept with?" Peter looked at the bed and Sylar lying on it, trying to divine which meaning he was using – sex or sleeping. The subject change was jarring, too. He looked puzzled.

XXX

"Yes."

XXX

"I don't remember." It was a bizarre question. _Does this tie into memories somehow?_ "Nathan, probably, or my mother." He remembered being told that Nathan had been inseparable from him as an infant, carrying him around, feeding him, talking to him, and rocking him to sleep.

XXX

"I know, I was there – postpartum depression and all. Someone had to change your diapers while Ma laid in bed. What I meant was the first person you slept with after fucking."

XXX

Peter gaped at Sylar for a moment as a lot of family comments suddenly clicked together and made sense. Then there was outrage, that Sylar knew things about his family he had no right to know and that Peter hadn't even known or realized, followed by frustration – there wasn't much Peter could do about it. He bristled and glared at Sylar, closing the heavy book he was reading for Sylar's benefit, leaving it on his lap. A Nathan reference, a highly personal question, an abrupt change of topic and focus, and even a dig at his mother, all at once (not to mention the word 'fucking' wasn't one of Peter's favorite ways to refer to sex when he wasn't in the middle of having it) – oh yes, Sylar was pissed about the mental competency/'crazy' slip. Peter wasn't happy to have it brought up this way as a relentless line of verbal attacks. It looked like he was going to have to pay for the transgression by entertaining Sylar's prurient interest and enduring his obnoxious comments. Without ever taking his eyes off Sylar, Peter reached out, tore a grape off the remaining bit of the bunch, and bit it in half, teeth snicking together as juice burst. He leaned back against the pillows, finally looking away, at the twilight out the window in feigned disinterest as the other half of the grape went in his mouth.

"That's a very personal question. Why do you even care?" Peter huffed and looked back at Sylar, his expression having calmed down from aggressive to very put out. He skewered him with his annoyed gaze for a moment. The second Sylar drew in breath to answer, Peter interrupted with, "Never mind. I'll answer it." He at least had the satisfaction of cutting Sylar off – and if he had to pay, then he might as well get it over with. Even though it was ten years earlier, it wasn't hard to recall.

XXX

"I-" he began his trusted reply, 'I was just curious' because it had worked in the past. Sylar tilted his head and didn't bother to finish it if Peter agreed to tell without the answer to his own question.

XXX

"You remember me telling you I had a job in college Dad got me fired from? I met the first girl I seriously dated there. Her name was Jennifer." He left off the last name. It wasn't Sylar's business. Not that any of this was, anyway, but if it would get Sylar off his back, then he'd tell. "She was another freshman, same as me. I fell for her, hard. And I thought her for me. For, like, a couple weeks, I thought everything was working out like in stories – soul mates and everything, the 'One'." He pulled a grape off slowly, twisting it off the stem, trying not to think about how devastated he'd been when she dumped him and how in retrospect he was certain his father had a lot to do with that. "We slept together," he said softly. "That's what you wanted to know, right?" Peter looked up at him, something dead in his eyes. It wasn't a pleasant memory. His confusion and pain over it had driven him into a pattern of hookups and casual relationships that had lasted for years. One thing was for sure – he never brought another girl home to meet his parents, never told them he'd met someone who was special to him.

XXX

Well…that was an interesting twist. _The first girl he seriously dated. There were others before her._ Sylar frowned slightly, 'soul mates' and 'the One.' Peter had been that naïve? After that, he didn't like the look Peter was giving him. He was sure he couldn't understand the emotions involved there let alone begin to judge the effects of whatever happened. _Why did it end?_ "Was she the first girl you slept with?" In keeping with the intent of his question, he copied Peter's wording, inquiring softly.

XXX

"No." Peter breathed out slowly and leaned back against the pillows, eating another grape. As he chewed, he considered how much he didn't want to sit and stew about how things had ended with Jennifer. He might as well talk about something else – a memory that wasn't so painful, even after all these years. He pulled off the next grape and rolled it in his fingers thoughtfully, glancing over at Sylar.

Peter ate the bit of fruit. "First sex I had with a girl, she was a woman I guess, named Shelly. It was after a swim meet. She was a year before me. I was a senior in high school, so I must have been seventeen or eighteen. Looking back on it, I know why she was coming to the high school sports events – she was cruising for exactly what she got – some … kid, man, whatever, who was in shape and interested, no strings attached sex. I saw her a few times after with a different guy every time. It hurt a little, but it wasn't like we'd had anything for me to be hurt about."

He paused, thinking it over and wondering how many salacious details Sylar wanted. He didn't mind telling them about Shelly. There was little relationship there and it hadn't affected him as much as Jennifer. He supposed it didn't matter to tell and it might keep Sylar off his back, so he went on. "It was after the meet. I was supposed to go with the guys to Ricco's for pizza. She said she'd give me a ride if I'd stay and talk to her. I was a sucker for that, especially with someone giving me the sad eyes like she was doing. I guess she had my number. As soon as they were gone, she told me what she was really after." He laughed a little and rolled his eyes. He'd been pretty naïve at the time. "We ended up doing it in the locker room on a bench, her in my lap. It was a weird position." He furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure I've ever done it that way with anyone else. Mostly, I guess, because I never had a bench handy." He shrugged. "Anyway, it was okay. Good, I guess. It was kind of hard for me to get into it with someone I hardly knew, but, you know, seventeen." He smirked.

XXX

Sylar stared at him from beginning to end. The information was…definitely interesting. The position, how it was, what it meant (or didn't) to Peter... _He said the position? He was seventeen! How could he say it was 'good, I guess?' How picky does he get to be? (He's not opposed to super casual then_, he noted with evil purpose).

XXX

Peter looked to Sylar, eyes questioning and voice low. "Can you tell me something? You don't have to – I know this is private – but … what was Elle to you?" He knew it was a quick subject change, but he felt he'd provided more than enough information to make up for Sylar getting pissy about his word choice earlier. Maybe he could get a few answers in return.

XXX

Surprise showed on Sylar's face and he knew it did before he could blank it away. "Why?" he blurted, not comprehending. From the sound of things, Peter knew the real Elle, at least, the real Elle she was most of the time, better than Sylar or sweet Gabriel ever had.

XXX

"I know she was … important to you. I just don't know in what way," Peter said respectfully. "I know her a little. I know you a little. I'd like to know what you are to each other." It was just a wordy version of saying, 'I just want to know', but Peter hoped his serious, thoughtful tone helped convey that he didn't want to know for idle curiosity – he wanted to understand if Sylar had loved, if Elle had returned it, what had happened, and most importantly, what it had meant to Sylar. The people Peter had loved had changed who he was, the experience of loving and losing had left wounds that had yet to heal. Was Sylar in that same situation?

XXX

How odd – he'd never had to talk about her, especially given how much thought he'd given her ever since they met. She was still a tangled mess in his head, dead and harmless now, but still painful for all that. In the beginning, he'd wanted to take her home to meet his mother; he'd been a sap that she'd twisted with ease. A spark of lust, jealousy, hinting and tempting and she'd made him kill again. She'd been an angel and a betrayer, a lover and a mate and a friend and an enemy who wanted to use and change him, like she couldn't or didn't want to see who he was. In the end, he killed her for the last time and he wasn't sure that excused him of anything. "I don't….She's difficult to describe. She was….a lot of things." Why was his throat so tight? Bitterly, he continued, "You'd say we're a lot alike. Whatever those words you like to use – two psychopath peas in a pod, that kind of thing." He waved it off but found he couldn't continue. There were very important differences between them but Peter didn't know and couldn't care. She called him Gabriel but wanted Sylar, the killer. Sylar wanted to transition to being a person again, with a disgustingly normal life now that he thought he'd found someone who saw how special he was. He'd fallen so damn hard for her and had never been able to tell what, if anything, he meant to her (quite possibly just another assignment for the Company) because apparently neither of them understood 'forgiveness' very well. "Probably something like that Jennifer girl to you," he got out roughly; because Peter had barely ever mentioned her to the family or to Nathan, who'd never met the girl.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar searched for words, for how to express something (love, Peter imagined) that so rarely fit neatly into spoken language. _She was a lot of things to you,_ was how he interpreted what Sylar was trying to get out, and the complexity that implied said as much as any lengthy monologue might have. If it had been simple, if there had been no deeper relationship there, then Sylar wouldn't be struggling to describe it.

"Were you with her for very long?"

XXX

"I knew her for a few years, off and on but I was only really with her a couple of days. She meant something, or she might have, but she's dead now. It doesn't matter any more. Leave it at that." He gave Peter a direct and penetrating stare for a moment until he was sure it was dropped.

XXX

The last he'd seen of her, she'd been on the floor of Level Five, recovering from emitting an electric burst that had opened all the cells. And Sylar had been trying to kill her then. Had he succeeded, even though he'd been driven off? Feeling guilty that perhaps she'd died because Peter had left her side when he'd given in to Jesse's overwhelming compulsion to flee, he finally asked, "Was it in Level Five? Please tell me, was that where she died, after the explosion that opened all the cells?"

XXX

"No," Sylar said simply. He looked at Peter, suspicious and searching. Did Peter know? He rolled over and off the bed, going into the bathroom. After using the toilet, washing his hands thoroughly, he watched himself in the mirror – all the flaws, any beauty of his exterior was undermined completely by the black perversion of his soul. His face, and the corrupted interior, had always been this way and neither were changeable now.

XXX

Peter nodded and went back to sitting quietly, hands tracing the edges of the hefty book still on his lap. When Sylar returned, Peter felt a pang at realizing for the first time, the man was facing away from him rather than towards. He shifted the book to the side and leaned across, putting his left hand on Sylar's shoulder. "Hey," he said softly. "Losing Jennifer … changed me. I didn't deal with it well. I want you to know you're not alone. Not in any of this."


	87. Special Connections

Day 33, January 11, Late afternoon

"How am I not?" Sylar said over his shoulder, going still at the contact. _There is no 'we'. _"What are you going to do, Peter?" He turned over enough to make eye contact or close to it. "I deal with it. I don't have any other choice. She didn't…change me, not any more than I already was." After a few seconds pause, he continued, the words falling out more than he intended himself to speak. "She didn't make me a killer, she…led me to kill my…second special. I…" he couldn't finish. _(I didn't want to, but I did, and I did do it. I didn't have to, but I wanted to)._ Peter wouldn't believe that, no one would. Sylar didn't know if he believed it but the fact of the matter was that he hadn't orchestrated the circumstances that led to Trevor's death. He'd been played, with intent. "She said I should be around people like me. The Company wanted to see if I could transfer abilities and take them to use for myself and that involved killing someone." _That was after Chandra saw something in me, briefly, and after she told me I was special._ "My apartment was a mess after that," he mused, rueful tone partially hiding his upset about his home being defiled and abandoned as a result.

XXX

Peter listened, metaphorical ears standing at attention as he absorbed what Sylar had to say. He didn't know what to do about his hand as Sylar spoke – pull it away and appear unsupportive, or stay leaning over tensely and seem … weird with the continuing contact. When Sylar finished, Peter said softly, "That sounds like Elle, all right." He patted Sylar's shoulder and withdrew. Thinking they were sharing, he swallowed and offered in return, "She told me she'd never been on a date, never been on a roller coaster, never been swimming. She said she'd grown up at the Company, after she'd burned down … her house? Maybe her grandmother's house." Peter tried to remember the specifics. "That would have been right after Kirby Plaza, when they locked me up, when she told me that." In the light of how limited her life had been and how frustrated she'd been by that, Peter was glad she'd been laid. From what he'd seen of Sylar's memory, as sex went, it was wonderful.

XXX

"She-?" Sylar began in surprise before the timeline was mentioned. _She didn't think it was a date. How could she? Someone was killed and she had to leave or be killed herself, hardly a great time. It's not a date. (It was me, and her__; __how could it have ever been a date?)_ Peter ignored the slip about being led to kill someone. It was just as well. At the same time, he wondered what Elle had been like with Peter, in her natural habitat. "Well…good night," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

XXX

Peter let Sylar sleep through the light dinner he had later. It was probably for the best, being 'rabbit food' anyway. He felt very wound up about having been cooped up all afternoon and now all evening, but he didn't leave the apartment. He made a mental note to get some beer, or something to calm himself down. He had a glass of warm milk instead, but sleep was still difficult to achieve.

Day 34, January 12th, Morning

Peter was up early and raring to go. He vented some of his energy on making breakfast, doing a fine dice on swiss cheese and mushrooms, then folding them into scrambled eggs, served with toasted raisin bread and orange juice and coffee. He might be clueless about lunch and dinner, but breakfast was something Peter was decent at, especially when he was feeling good. As they sat and dug in to the meal, he said, "After I work out and get cleaned up, I was going to head out to the hardware store again for some measuring tapes, then maybe to the storefront to see what the dimensions are. Assuming the weather's good. Did you want to come with me?"

XXX

_I'd like to_ come _with you, and see what your_ dimensions _are while you get_ cleaned up. Sylar was filled with arousal and self-loathing upon waking with an erection once again after sleeping with Peter. The empath was still very much the focus of Sylar's hatred for thinking to change him into Nathan at Mercy without a second thought, and even now, the man acknowledged the original wrong but not his equally damned actions to further and repeat it. The fact that Peter thought he was better than Sylar didn't help anything either. They were enemies. The empath was also the object of several fascinations; he was a sweet toy, entertainment, a challenge, forbidden fruit. His lack of control over….anything in his life angered him, that Peter was both a danger and an interest was confusing, annoying, and it only fueled his anger. Over his plate, Sylar looked up at his companion underneath his brows, "What happens if the weather's bad?" he murmured, thinking filthy indoor things. _Say something about using up all the lotion._ The idea of a slick grip on his dick sounded like heaven. If only he could get Peter pinned down…

XXX

_That's a weird look,_ he thought of the way Sylar was eying him. But he ignored it and addressed the question. "Then we'll stay in and do something else. Maybe I'll go across and get the guitar. Did you have anything in mind?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar grunted, disappointed. "I was thinking more along the lines of testing out the lotion. You're overdue for it. I'd give you a hand, Peter," he said bluntly, staring the man down.

XXX

"Jesus, Sylar!" Peter jolted, his chair actually skidding back an inch in his surprise. Sylar looked dead serious – so serious, so focused, that Peter felt turned on just from the invitation, unexpected though it was. "Uh … no. No thanks." He kept his eyes fixed on Sylar, taking quite a while to calm down from … that. _Is this just one of the dangers of dealing with him? Occasional, unsolicited solicitations? As long as he takes no for an answer, I guess it's okay. Sort of. Complimentary in a way. _Peter swallowed and scooted back to the table, trying to get back to his meal.

XXX

"Hmph," he said and took another bite of mushroom-cheesy eggs. He was almost finished with them, Peter waiting patiently but obviously ready to move around based on the subject matter. Poking at his next bite, he asked, "What do you know about connections? Is it a people thing or…do abilities get in the way of that for everyone? I'm just curious," he added to clarify, hoping the whole thing was disgustingly casual as he intended.

XXX

"What kind of connections?" Peter asked warily. _Like Craigslist missed connections?_

XXX

"With people. Like…people you know or…friendships. I guess." It sounded lame even to his own ears, but it wasn't like he knew what it meant either.

XXX

"So you're not talking about my ability and … some kind of connection with it, right? Like what I need to borrow another ability?"

XXX

"Right."

XXX

Peter relaxed. _Okay. We're going to talk about things. Things other than him lotioning me up._ He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, trying to banish the disturbing, too-attractive thought. He exhaled heavily and tried to refocus on what Sylar was asking, while simultaneously trying to make sense of why he was asking this now. _Is it just a dodge and a subject change since I turned him down? Or is he asking because it has something to do with the offer?_ "Friends don't usually offer to give me hand jobs over breakfast," Peter blurted. "Even really good friends." He picked up the remaining crust of his mostly-eaten raisin bread, twiddling it.

XXX

_We're not friends anyway. Your 'friends' don't sound like fun either. There's a first time for everything._

XXX

"If you're talking about if abilities get in the way of connecting with other people?" He watched Sylar's expression. "Yeah, I'd have to say so. Drove me and my brother apart. Me and my family. I can't … there's a lot of stuff I can't talk about with the people I work with, or … well, anyone. All of the really important things in my life lately have involved abilities and there's no one I can talk with about it. Nathan _wouldn't_." Peter's resentment shown through with the way he pronounced 'wouldn't'. "I didn't feel right calling anyone else up and trying to talk to them about it – about what was going on in my life, problems ..." He trailed off, lips pressing together as tension knotted his shoulders. _I shouldn't be telling him, either._ He looked away from the table, feeling himself losing his appetite a lot faster at this than he had at the come-on. Voice softer, he said, "It's not right to burden people like that, so I just … don't."

Peter squeezed on the crust of bread, watching it crumble under his fingers. "And yeah, that gets in the way of really being friends with anyone – real friends. Having that special connection. Is that what you're talking about?" He ate the bit of smushed bread. "I've told you a lot more than anyone else. Let me know if I need to shut up sometime."

XXX

Sylar winced. /It had been worst around the election, when it was a new discovery for Peter. Nathan had been freaking out about his own suspected abilities, knee-deep in denial and avoidance and secrecy of all sorts and along came Peter, digging it up, desperate to talk and share…Nathan had been juggling a dozen different people, remembering who knew what and who had to be kept in the dark, and Peter had to be kept quiet or everything would fall apart. The very fabric of things would unravel and still Peter kept yanking on the dangling strings without a care while Nathan was ground down from the pressures of carrying everyone on his shoulders. After all that, it still wasn't something he needed to share or advertise./

Thank God he was occupied and his mouth full…Sylar forcibly kept chewing, fairly certain that Peter was too caught up in his own voice to notice that Sylar looked ready to spit his food out to speak or vomit from the effort of keeping quiet. The rest of his thoughts were of his own, real life. _It's not right to burden people with my problems?_ It occurred to him that he'd been trying to do just that in all his attempts to connect with people. _How am I supposed to get help, then? If I can't talk, I can't….Oh._ The realization that there never was any help to be had made him feel hollow. It was all a trick. Just 'get help', code for 'submit to their tortures' because that was his only use, his only fate. He gripped his fork tightly. "No, that answers a lot," he managed stiffly, focused on his plate. _There's no help or hope for him, so I'm screwed. No connections. And no talking. _Peter had helpfully illuminated his little plot, the reason for all the personal questions. _He feels he can 'burden' me, though. Does that make it right, or wrong?_

He wasn't going ask to but his non-existent moral sense insisted. "How is it right for you to ask me questions about my 'burdens'?"

XXX

"I ask because I want to know, Sylar. Most people have other things going on in their lives that are more important to them than … than listening to someone. I don't." He shrugged. "Well, I don't usually. If the fate of the world hangs in the balance, then yeah, but normally it's just another day and the people in my life are the most important things in it. _You_ are in my life. You don't have to answer me and sometimes you don't. But I want to know where you're coming from. I want to know why you just got tense and why you're phrasing your question the way you are. I want to know _you_. That's what I do."

Peter leaned back in his chair as much as he could without tilting it. "Why do you want to know what I think about connections and friends? Does this have to do with Elle telling you that you should be around people like me – other people who have abilities? Are you … thinking we could be friends?"

XXX

_I'm important to him?__ What? How did-?_ Peter was a people-person. Perhaps he understood people and paid attention to them because it was easy for him, and, like he said, he was curious and interested in people (as strange as that sounded for its own sake). So the empath noticed his tension, was…looking at him, and was curious for no other reason than…just to know, not to use his knowledge for evil ends? Needless to say, Sylar gradually adjusted his posture and grip on the fork. "What do you mean, 'how I'm phrasing my questions'? I ask the question I want an answer to, and I got it."

XXX

Peter cocked his head, not in the mood to let Sylar off that easily. "That's not what I asked." He waited patiently to see if Sylar would go back to Peter's actual questions, rather than acting like he hadn't asked anything at all.

XXX

Sylar waited out the eye contact for a few solid moments, at first with a normal expression, then with narrowed eyes as it was obvious Peter was waiting as well, on purpose. "Fine," he snipped. "I was bored. Not really – obviously I shouldn't be and can't be around people like you." He paused to consider his companion. "And no, I don't think we can be friends. I'm a psychopath, remember? You're the hero." He was oversimplifying, of course: Peter wouldn't let go of Nathan and Peter had heartlessly raped Sylar's mind and couldn't see why that was a problem. It precluded any real connection, but working relationship, such as Sylar was familiar with, which is what they had now, was possible obviously, because no one had died yet. _Funny how he has the same problem but it's _my _ability that will always get in the way._ Just because Sylar desired a friendship (with Peter as strange as that sounded) it didn't mean his desire and willingness to work would overcome or be taken into account by the other stubborn person who had feelings that made no sense to Sylar. He tapped the tines of his fork against the plate twice in an anxious gesture, not wanting to leave his words on such a negative note but not knowing what else to say to make it better.

XXX

Peter leaned forward. He caught the hopeful tone of the part about friends, but chose to leave that one alone and focus on the other, which was an actual barrier to being friendly. "What do you think it means to be a psychopath?" He was genuinely curious, seeing an opening to something he'd wondered about for a while. Sylar was so touchy about slurs (or imagined slurs) against his mental state, yet he seemed to regard himself as crazy. He was as sane as Peter was able to judge.

XXX

Sylar shot back, "What does it matter what I think it means?"

XXX

"What about your behavior is psychopathic?" Peter said dubiously. "Killing people isn't enough. Nathan and my father both served in the military. I don't know Nathan killed anyone directly, but I'm as sure as I can be my father did. He was a lot of bad things, but a psychopath wasn't one of them. What makes you different?" There was something about that hand job comment that had Peter not giving up on this. He was trying to corner Sylar and put him on the defensive in turn. If Sylar wanted to make intimate, intrusive comments, then Peter had some questions he wanted answers to.

XXX

Now Sylar leaned in, putting his elbows on the table, mimicking Peter but with an eyebrow arched upwards. "Cutting into people's heads and touching their brains doesn't qualify?" His (and Samson's) methodology was certainly unique.

XXX

"No." Peter stared back at Sylar, certain of himself. Not all neurosurgeons were psychopaths. Though he had to admit there was something different about the people who routinely cut into other human beings – but it wasn't necessarily pathological. In some cases, it was live-saving.

XXX

"Ah," Sylar smiled with fake amusement and spread his hands out. "Then I don't know why they call me that. Something to do with my home life, my love life probably; but I always wondered how people like Bennet and your mother could kill so many and still be the 'good guys.' I assumed it had something to do with being afraid for your lives; being jealous of my understanding of the powers I gain; or it's personal; or wanting to stand in the way of progress. It's like you expect someone to take being blacklisted and exterminated with a smile."

XXX

"My mother isn't one of the good guys," Peter hissed with far more acid in his voice than he expected. He blinked at his own vehemence and looked away, thinking the moment of rage that had just flooded through him was completely misplaced. Peter's feelings about his mother were none of Sylar's business. He breathed a heavy sigh and brought his head around to regard Sylar. "People don't come in 'good' or 'bad' types," Peter said, contradicting his own knee-jerk statement about Angela. "It's more complicated than that by far. I'm not a 'hero' who can do no wrong." Peter gave a patronizing roll of his eyes. "You know that."

He made a quick, jabbing point of his finger at Sylar. "I think you're letting yourself off on everything, telling yourself you're a bad person, that you're crazy, like that somehow absolves you of responsibility." Peter leaned forward. "That's not how it works, Sylar."

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows went up and stayed there. The bit about Mama Petrelli was most interesting. "I'll have you know I wasn't the one to start calling me crazy. I thought it was your job to cash in the punishment. You don't know anything about my responsibility – I seem to recall you getting in the way of my attempts." Just as smoothly, he slid the topic sideways, where he wanted it, "If your mom and Bennet kill more people than I did and they aren't 'good guys', doesn't that make them the same as me?"

XXX

"Your attempts?" Peter frowned, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing. But he went on to the rest of what Sylar had said. "I don't care what you call them. Good or bad – they're _people_."

XXX

"So why do I get treated differently?" Sylar tilted his head seriously. "And don't say Nathan. If you can answer that, you'll have the answer to your psychopath question."

XXX

"Differently? Why do you think you're treated differently?"

XXX

"I'm different – _special_," he hissed. "People don't like me, they never have. I'm 'unfit for human contact.'"

XXX

"It isn't about _you_, Sylar. It's about what you've done, where you were, and who you were useful to. I came here to get you because I thought you were supposed to save people. It wasn't because I _liked_ you or because I _didn't_ like you. You're not treated any differently than someone else would be who had done the same things." Peter gestured widely to the side. "Of all the people for you to compare yourself to – Noah Bennet? My mom? There are people terrified of both of them. Either of them. Whatever. They are _isolated_, Sylar. Their lives are falling apart. Their relationships with their families are strained. Friends might be non-existent. You started this conversation asking if abilities got in the way of connections for everyone. Yeah, they do. You're special, but as far as abilities ruining your life goes, we're all in the same boat."

He stood, picking up his plate, silverware, and juice glass. They weren't going to eat anymore if they were talking like this, but at least it seemed to have changed tone from an argument to a discussion. He kicked himself inside for screwing up yet another of Sylar's meals, but he didn't feel too bad - the guy had eaten most of it before the verbal darts had started flying. "Who was the one who started calling you crazy?" Peter asked. He took his dishes to the sink after speaking, trying to act like this was just another heated, yet casual, conversation.

XXX

_I'm special?_ Sylar focused on that to the exclusion of all else. Then he noticed more: _I'm useful. Probably not in a good way_. After a moment, he absent-mindedly and dismissively replied: "Probably my parents when they got me." As he was turning to address the more important question, eyes bright with interest, Peter put him off balance with his continuation.

XXX

"Yeah? What were they upset about?" _'When they got me' – what does that mean? Like when he was born? Or, well, he said he didn't grow up with his biological father. Huh. _Peter didn't ask about it, but he filed the odd word choice away.

XXX

"I…" Sylar blinked and shut up immediately. _I don't want to talk about it. I thought- I know I'm not supposed to, either. He said he likes to know…probably so he can use it later; it's not like he wants to be friends. (I missed my real mom and I cried too much)._ It had come as a surprise, not necessarily a welcome one, when he'd remembered his real mother in that diner with Luke. There had been a time of heart-breaking upset but he'd lacked a reason until the memories came back and explained everything. His transition with his new family, aunt and uncle not mother and father, had been…difficult and incomplete. Sylar mumbled whilst picking at the immaculate tabletop, "I don't remember. I had….behavior…problems and I told you I don't remember things correctly."

Peter returned and began to meddle with the table, so Sylar stood up and took his dishes to the sink as well. Having taken painkillers at the beginning of the meal, Sylar was barely surprised to feel his headache rise up again along with his heart rate. Busily, he clumsily started washing the dishes, ignoring whatever Peter was doing. Halfway through, he cleared his throat and tentatively voiced his interest in something that mattered more than the bitter past, "What did you mean, I'm special?" Peter could have meant it several ways and he needed to know which it was, daring to hope it was an unexpected and worthwhile answer.

XXX

Peter had fallen silent, respectful that he'd wandered into something very personal for Sylar and not something Sylar felt comfortable sharing. The other man looked anxious, agitated maybe, by the turn of the conversation. As a result, Peter moved more slowly, lingering at the table and taking on tasks that kept him from crowding Sylar at the sink. He put jelly and butter back in the fridge. He was in the process of putting the raisin bread back in the breadbox when Sylar asked his question.

"I mean you're special. You have abilities – a lot of them. You and I both used to have that. It's … power. It's a lot of power. I think what I have now with being able to trade back and forth is better than always having the same thing, but," he leaned against the counter where he chuckled briefly and without jealousy, "it was better to have everything at once, like you do."

XXX

Naturally, _he_ wasn't special; the abilities were. _He thinks I was powerful._ Sylar liked the idea of Peter envying him. Despite some neutral or uncertain phrases, it sounded like Peter thought well of Sylar's powers…if only he had them. It was mostly complimentary and possibly respectful. _He did say fixing things was cool and important. Maybe he does see some good in my ability. He'd be the first._

XXX

Peter straightened. "I'm going to go change and work out. You going to be okay?"

XXX

"I'm fine," Sylar answered quickly, a little insulted that Peter thought he should be upset by anything that had been said. Thank God Peter didn't care enough to press it.

XXX

Peter nodded and took a step closer, reaching out slowly to telegraph as he patted Sylar a couple times on the side of the shoulder. _You're not unfit for human contact._ "Okay. I'll come up later when I'm done."

XXX

Sylar straightened at the proximity but didn't move or react to the contact. _Why does he keep doing that? I guess he and Nathan used to do that?_ Mentally he made a frustrated growl because that categorization, whatever it might be, wasn't what he wanted. _I just said I was fine!_ "I'll come with you." Apparently, unfortunately, Peter had picked up on his introspective moment, so he needed to appear like everything was normal and get the message across. That and he wasn't sure being alone with those recently surfaced thoughts was a good idea. He needed to watch his own moods; for some reason, most likely boredom, Peter was beginning to notice them, accurately, too.

XXX

Peter glanced off to the side, briefly imagining Sylar either working out or creepily watching him work out. Hadn't he been offered a hand job less than fifteen minutes ago? "Uh, yeah, that's okay. You could read or something. I'll just be in the exercise room," he said, trying to subtly steer Sylar into hanging out in the rec room where he wouldn't cause any problems. He waited for Sylar to finish with the dishes and dry his hands before making for the door.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at the dishes. _I don't need your permission._ He noticed he was being put in the adult equivalent of a 'play room' so Peter wouldn't be too disturbed by his presence. Peter actively dissuaded him from working out, at least on Peter's turf. _Fine. I didn't want to anyway._ When Peter moved for the door, Sylar hesitated, trying to check himself for anything out of place or missing. Shoes and jacket, as usual. A visual sweep of the apartment supplied only his jacket on the bed – the bed they'd shared, no less. He found his shoes on the other side of it and put everything on, assuming that Peter waited for him, but if not, he would find his own way.

XXX

Peter put his shoes on, not bothering to tighten the laces too much. He'd be taking them off soon enough anyway. He glanced over Sylar, who was still in Peter's sweat pants and a t-shirt that was too small for him. Peter ducked his head to hide a smile. _I don't know, maybe I shouldn't do anything about the clothes. At least for him_. For himself, Peter felt he had some important needs. He was still in yesterday's jeans, for example, as he was sleeping clothed while sharing a bed. The night before had gone remarkably unremarkable as far as Peter could tell. Sylar hadn't mentioned anything, at least. _He would have mentioned it, right, if I did anything?_ He worried quietly over that.

XXX

Sylar took his baseball book and joined Peter. Through the hall, elevator and lobby they went until it came time to separate. Sylar moved into the rec room and settled into the couch, alone with his and Peter's books. _I'll see him if he tries to leave. I think. If I'm awake, I'll hear it. Wait, are we meeting up afterwards or…? He said he'd feed me, so he'll come back at some point._

XXX

Peter prowled the exercise room uneasily for a few minutes, letting himself experience the nervousness he felt over Sylar being in the other room. He thought it was a dumb thing to be nervous about, but it only subsided when he decided he wasn't going to be interrupted. That's when he stood a little straighter and relaxed, realizing what his anxiety was about – he didn't want Sylar coming in on him while he was tired, off-center, and focused elsewhere. He wandered over to the door and checked it, trying to be casual in case Sylar could see him through the window in it. It could be locked, but only with a key he didn't have. He figured there was one in the building office just across the hall, but Sylar might notice and ask questions and Peter didn't want to admit what he was doing. Instead, he blocked the door from opening easily with a bar bell weight, just like he had originally put a stack of soup cans in front of his apartment door.

_Yeah, and now I'm sleeping with the guy, but I'm still not comfortable letting my guard down around him. _Peter shook his head and retreated to the corner of the room, where he couldn't be seen through the window in the door, and changed clothes. He had a pair of shorts here and a white t-shirt. He left his other clothes with his shoes. Going barefoot was only unsanitary if he was sharing the space with others. Apparently that was not going to be the case. That settled, Peter finally got on with his workout, managing to get through it undisturbed.

He finished most of an hour later, as well as he could tell. Peter felt much better – calmer, more centered, his mind less cluttered with fears and concerns and what-ifs. Having swapped back to jeans, shoes, and his previous day's shirt, he stowed the door-blocking bar bell and ambled over to the entrance to the rec room. "Hey. I'm going across the street to clean up in my apartment. I'll drop back by." He scanned over Sylar's clothes. "If you're going to go with me later to the hardware store, then you should go down to your apartment and change." With that, he headed off without waiting for Sylar's reaction to the suggestion/order.

XXX

Since inviting himself along for the work out had gone so well, Sylar decided to try it again and sate a curiosity of his: "I'll just clean up at your place," he intoned casually.

XXX

Peter said firmly, "No. You've got your own apartment," and gestured down the street in the direction of Sylar's place. He continued towards his own without a glance in Sylar's direction, because this was not open for debate.

XXX

_Smarter than he looks. And he looks…refreshed for someone so sweaty. I'll have to watch next time._ Sylar was amused, for now, at being rejected. _It's really not fair. Maybe he knows more than I think he does. I still have his shirt…Does he think I'm some kind of kleptomaniac? He definitely thinks I'm a pervert and he's not wrong,_ Sylar thought miserably, trudging back to his apartment, alone. A shower, shave, oral hygiene, fresh jeans and a fitting shirt helped his mood and his ego. He would get to Peter, under his skin, if it killed him…and it very well might come to that. For now, he knew he looked good; he'd paid attention to Peter's reactions to that sort of thing.

XXX

Peter showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, tried to jerk off and didn't get anywhere with it, and dressed in clean clothes. He considered the contents of the dresser in the apartment, wishing he had something better to sleep in than his jeans, something where he'd be comfortable, but not worried that he might do something undesired while asleep. Like most of the stuff in this particular building, it was unimaginative – long-sleeved, dark t-shirts and equally dark jeans, with black boxer briefs and matching black socks – nothing else. No sweaters or sweat shirts or long johns or ties or shorts or pajamas or any of a variety of other garments he might need. The sweat pants he'd found at the Pegasus, but now they were most likely littering the floor of Sylar's apartment – totally unreachable.

_I suppose I could always sleep naked tonight,_ he thought to himself in amusement. It was just a joke, but that didn't stop his mind from supplying him with the impression of the blanket, cool and scratchy against his skin, Sylar's warm body shifting under it, rolling to face him with a welcoming look, the smile on Peter's face as he inched the blanket down between them, biting his lip as the dim light revealed that Sylar, too, was at least shirtless. And what about lower? "Euff!" Peter shook his head. "No!" _What the fuck is wrong with me? Guh! _Well, if his privates were any indication, he'd probably be able to finish a jerk off session now. Peter slammed shut the dresser drawers and stomped out of the apartment, grouchy and irritable all over again.

XXX

Sylar was rolling from heels to the balls of his feet to keep some motion and warmth going as he waited outside Peter's building. _This is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. Next time, I'm going inside._ The sadistic consideration of waiting inside the stairwell just to give Peter jolt flitted evilly through his head.

XXX

"Come on," Peter said tersely, trying to remind himself that Sylar was not (directly) responsible for Peter feeling itchy and unsatisfied. He had that caveat on there because he figured his subconscious was loitering in the gutter solely because of Sylar's offer to help him 'try out the lotion'. Even if Sylar had dropped it, Peter was having a hard time purging his idle thoughts. Once on the road towards the hardware store, Peter had to intentionally slow himself down. He wanted to walk fast even for him. Needing to find something else to occupy his mind, he blurted out, "So, tell me what it's like being a watchmaker."

XXX

Despite Peter's short-temper, for once not directly caused by Sylar, he answered anyway, "I don't make the watches, I repair and restore timepieces." There was a difference. Unfortunately, the common term was 'watchmaker' and it seemed a blanket title.

XXX

It struck Peter as another of Sylar's dodges, but Peter wasn't in the mood to allow it. After all, letting it slide would leave Peter to his thoughts, which he didn't want. With a long look to his companion, he repeated his question with the Sylar-approved alternate wording. "What do you do as a restorer of timepieces?"

XXX

What he'd said before wasn't cutting it for Peter. Usually that much was enough to make people's eyes glaze over. "I clean and reshape them or get them working. New parts, adjustments, I tune them until they run on time." He didn't mention retooling the insides of a body, like he'd done with his Sylar.

XXX

"What kind of hours do you keep? Is it like a nine-to-five job? Is it easy, or difficult?" Peter watched Sylar with frequent, lengthy glances as they walked along.

XXX

"More like eight-to-six. Mostly it wasn't difficult."

XXX

"Did you like it? Was it engaging?" Peter felt the tense, pent-up energy of earlier dispersing as he listened. "When you were off work, was it still something you thought about?"

XXX

"Yes, I like it. It's very engaging, it's…complicated work." The hours were long but it was safe being alone. It wasn't like he had a life to rush off to, just taking care of Mom. Sylar tilted his head, catching the end of one of Peter's glances. "I thought about it a lot." It was strange, for all the trauma and stress surrounding his family, the shop and the business itself, it became a surprisingly comforting place. He knew that made him weird and it had bothered Mom no end, all his fantasizing and worrying about something only semi-important.

XXX

"Is it the sort of job where you have a steady stream of customers, or just a few spaced out through the day?"

XXX

"Spaced out, early on, lunch hour and quitting time. Whenever people remember to get their watches and clocks checked. It was a quiet neighborhood."

XXX

"When you're working on a timepiece, are you … I mean, are you really focused on what you're doing, or was it the sort of work you could go on autopilot and your mind might wander?"

XXX

"Um…both? I was good at it so I could do it on autopilot but I like the focus. If that makes sense. It doesn't get boring to me; it's peaceful." Fixing things, knowing all about them and hearing the satisfying noises, how could that not be peaceful to everyone?

XXX

"Did you have a boss who was there all the time, or coworkers? Or did you work alone?" Peter thought it was probably the latter. He was fairly sure Sylar had said something about it in their various previous conversations.

XXX

"I worked with…my dad for a few years. I took over after that, so it was just me."

XXX

"Do you think you were paid enough? Was it worth it?" Paramedics and EMTs weren't paid enough – everyone knew that, but most of them also knew it was totally worth it.

XXX

"No," Sylar chuckled or tried to. Mom was the one concerned with money, wanting the bragging rights that came with saying 'my son is an investment banker.' "It was worth it. You only need money if you're going to do something with it." _Like dating_; another one of Mom's concerns. He didn't know what else to make of himself without abandoning his mother; and he wanted…different things out of life. Money might have helped but he'd ever tried that route, except as Nathan, who already had everything and didn't need the money.

XXX

"You ever think about doing it anymore? I mean, going back to work, maybe your own shop? Would you, if you could?" Peter hadn't been blind to all the clock and watch paraphernalia in Sylar's apartment. Bereft of abilities, it was something he'd turned to in order to pass the time. That meant something.

XXX

That question finally annoyed him. "It doesn't matter here. There's no people – you won't let me fix your watch. And if there were people here, the hunger would come back and it wouldn't be an option. So, no. I don't entertain the idea. I do it for fun; that's all it ever was – a hobby," Sylar emphasized. "I have better things to do, Peter."

XXX

"Like what?" _And don't you dare say, 'you'. Though I suppose that would be complimentary – I would be one of those 'better things'._

XXX

"Like…" _trying to be special. _Gradually, with building fervor, he said, "Like getting abilities and…possibly staying alive and…giving you heroes hell as a natural order of things. Like not being a pathetic shut-in. I killed people in all those places. There is no going back." He exhaled in a huff, riled up again now. "I'd ask you about your job, but I know most of it. I know your hours are too long, you don't get paid properly and you obviously think it's worth doing /to make Dad angry/-" Sylar quickly rephrased, hoping to hide his nervousness, "I mean…to defy the family plans. So…do you, um, like your co-workers? Your supervisors?"

XXX

_Ah,_ Peter thought. _You mean if we got out. You'd …_ He felt a sinking, depressed feeling. _… still kill people. You killed people in your shop, too? I know he mentioned his apartment last night._ But then Sylar went on to Peter's work and Peter let himself be drawn into the new subject. "You know, there are reasons why I went to nursing school that don't have anything to do with my father. If I'd just wanted to hack him off, I could've become a hair stylist or maybe an artist. He didn't have any respect for those, either." He sighed. "I like my co-workers, yeah. Hesam …" Peter paused, wondering what danger he might bring to those people by describing them to Sylar. Given Sylar had already literally been Nurse Hammer, it didn't seem likely that Peter could endanger them more than they already were. Maybe knowing something about them would make them harder to kill out of hand? "Hesam Malik was my partner most recently. He's a good guy, sharp. His family's from Iran, but they came over here when he was five or six, so you really can't tell from his English."

"My supervisor is a guy everyone calls by his last name - Jackson. His first name took me forever to find out." Peter smiled. "It's 'Carnelius.'. He's a good guy. Big, black, busy, older man who really knows his stuff. He doesn't put up with much, either. If he has a flaw, it's that he's a little quick to yell at people, but otherwise, his priorities are always on getting the patients the best service we can manage. I like him."

"I precepted – that is, I had my field training – with a woman named Karen O'Neill. She's been with the service a long time and knows all the ins and outs. She's a good teacher, too. She's steady. She asked me a lot of questions about why I was doing things and she asked them when I was right and when I was wrong both. I had the feeling there was a lot she could teach me, but I ended up assigned with someone else for a while and rotated through a few different partners until I ended up with Hesam."

"It's okay … working as a paramedic. But I don't know if I'll be able to do it long term. There's got to be a way and a place where we can fit in." Peter dragged a foot along the pavement as he walked, scuffing his toe. He was thinking more about Sylar than himself with this. "It's kind of contradictory – being extraordinary, yet fitting in. Claire wanted to be normal; I always wanted to make a difference. What do you mean by giving the heroes hell as a part of the natural order?"

XXX

"I never had that 'fitting in' problem." After that he bit his lip to prevent himself from mouthing off about Claire, his would-be brat of a daughter. The next question, while redundant, was a welcome distraction. "I already told you. Someone has to make you pay for all the lives you've ruined."


	88. Not Enemies

Day 34, January 12th, Morning

"You say if there were people around that you'd still try to get abilities. But … you told me a couple years ago that just knowing there was an alternative gave you hope. Do you still have that?"

XXX

"Ha!" Sylar barked his laugh. "No," he said that like it was obvious. Because it was. When he'd said that, he thought he'd had a family who would help him, not lock him in a cell and feed him live targets. The family thing wasn't just limited to him and that made it both better and worse to know that Peter was in the same boat, that Brandy or whatever the fuck her name was with the memory touch power was just Angela's fail-safe for Nathan's death. The whole family was bullshit. "I tried nearly everything. If that's what you're angling for, you already know what you have to do." Sylar rounded on the shorter man, towering over him and poking Peter in the chest, "But until you make good on it, quit with the fucking psychobabble!"

XXX

Peter was in the midst of feeling sad for Sylar, for himself, for the whole situation – but mostly for Sylar. He was sad Sylar didn't see a way out. He was sad that maybe there wasn't a way out for Sylar. And he was a little annoyed by the defeatism in it, which blossomed into anger when Sylar got in his face so unexpectedly. "What the fuck are you talking about?!" He stiffened, breath coming faster, brows drawn together in confusion.

XXX

Sylar used three fingers to push off Peter's chest and start walking again, uncaring if the empath followed or not. "It's more useful to torture people and leave them alive to see if they're still useful. No one has managed to make death stick to me, so if you're going to do it, just fucking do it and be done with it. Eight years is kinda pushing it, Pete. And I don't need to hear how I should have 'done the right thing' and offed myself," Sylar sneered with a sort of bitter sarcasm.

XXX

Just as quickly as it had sprang up, Peter's anger was doused. He paced along in Sylar's shadow, chewing over Sylar's words and Peter's memory of telling him just that – that he should have taken matters into his own hands once he found he was killing people uncontrollably and ended things. It was still what Peter thought was right, just as he knew, also, that it wasn't useful or constructive to say. He should have never have said it – telling someone to kill themselves was … wrong. Very wrong. It left Peter feeling small and unworthy of himself. Then something Sylar had said jumped out at him. "What does 'nearly everything' mean? Why 'nearly'? What is it that might have worked that you didn't try?" Then, before Sylar could answer, Peter groused, "And don't call me 'Pete'."

XXX

"It means, Pete, that I tried everything I could think of at least once. It means that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, a concept very lost on you."

XXX

_Another 'Pete', on purpose._ Peter ground his teeth. "Are you going to answer my questions? Or are you going to keep trying to start a fight?"

XXX

"I am answering your questions." _Just not the way you want me to._ "I'm trying to stop everything but the walking, so stay focused for once," Sylar commanded, waving his arm the direction he was walking to get Peter moving again, towards the silly storefront. _Where he probably plans to start a fight after all this. It sounds like a good idea._

XXX

_He didn't call me 'Pete' again._ "Are walking and talking too compli-, yeah, okay, never mind. Maybe they are." _Stupid conversation anyway. He's stonewalling me._ Peter sealed his lips and kept them that way, digging his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders a little against the cold as he tried to mimic a turtle – head drawn in and chin tucked. He considered that he needed a full hat or at least a hood, occupying himself with thoughts about the temperature and not paying too much attention to where they were going. Sylar knew the way; he was leading.

XXX

Sylar glared at him for that, "No, it isn't." _I thought that would be obvious. I want you to shut up but not at the cost of thinking I can't walk and talk like a retard. _But Peter did drop it.

XXX

When they arrived, Peter straightened and looked at the shattered storefront. "This isn't the hardware store," he said dumbly, blinking at it. He reached up and scratched at where his shifted posture caused his cold weather headband to pull on his hair and make his scalp itch. He realized it made him look like he was scratching his head in befuddlement and decided to go with it. It was better than being angry. "At least, I don't think it's the hardware store," Peter said, aiming for comedy even though he doubted his audience would appreciate it. He didn't care – or rather, he would be amused regardless of how Sylar took it. "Now maybe if those mannequins were a little more explicit it might be the hard-_something_ store, but I never knew anyone to call their penis a 'ware'." Peter absently noted there were four display windows, not the three he'd imagined, and he'd managed to smash all of them. Then there was the spiderwebbed door to remember as well. "Speaking of which, you'd think a hard-wear store would sell armor," he said with a slightly different enunciation.

XXX

Sylar was confused who, or how, exactly hadn't been clear on their destination. Who was at fault? Peter didn't seem to be making a big deal of it though. "Ah. A condom joke," Sylar returned in kind. "I guess it depends how much _wear_ your penis gets, Peter." He gleefully placed slight emphasis on the man's name.

XXX

Peter chuckled at the comeback – not sure if it was derogatory or admiring and not willing to show his uncertainty. He walked in through one of the smashed out windows because he could and they were here at the smashed storefront instead of his intended destination. _This is what I get for letting the guy with the concussion do the driving. Maybe I can get a decent hat here?_ "Jesus, it's cold in here, too! I wouldn't have figured that on a day like today. Whoever left the windows open like that is a real dick." Peter looked back at Sylar, smirking shamelessly. "Come on. Help me look for a measuring tape – one of those flexible ones they use at clothing stores. There has to be some here somewhere."

XXX

Sylar looked up at that and grinned. It was true. (_As opposed to a fake dick_, his mind supplied unhelpfully). After that his face was confused, but he followed along, looking for…whatever a flexible measuring tape was. The only ones he knew of was the kind Virginia had used every now and again, a yellowy-orange with metal tabs on the end. _We obviously don't shop at the same kinds of stores._ /Nathan had seen them before, for various suit fittings. He even recalled hitting on the fitting assistant, getting her number and banging her./ _What are we measuring again?_

XXX

Peter glanced around the nearest checkout counter, but expected and found nothing. He quickly moved on into the store. "There has to be a fitting room in here. I bet they'll have measuring tapes near there." He craned his neck and stood on tip toes, trying to see over the many displays to spot any separate, walled off area that would indicate a changing room. Or a sign. A sign would be nice. "Hey, maybe you could find some pajamas here," he said, deciding to just be fucking merciless in revenge for the 'Pete' thing.

XXX

Sylar watched with bemusement at Peter's height issue. He wasn't actively involved in the search for several reasons, not that Peter had really noticed. "What's wrong with your pajamas?" _In case you didn't notice that I stole them or you did and you didn't say anything?_

XXX

"Aside from me not having any?" Peter shot back immediately. He continued tauntingly, "I know you're not into me or anything, so you probably haven't noticed I've been sleeping in my jeans." _To keep you out of them._

XXX

_I'm not into you, but of course I noticed and it looked…restrictive._ "I hadn't noticed," he replied smoothly. "For the guy who usually wears baggy boxers or nothing that must be really hard. The sweats I have are fine."

XXX

_The sweats you have are _mine_. Oh! That's what he means._ Peter's smile faded as he imagined Sylar wearing his pants; of him wanting to wear Peter's pants and confirming that he'd done it intentionally. Peter's face flushed and his eyes, entirely of their own volition it seemed, darted down to make a direct eye line to Sylar's crotch before he reasserted control and snapped them back to Sylar's face. He stumbled over his words, "Yeah, I notic- uh, yeah." _I just implied that only someone who was into someone else would notice their sleepwear. Crap._ "Those are fine. Little high water on you, though." Desperate to change the subject, Peter asked, "Speaking of your height, do you see a fitting room?"

XXX

_Oh, yeah. He_ finally _has dick on the brain. I have him._ Several plots hatched at that moment. Sylar smirked. "Like I said; they _are_ fine." His voice indicated that 'fine' wasn't an average acceptance, instead it (Sylar himself) was a measure of attractiveness. "I thought we were speaking about my measurements?" he inquired with false innocence and a hint of seduction. "I think it's over there," he pointed a little further up from where they were now. "The silky things are over there, too. That's always better than jeans." He smirked again as he passed Peter, wickedly adding, "I'll leave you alone with those. I forgot to bring the lotion."

XXX

Peter bristled and deliberately misinterpreted Sylar's words, letting the other man head off alone a few steps before saying, "Well, you probably won't chafe too badly. Have fun." Peter took a roundabout route towards where Sylar had indicated a possible fitting room. He didn't want to look like he was making a beeline for 'the silky things'. Those were either lingerie or gowns. And it seemed to be the same place Sylar was going at the moment – to be alone, doing something that forgetting the lotion made inconvenient. Or at least per Peter's insinuation.

He found a dressing area, a single door with a clerk's desk and an L-shaped hallway leading off from it. Peter poked his head down it to make sure of where it led. It was only the expected several stalls of fitting rooms. What he wanted was most likely at the desk. He turned back to it to find Sylar sprawled in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder against one side of the frame as he leaned diagonally across it and obstructed passage. It was a good pose for him – showing off the athletic length of his body.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and sighed. Peter understood him, evidenced by the fact he could hold a conversation about sex (sort of). But the infuriating little man refused to play along, even if it was just words for now. Sylar was left more frustrated every time. _I was talking about you playing with the women's underwear, not me-!_ Once that thought passed through his head, he indulged it with a single glance to that area of the store. _(I never thought about doing that…Has he ever-? Well, I'm not that much of a pervert. That stuff is only fun when someone else wears it)._ Idea dismissed, he followed Peter to the dressing room (for a moment Sylar thought he was headed into the intimate apparel or whatever the fuck they called it). He wasn't there to really help beyond acting as a guide and pointing out the obvious and he was still frustrated, not just sexually but on an interactive and interest level. "You don't want to try anything on? I'll wait out here. It'll be fun."

XXX

"I thought you were going to leave me with my jeans and go have fun with the silky stuff." He frowned at how Sylar was blocking the way out, but for the moment, Peter turned his attention to the contents of the desk. It held brightly numbered chits on hangers, empty hangers, stationary, several pens, a drawer littered with pins and scraps of fabric and glossy magazine pages displaying flashy outfits – but no measuring tape.

XXX

Peter wasn't…freaking out. Interesting! It was still possible. "I could always pick something out for you." That reminded him of something Peter probably wished he could take back. "But you are the crossdresser here, so maybe you already know what you like. You just…do that stuff just because or is it like a kink?" Sylar was now painfully curious. _How does that work, your junk shoved into…well, I guess I don't know what he was wearing. And who did he get laid _with_?_

XXX

"I had my reasons," Peter said evasively, "but no, that's not one of my kinks." Searching the desk had taken only a few moments. The next best place to look would be in the back, where they kept the stock. Peter had seen it as they'd pushed the carts of trash out to the dumpster. Now that he needed to leave, Sylar's position was more of an issue. When a half-step towards Sylar didn't get even a twitch of motion that might lead to getting out of his way, Peter stopped. "Let me by."

XXX

"I thought you wanted to measure me. Do you want me to try something on?" _NOT from the ladies department, thank you, this isn't Truth or Dare. _(Although being a woman to fuck Peter wasn't outside his offer, it was just outside his ability at the moment. That could be pretty hot).

XXX

Peter took another half-step, this time backwards, away from Sylar. He gave him a quick sizing up. The man might be blocking the way out, but he had no leverage the way he was leaning. Peter could probably push him down one-handedly, without resorting to much in the way of violence – no quick motions, just a simple shove to Sylar's center of mass. But that wasn't the game they were playing and for now, Peter was willing to play by the rules. So what to say? 'I already have the measure of you,' - that just sounded mean, because the implication, since Peter had expressed his disinterest, was that Sylar wasn't worthy. Peter went with the less offensive challenge, delivered complete with dubious expression, "Do you really think you measure up?"

XXX

Sylar tilted his head at the step back and checking glance. It wasn't the type of look he wanted, he could tell. "There's only one way to find out," Sylar murmured, arching an eyebrow.

XXX

"Heh," Peter grunted. "We're not going to be certain until we find a measuring tape. Now get out of my way before I make you." The issuance of the playful threat made getting Sylar out of his way part of the game. There was little about Peter's demeanor which looked inherently threatening – just the slightest shift of weight showing a general poised stillness. His hands were still down and posture otherwise unchanged.

XXX

Again, Sylar rolled his eyes, probably not for the last time today. He was beyond annoyed because Peter's deflection made sense, damn him. As he took his time making room for Peter to pass, he sassed, "It's so refreshing that you're not threatening to people recovering from head trauma. But while we look, tell me that crossdressing story." He'd gotten Peter to spill about his first time, so why not this? It would help make up for Peter's lack of participation.

XXX

Peter grunted again, even less articulately. It summed up his mixed feelings. He'd brought it up originally to quash Sylar's insults about Peter's choice of store to smash or clothing to wear. It had been effective, but apparently Sylar wanted the gory details now.

XXX

Sylar was prepared for that. "You either tell me, or I'll have to use my imagination for the reason why you would do something like that. Getting laid notwithstanding. You couldn't know you'd get laid if you dressed like that. So I want to know the real reason."

XXX

"Why do you want to know? You seem awfully determined about it."

XXX

"Help pass the time. And it's interesting."

XXX

Peter sighed like this was an imposition. He didn't mind the telling – not really – and it was innocent enough that he didn't think Sylar would use it against him. "It's not as racy as you think. It was Opposites Day, towards the end of senior year. There was a party over at ..." He stopped walking, narrowing his eyes and looking off to the side, his expression shifting as he called up a name and face he hadn't seen since high school. "Becky's. Becky … Tomlinson, I think." Peter gave himself a brief shake and continued, pushing open the double doors at the back of the store.

"Doesn't matter. That was just where the party was. I had this plan that I was going to go dressed as a girl, but you know Mom and Dad would never let me out of the house like that, no matter what." He smirked at Sylar. Like his parent's disapproval was going to stop him – ha! "So I made a deal with girl named Amanda. She was about my size. We'd hardly talked before this, but we sold it to our parents like we were dating and as soon as we were out of sight of her house, we stopped at a gas station and swapped clothes in the restroom."

Peter smiled easily, remembering clearly how awkward that had been. She'd been shy and even though he'd been with Shelly at the swim meet a few months before, undressing and sharing clothes with someone wasn't something he was used to. "She had some make-up from the theatre or her home or wherever. She shaded her face like a five o'clock shadow and helped me get my lipstick on straight. I meant to overdo it, so I was pretty painted up. The party was great," he said with feeling. "It was towards the end of the school year. We were all talking about what we were doing after high school, what teachers we'd miss the most, that sort of thing."

XXX

Sylar placed himself almost directly in front of Peter, arms crossed, expression intent on listening.

XXX

Peter hitched his hip up on a pallet of nondescript cardboard boxes, continuing the story. "I remember going over and asking her if she wanted to go home once it got late and Becky's mom started encouraging people to move on. We'd both had a few, but we weren't wasted – how wasted can you get at a chaperoned party? So I was heading for the door and Amanda literally, I mean literally, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a bedroom." Peter made an apologetic head bob. "I wasn't very big then. Of course, neither was she, but …" He shrugged. "She started taking her clothes off, so I did, too – all of them. And when she was just in her bra and panties, and I was looking at her, I remember her expression – it was sort of like 'oh!'" Peter grinned, his brows shooting up briefly in imitation of her face. "Like you see in comics when a light bulb goes off over someone's head. And she was like, 'We're just changing clothes, right?' and I was jolted because I hadn't been thinking, or at least, what I was thinking wasn't _that _and what I _had_ been thinking was pretty obvious at that point. So I answered, 'Yeah, okay, sure,' and got her clothes. She took them and seemed to think for a moment. She'd put my clothes on the bed, which was behind her, so I was waiting. Then she turned back to me and-" Peter eyed Sylar for a moment. Surely he knew what was next. Did he want the details, or was a discreet fade-to-black more what he was comfortable with?

XXX

"And?" Sylar prompted. The story wasn't finished – no one had been laid.

XXX

"She took her shirt and said she was going to help me get my make-up off. That made sense to me at the time, but later I realized that was a nice shirt she ruined. As she was dabbing at my lips, I kissed her fingers. I wasn't real smooth about it, but she stopped moving so I did it again, better." He looked at Sylar, at his eyes and then at his lips. Peter thought of those tender, affectionate kisses the man had given Elle – Elle who had meant a lot to Sylar. His kisses to Amanda were the first loving ones (rather than hungry, passionate, or anxious as he'd been with Shelly) he'd given anyone. Peter breathed out and looked down at the floor. "So, yeah, we made love on the bed. It was really sweet. It was wonderful. Or at least it was until Becky's dad figured out we were in there and started pounding on the door."

"In the rush to get dressed and get out of there, I didn't realize I left with Amanda's shirt until I was home. And you know, in a situation like that, Ma has to be _up_, right?" He laughed and colored a little. "She took one look at me ..." Peter shook his head. "We'd picked shirts that were extreme because Opposite's Day isn't as fun if you don't play it up. So I was in this rumpled, powder pink blouse with a lacy white cravat or something in the front, which was of course where the stains were. At least I was in my jeans instead of the poodle skirt I'd been in earlier. I stammered out something about how the lipstick wasn't mine. Mom cut me off and ordered me upstairs to clean up. She didn't have to tell me twice. And she never mentioned it again."

XXX

Sylar shifted once. The 'getting caught' thing was something he understood all too well. Angela would have had the uncanny knowledge of just how to embarrass Peter, or anyone for that matter. _Poodle skirt…did he shave his legs for it?_ Though Peter had been correct, the story was hardly racy. Instead it was more childish and innocent and cute. "Did she do you again when you were dressed like yourself?"

XXX

"No. The next day, she chewed me out for not having used a condom (not like I'd finished anyway, but that wasn't the point), said she didn't want to think of me that way, and," Peter winced, "she didn't want-" He shrugged unhappily. She didn't want _him_. "We weren't dating before and we weren't dating after. It was a nice night. We both had fun. She wasn't accusing me of anything, but after she'd had a chance to think about it, she ..." He shrugged again the same way. "I wondered if maybe Becky's parents called hers, but I don't know. If they called mine, no one ever told me. Anyway, high school was over in a few weeks and that was it."

XXX

_Ah. (He didn't use a condom? He wasn't…prepared. Why is that the man's job?)_ Sylar was at a loss for words because he could vividly imagine what that had felt like. "How is it 'making love' if you're not…Hmph," He cut himself off and moved on. "Girls, huh?" Sylar offered disparagingly, with that man-to-man tone he'd heard before when discussing something both of them knew they'd never grasp, abilities or no. "I think it's worst in high school." He turned away and began actively hunting for a measuring string, whatever took their minds off Peter's story.

XXX

Peter shrugged, still leaning on the boxes and not feeling motivated to search right now. "I don't think it's specific to girls," he said quietly. He tilted his head at something he wanted to talk about more than the propensity of both sexes to dump him. "How is it making love if you're not … what?"

XXX

"'In love.'" His tone was clearly less than thrilled about that.

XXX

"Oh." Peter looked down to consider his word choice. Just yesterday evening, he'd described his time with Shelly as 'having sex', if his memory served. With Jennifer it had been 'slept with her'. And now, 'making love'. "I guess I … mean different things by how I talk about it. Um …" He lifted his head to look off in the distance, thinking about how it had made him feel to be with Amanda. "At that moment, it was ... soft, gentle, so sexy, passionate, a little careful …" He shrugged. "I thought it was loving. I … felt … love." A brief frown chased across Peter's face, worried that Sylar would make fun of him for saying that, even though Peter had a history of being free with expressing his feelings for and to people. Sylar could stuff it if he didn't like it. "I call it making love … if love is what you're making."

XXX

"Oh, God, Peter…" Sylar murmured in despair, his face disgusted and slightly pitying. _I guess this Emmy girl shares this sappiness? She'd have to._

XXX

Peter crossed his arms and frowned. He wasn't going to take that attitude, especially about something so precious. Sylar was the one who had asked for the story, the details, and the explanation. He didn't get to disrespect it. "You know what I'm talking about. You've felt it. I know you have."

XXX

Without totally grasping what they were talking about, Sylar shot back quickly, "No, I haven't."

XXX

"That memory of yours I saw when I was asleep? The dream? It was from _your_ point of view, Sylar. I know what you were feeling." With emphasis, he repeated, "You know what I mean." He realized belatedly that Sylar had requested Peter pretend those had never happened, to ignore them, and he almost certainly meant the ones Peter had already seen, too. They'd had quite an argument about it, where Peter had insisted he wouldn't use them and Sylar had called him a liar (or implied it strongly).

XXX

Sylar frowned now, confused. Which dream? The way Peter was looking at him was making his heart lurch in panic. _What does he mean? My point of…_ Then his eyes widened. There had only been two memories of his that Peter had shared so far and one had been about Elle. _And he just-? I knew it. I told you so! I told him he would! (But…) You know better than that; a temptation like that, it was only a matter of time, like I said. (And he thinks I felt love?)_

XXX

Peter uncrossed his arms and looked away and up, put out with himself. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry." As desperately as he wanted to simply change the subject or walk away, he couldn't. It wasn't right, Sylar probably wouldn't stand for it, and the last time Peter had broken his word had been … well, he was having to sleep with Sylar now, which was as just about as genuine a statement of Peter's apology as he could make. Breaking his word had seemed to break something inside of Sylar, damaged some psychic part of him that wasn't going to be quick to mend. The man's identity, sanity, and by extension, memories, were sacrosanct to Sylar. Peter didn't know how to heal this new breach, but addressing his slip immediately and fully was the only thing he could think of for it. With determination, he looked at Sylar as he got out, "I shouldn't have mentioned your memories. They aren't mine to bolster my arguments. That was wrong."

XXX

Voice a dangerously low growl, Sylar replied with a glare and a sneer, "You know the next time I tell you something about abilities, maybe you should just take it as the gospel fucking truth that I know more than you and I know what I'm talking about." He approached and grabbed Peter's coat-front, shoving him aside before walking past to search elsewhere, away from the other man. He felt like punching him, strangling him into silence, ripping his fucking broken head open to stop the threat and make sense of it all…He felt like walking out but Peter would be lost _(good!)_; he felt like maybe punching a row of pallets but then he'd break his hand like stupid, stupid Peter had. Loudly, he railed in his head, _Don't ask me any more fucking questions! Just go look! You'll get everything you want and more! _(He wound up whining pathetically, _No…don't do that, I don't want you to know…I don't want you to know…) _Worse than Peter seeing the memories was knowing how he'd felt about everything. Sylar's mind was still struggling to encompass it – someone else, his enemy, was going to use his entire past against him at some point, it was inevitable. It was one of his worst fears realized at full capacity. It hurt and he was helpless and he hated every heartbeat of it.

XXX

Peter stepped backwards when Sylar approached, but his heel hit the pallet of boxes. He sidestepped, but Sylar tracked with him. He had a fraction of a second to consider running and a lot of instincts were screaming at him to do that, yet there was something in Sylar's face that stopped Peter from outright fleeing the beat-down he thought he was about to get. He stiffened, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, still teetering between fight, flight, and standing down when Sylar only grabbed him and shoved. Peter fell against the boxes, scrambling up and out of the way in case there was a more damaging follow-up. There wasn't – Sylar just walked off to the other end of the backstock area, storage, receiving dock or whatever the name was for where they were. Peter didn't know it if it had one. It took him a moment to figure out what Sylar was doing as he pawed through things angrily. He was looking for something. Peter hoped it was the measuring tape and not an implement to whack him with for being a complete idiot.

Peter moved over to the receiving area desk and spotted what he had come back here for ridiculously quickly. There they were – several fabric-based measuring tapes hanging out in the open next to some colorful aprons. Voice cautious, he said, "Oh. Um, yeah. Here they are. I-I found them." He pulled down two and waved them in Sylar's direction so the other man could see.

XXX

Sylar ceased the search and glared at him, stalking by without a word to lead the little prick to the hardware store. With his anger keeping him very warm, it wasn't as awkward a silence as he'd anticipated but hopefully Peter was feeling it – the heat, the awkward or the silence, any or all would do.

XXX

Peter followed, keeping up without drawing even or speaking as they walked through the store. He missed the teasing banter of earlier and it wasn't entirely because his current guilty feeling sucked. The way they'd talked earlier had been fun – and it was very different for him and Sylar to do anything 'fun'. They left through the front door, with Sylar continuing down the street without hesitation. Peter stopped. _Did he not want me to follow him? Is he leaving and I misunderstood? Or does he want me to follow him now, like we're going somewhere?_ Before Sylar could get too far away, Peter called out, "Do you want me to come with you?" Measuring tape in hand, he looked back and forth between the smashed windows and Sylar.

XXX

Sylar stopped immediately and turned to look back. He saw a confused Petrelli with a measuring tape – for measuring the window. _I hope all my mistakes are the concussion. I'm…a lot better at planning and thinking things through._ Missing a step transferred some of his anger towards himself, irritated in general now. He turned completely around and waved for Peter to continue, "Finish."

XXX

Peter eyed him for a few more moments. The disapproval, regardless of how justified, was starting to piss him off. With a sullen huff, he went back inside the store and rooted around the checkout counter for a pen and a pad of paper. With these, he returned, measured the width for one window, then checked the width on the next two that they were the same. Then he stood there, hands on hips, frowning as he looked at the top. How to measure the height accurately? He couldn't reach that high, though he thought he only missed it by a foot or so with his hands outstretched. Sylar, on his tip toes with hands lifted might be able to reach it, but he might not and Peter wasn't about to ask him to do anything – not with the way he was scowling and glowering. Peter walked inside, looking around for something to stand on that could support his weight and didn't have wheels on the bottom.

XXX

Sylar watched with half an eye so he noticed when Peter went inside for some reason. The last thing he'd been measuring was the width…_Ah. We're not completely hopeless then._ Sylar gauged it himself then began looking around for a measuring stick-like thing instead of a tape-like one. The broom handle was set against the cashier counter from their last visit. Sylar took it and commanded, "Peter," as he emerged from the store and began unscrewing the broom head. When the little man appeared, Sylar directed, "Measure the broom handle."

XXX

It took Peter a few seconds to figure out what Sylar meant. Then he said, "Oh!" and moved forward quickly to follow directions. He measured and wrote down the numbers. It wasn't the most accurate of dimensions, but he hoped they made these things to uniform sizes and a half inch here or there wouldn't throw things off too much. He took down the numbers for the door, too, then stood checking over to make sure he could make sense of his scribblings later. "Okay. Do you know any place that sells glass commercially?"

XXX

For a moment, Sylar stared at Peter, thinking and watching his face. He was still angry. _Why does he need me? He's…dependent on me for things, too, like directions and locations. He could learn but he…chooses to have me help him. _Another thing came to him; _I shouldn't expect more of him. He's…like the rest…for the most part. He's still a Petrelli. It's not the last time. _Peter had held out longer than Sylar expected, almost to the point where he'd forgotten about it. Being made to be helpless every few weeks wasn't as frequent as it could be – the man had apologized, not for the first time, saying it was 'wrong.' _He __apologized. Was it real? (Does it matter?) _It made him feel like a pansy (after what he'd said about apologies) that a stupid little apology – mere words - could make him feel…better, human, accepted, even if it didn't fix anything and it didn't ease the tide of helplessness that made him panic so. Being magnanimous, helping when he didn't have to, when it wasn't his transgression to correct, and the teamwork, being useful, all helped lighten his mood. _Because I didn't do anything wrong. I can't leave him, he'd get lost or do something stupid. Something even more stupid, that is. (I think we're responsible for each other). Is this what it's like to be a big brother?_ He inhaled and considered the question asked, "Uh…probably a bigger hardware store? They'd have…plywood, if nothing else." _But that involves nails…_

XXX

Peter waited as Sylar stared at him, evidently thinking something through. He doubted strongly that it had anything to do with the location of glass stores. Given it was Sylar, Peter wondered if something about the question had triggered Sylar into considering whether Peter was expendable. _Well, it probably wasn't the question. Maybe just the realization that he's going to have to keep interacting with me, memories and fuckups and all. Is he willing to put up with that? _If he wasn't, then it seemed to Peter that Sylar would be holding him to an inhuman standard. But on the other hand, Sylar seemed displeased, disappointed, and ill-served by people in general – he might not have any tolerance of normal failings, much less Peter's. Peter fidgeted under the gaze, vacillating between being pissy or patient, trying to read what small indicators of emotion Sylar was showing.

Finally, an answer came – a literal answer to his question and not the more concerning one of what Sylar was turning over in his mind. Plywood – yes. Peter sighed a little, accepting that protecting the store from the elements was probably wisest while they continued looking for better products to replace the windows. He nodded. "Do you know where one is?"

XXX

"There's a…Home Depot that way," Sylar pointed behind the store. A telekinetic-and-then-some former watchmaker had had little use for hardware so it had been a long time since he'd even been in one. Assuming Peter was finished now (there was nothing else Sylar could think to do here), he began walking at a better pace for short-limbed Peter to keep up. "Did those books tell you how to apply a window?" he asked curiously.

XXX

_Hm. Okay. He's talking. There's that. I guess he thinks I'm still decent company. He doesn't seem angry anymore. _"Yeah," Peter said, stowing the measuring tape in his pocket and moving to keep up. "The books were about residential windows. They come in a frame with flanges that have pre-drilled holes in them. You fit them to the opening, shim them even, then fasten them in and caulk to seal. I don't know if commercial windows operate the same way or not." He shook his head. "And they don't make windows of all sizes. So even if I'm trying to make some kind of … sub-frame assembly and use two or three residential windows, they have to match the dimensions exactly or close enough for the framing to take up the slack." He gestured out in front of himself, marking off squares that were stacked on top of each other, then shrugged. "Now that I have the numbers, next time we're at the store I can check against what they have there and see if there's some combination that would work." _Maybe I could make it prettier by putting one of those stained glass sections at the top?_

XXX

"Do you think we could be friends?" Sylar finally blurted as they walked, hastily trying to smooth it out with, "You asked me, but you didn't say what you thought." He wanted to know what he was working with because what he thought about things didn't seem to be the same as Peter.

XXX

_Oh._ Peter blinked at him. _**That's**_ _what he was thinking about earlier. Oh_. Now he had to think about that. He nodded so Sylar wasn't stuck in Peter's situation from before, wondering what was going on in the other's head. "No, I didn't say. That's a tough question," he said, talking it out. "We're not enemies. At least," he looked over, "I don't think of you as an enemy. Not anymore. I don't know what we are. We're friend_ly_," he said, gesturing between them. "There," Peter swallowed, "there are things I've told you, things I've … done, like the … bed, sleeping with you, that I've never done with people I didn't … didn't feel really strongly, really positively towards. There's a lot of trust in that." He turned to look Sylar direct in the eye. "I trust you." Then he looked away. "Which is kind of funny because a lot of the time I'm wondering if you're going to get fed up and kill me. I think that has to go away before I could consider you a friend."

XXX

Sylar looked at him quickly and kept looking upon hearing he wasn't viewed as an enemy, and friendly and trusted were vast improvements. It was completely novel. But Peter was right. _I do get fed up and want to kill you. Everyone gets fed up and kills me. Maybe it's just…one of those things I should get used to? It means less now because I'm- I was immortal._

XXX

Peter walked on a few paces before adding, "Then there are the other things – things you've done. How can I be friends or even friendly with someone who killed my brother?" He gave Sylar a long look that was laced with a simmering anger. Peter's nose wrinkled as he looked away. "How do I stay on good terms with any of my family?" He shook his head slowly. "I'm still trying to figure it out, Sylar." His voice thickened with emotion, thinking about his mother, how he'd cried in her arms after finding out Nathan was lost to them, how he'd taken her faintly trembling hand when she'd called him to see her on the pretext of consulting about what should go on Nathan's gravestone. He knew even less how to handle his relationship with his mother than this one with Sylar. "I don't have the answers." He sniffed and tried to brush off the emotion. "I'm just trying to take each situation as it comes up. I've always been shit for planning, anyway."

"Speaking of which, where are we headed right now?"

XXX

_Crap. Ask more questions. They get answers, at least from Peter._ "I'm-" he cut himself off from finishing with 'sorry'. "Home Depot…" he hedged, checking Peter's face and slowing his walk in case that was the wrong destination. "I thought you wanted windows." The rest of what Peter had said didn't fall on deaf ears, just…a mind that was out of its depth and no more help than Peter's currently was. He hated that it was so complicated – morally for Peter, intrinsically for Sylar, being two persons at once in a way. _I was never good with relationships or morals._ With his anger gone, his headache returned full force but it wasn't stopping him. Sylar offered gently even though it wasn't asked for and he didn't think he wanted to talk more about it, "Moms…confuse everyone; I think." _Why am I trying to comfort Peter with fucking _Angela_? She doesn't deserve his forgiveness. _All it served to do was remind him of a nightmare he'd had, one of many.


	89. You and Me Against the World

Day 34, January 12, Afternoon

Peter nodded. Home Depot was fine with him. Maybe it would have different window choices than the rather crowded 'HARDWARE' store. As for mothers, he gave Sylar a sidelong look with one brow raised in question, before grimacing slightly and leaving the topic alone. _I don't want to talk about Angela and he's put the topic of his mom off-limits. So, what else do we have to talk about?_ "Would you like to eat lunch at one of these restaurants?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar eagerly agreed to the change of pace. His stomach rumbled, too. "You just like my cooking better." Not that he considered pancake-carrot-broccoli tacos to be his best effort.

XXX

Peter laughed easily at that. "Maybe," he hedged. "I don't mind fixing breakfast, but I've _never_ had to make meals three times a day, seven days a week. Not for anyone. Not even myself!" He chuckled again. "Suddenly I'm understanding trapped housewives who beg their husbands to take them out now and then." He shook his head at the image. "Hey, you said you were from Queens, right? Did you ever go by Erawan Thai? They have this really great dish called pad mamuang with mushrooms and cashews and they do this mild curry sauce on it that's delicious." Peter stared off into the distance, remembering food much better than something served out of a can or eaten raw. Not that he minded either, but there was better out there. "Man," he sighed in yearning.

"So where do you want to eat?"

XXX

Amused, though the dish Peter described did sound delicious, Sylar replied, "Thai I guess?" Mostly he wondered if he could replicate something similar. And if that made Peter something of a wife.

XXX

Peter nodded. "How was high school for you? All those people around all the time – was that the best thing or the worst?"

XXX

"Long and vicious." Sylar admitted before he could censor himself. _They're fucking lucky I'm not into 'small game.'_ It was embarrassing because high school was his highest education, compared to…well, the rest of the Petrellis. _No better than fucking Parkman and he can't even read. (Well, I can't make connections)._ "I could see how it could be nice for a people person to be surrounded by people. It didn't pay off for me. I got good grades because I worked hard." _Really hard. Not that any of it matters now._ "Not really any sports."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter cocked his head. "Is there anyone you miss from then?"

XXX

Sylar surprised himself and actually thought through it, picturing the faces he could remember and what each had meant to him (which wasn't much). Girls he'd liked from afar, bullies, the teachers. Perhaps he didn't understand the question – why would he miss any of those people? _It's one of those Peter things._ Not even the teachers who'd interested him or been kind were really worth revisiting. "No. Not…really. I had some good teachers, even ones who liked me but I don't really 'miss' them."

XXX

"Were you expecting to be a," Peter fell into silence, trying to remember the exact phrasing Sylar had used before. There had been something to Sylar's voice that made the distinction sound important. "A restorer of timepieces?" It was quite a mouthful, like Peter insisting he be called an emergency medical technician rather than an EMT. But maybe he'd misunderstood and 'watchmaker' was fine. He knew he didn't always read Sylar right and even when he did, sometimes he didn't know what to do with the information. "Or did you have another career in mind?"

XXX

Sylar gave him a prolonged glance, giving Peter points for (intentionally?) using the actual title before he attended to the question. "Uh…I wasn't really thinking of what I wanted to be. I had…a lot of potential options, if I'd went to college. My…dad started training me when I was young so it seemed…natural, I guess? I was good at it, so why not? It was kind of expected of me, at least, _he_ expected me to restore timepieces and run the store. The whole family thing. You know."

XXX

"Yeah, they told me I was going to be an attorney. Every now and then that sounded like it might be okay, like I could join the ACLU or something to hack Dad off, but most of the time I just knew it wasn't what I wanted to be. I felt … stifled, smothered." Peter craned his head as they came to a new intersection, now well into an unfamiliar area of the city. "Wait, what's that down there, on the corner? Is that a bar, a pub, a sushi house?" He reached over and familiarly whacked Sylar's arm with the back of his left hand. "Come on. That's something. Let's go see what it is."

XXX

"Su-shi…" Sylar tried to question. Not from the common feeling of disgust about 'raw' food, instead thinking back to all the times Nathan had been to sushi houses, the most recent with Angela. Then there was the very familiar, very light backhand. It didn't bother him but like most times it didn't make a lot of sense and it was unexpected.

XXX

"Hey, did it ever occur to you this whole place is like a post-apocalyptic horror movie without the zombies? My first couple days here, I kept wondering if I'd open up a door and find … you know, find _the people,_ just that they were dead or something." Actually, he hadn't imagined undead, but simply an entire population slain by the resident serial killer. It seemed rude to mention it that way, so he didn't. He smiled at Sylar genially despite the morbidity of the topic. "It's me and you against the world, Sylar." He turned, walking backwards as he raised his fists (or at least his left fist and right hand, both swathed in gloves) and threw a mock punch at Sylar with his left. He was two arm's lengths away so this wasn't at all a serious threat. Sylar's reaction to even the pretense of contact caught Peter's attention. He'd seen it before, a lot. Dropping his fists and turning to walk in the direction they were both headed, he asked, "Why do you always freeze up when I touch you?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled. Peter's delivery of 'the people' was funny. "I thought the exact same thing when…I…first got here." For some reason he hesitated there but he couldn't phrase it any other way. He was about to say something about their abilities and zombie-fighting when Peter asked his question. "What?" The surprise in his voice and face was only slightly false. He was taken aback by Peter…not only noticing it, but addressing it. "I do not." When that sounded too defensive, Sylar amended, "And you didn't even touch me." _Why would you want to touch me? You can touch me but I can't…Is it because he thinks I want to fuck him? Why would he even notice? _No one else ever had. Sylar knew what it was: a self-preserving habit _(people don't touch me nicely, why would they?)_, though he didn't know how he was supposed to take Peter's attention and interest, such as it was: be more paranoid or less.

XXX

Peter was watching, closely, for Sylar's reaction to his question about freezing up. It was denial and the implication Peter was only talking about this one time. _So the reason is … something Sylar doesn't want to talk about. Okay._ With a mental shrug, Peter redirected his attention to the storefront they were approaching. It was something Peter was curious about, obviously, but if Sylar didn't want to talk about it, then Peter certainly didn't have any right to insist.

XXX

They entered the sushi-pub-bar (Sylar letting Peter go first to avoid more noticeable touching), Sylar looked around the dining area with half-hearted interest because the important things, like food, were out of sight in the kitchen. "What do you think about zombie-fighting if we had our powers? That would be you and me against the world." _Plus life-threatening/life-saving sex would be a lot more likely…'Shh, Peter. Keep it down – the zombies will hear you!'_

XXX

"I think if we both had all our powers, the zombies would never have a chance, and that's no fun," Peter said, looking around at what looked to him to be a classy combination of a sports bar and the set of Cheers, with a big, polished wood bar in the middle and the peripheries of the room full of small tables of varying heights with matching chairs. There were a couple deep booths in the back, but the swinging doors to the kitchen were where he headed.

Once inside, with Sylar following, Peter elaborated. "Now, we need to work out what kind of zombies we're talking about. The slow, shuffling kind really aren't very scary, but the super-fast ones are just ridiculous. So let's assume they're in between, and can do anything a normal human can if they were exerting themselves as much as possible, okay?"

Peter milled around in the food prep area, looking at the cold and empty grease vats for making fries and taking an interest in the plastic wrap covered trays of burger toppings. "Hm," he hummed, getting distracted by lettuce, tomatoes, onion rings, and a selection of pickled vegetables. It wasn't really what he wanted to eat, but it was a start.

XXX

Sylar didn't know how the food preparation was supposed to go – were they both cooking, was one fixing both meals, were they even eating the same thing? _Unlikely_, Sylar thought sullenly about the recent lack of meat; _Because sushi doesn't count_. "So…hamburger patties, turkey, chicken, pork, bacon, hot dogs and sausage…some fish, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, potatoes, slaw…All American, basically." Maybe by listing the options Peter would give a hint about who was doing what. That didn't seem to appeal to the other man, the poor vegan. Sylar rolled his eyes and listed the other rabbit items, "Mushrooms, lettuce, cheeses, soup, chili…tofu…" He added the last just to see the reaction.

XXX

"Oh, good," Peter said, coming up behind and beside Sylar to join him in looking in the freezer. "Did you say mushrooms? Some mushrooms, Swiss cheese, and maybe a hard fried egg on a burger bun would be great. What are you going to eat?"

XXX

"Yes, I said mushrooms…" Sylar swallowed and passed them over, making contact with the other man's hand/arm/shoulder as he did so but didn't confirm the reaction with any glances. Peter's diet was weird, plain and simply weird.

XXX

Peter noticed the rub up against him – and especially the deliberateness of it. Not deliberate in the 'please notice that I'm doing this intentionally', but rather in the simple, 'I'm doing this on purpose' way. Equally on purpose, Peter reached up his right hand (having come up on Sylar's left side to look in the freezer) and patted the guy's shoulder a couple times before turning away. He walked off casually, half his mind wondering what the contact meant and might lead to, and the other half occupied with the subject of his dialogue, which was, "They wouldn't keep cheese or eggs in the freezer, so … there it is." He moved over to the refrigerator unit next to the sinks.

Looking inside, he found what he needed and more. "What do you want to drink? They've got milk and a bunch of juices in here, then of course there's the bar out there."

XXX

_Goddamnit! Why does he do that?!_ Sylar stared after his companion. He perked up about the bar, remembering their last alcoholic event. _Is Peter going to drink?_ "If there's anything German, I'll try it." He fetched his own burger food, bacon and avocado among others. He wasn't sure he could eat it all but it would at least taste good and sate his craving for, well, real food. Firing up the large flat-top stove…more of a grill, he set about preparing his own sides. "Do you want any burger or bacon?" Sylar smirked a little to himself at the offer.

XXX

"No thanks," he said to the invitation to eat meat. Once done cooking his egg and putting together his sandwich, Peter set his plate on the bar and went around the side to browse the selection of beer. He picked something out in a green bottle that was light and Irish. For Sylar, he looked through bottles until settling on a dark amber bottle with a blue and white label that featured a German-sounding name. He slid onto his bar stool, handing over Sylar's drink. "So back to the zombie thing – regular-people-type zombies, and you and I only have one power each. And no, 'well, I have one power that does a bunch of different things', or 'I have one power that lets me have a bunch of other powers.' Just a single ability. Which one would you pick?" Peter shook his head, thinking of something to add. "Oh, and no time travel or whatever that negates the entire scenario. We've got to fight our way through, or kill enough of the zombies to make a place that's safe for us."

XXX

The stove heated quickly so the burger didn't take long. Assembling it, he took his seat beside Peter and listened to the parameters of their little fantasy. "You're not fun, Petrelli," Sylar mused in good humor when Peter got to the part about ability specifications. He rather liked the scenario. "What about regeneration?"

XXX

Peter thought about it. "Yeah, I suppose you could pick that. But once they pin you down and eat your brain, it's not going to do you any good. I was told if your head is removed, you're dead-dead, forever. At least that's what Adam told me. He'd had regeneration for centuries, so even if it wasn't like he'd tested it, it seemed like the sort of thing he'd know." He tried to take a bite out of his burger, only to have the mushrooms escape out the back while the egg stayed affixed to the bottom and the cheese was melted to the top. "Dammit," he muttered, pushing a few 'shrooms back between the bread and leaving the rest to be eaten after.

XXX

_So he does know of a way to kill me_... Sylar shrugged. Peter's reason made enough sense that he wouldn't push for it. He didn't point out that the whole thing was rather skewed – any pair of abilities (well chosen) against a planet-full of zombies wasn't really fair…for the zombies. Though Sylar and Peter would tire eventually there was nothing in the rules that said they couldn't hide and recoup before re-engaging. The image of depending on Peter like a brother, or brother-in-arms more likely, fighting back-to-back against a ravenous crowd was…interesting to say the least. It had its appeal, definitely. Surely that compensated for the lack of regeneration.

"I can think of a few that would work well. I'd be biased if I said telekinesis right away because it's easy to use, you know, low strain, high output, renewable. There's the nuclear power…but I'd irradiate the planet and us. Same with Samuel's power; make the planet unstable. Super strength would work if you wore enough protection not to get infected." Sylar chuckled at his own thoughts, "I knew a guy who had impenetrable skin!" Just as soon as he'd said it, he didn't mention how he'd tried and failed to get that ability since his audience had a delicate stomach for it. "I had one where I could focus and snap my fingers and turn anything or anyone into dust, literally. I never tried it on multiple targets at once but I should have. I knew a guy who make black holes but I never had that one. Maya- There's another one that's basically the Black Death and that one does work on multiple targets…I don't know how well it would work on zombies, though…" This was almost as interesting as the burger!

XXX

"What about invisibility? You could just stay away from them all the time."

XXX

"No, no. They'd smell you." _I can smell you, even over the food._

XXX

"Good point," Peter nodded. "Well, maybe phasing would be better, but I don't think a person can do that continuously. The version I had didn't seem to work that way. What I'd like would be zombie control, like telepathy that worked on undead. Or, wait! I'd like to be able to heal them – cure zombie-ism. Then every time I'd convert someone, I'd be making another freedom fighter for our side!" Peter grinned. He liked that idea a lot!

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows slanted up in amused disbelief. "Well, then it wouldn't be me and you against the world. I'm not sure that would be a permanent fix, either."

XXX

"Fine. Then I'll just recure them," Peter said stubbornly. "Look at it this way, if you got infected, I could save you, too. Wouldn't you want that?"

XXX

"Um…" Sylar replied, purposefully taking a drink and making a vague nodding motion. The whole zombie-plus-brains implications was too ironic for a decent answer. Being a mindless drone, bent on another kind of hunger might not be so bad and at least he would die on cue as a zombie.

XXX

Feeling jazzed about the ability to rescue people, Peter said, "There's always flight ..." before realizing that wasn't the best option to be discussing. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, "Super speed is pretty useful in a fight, but it has the same problem as phasing – you have to stop eventually. Impenetrable skin sounds good. I wonder what the zombies would do if they couldn't hurt you? Would they give up eventually? Or just gnaw on you all the time? I bet they'd do that. They're not smart enough to realize it wasn't working." He had a mental image of being half-buried in rotting but animate corpses, whose teeth were bared as they mechanically, savagely, relentlessly tried to tear him apart. "They'd just keep chewing and suck-" _Whoa. Somehow that turned into something very different. If you couldn't be hurt, but you could still feel things … um, yuck._ "Yeah. I'm sure it'd be gross." It was time to stick his sandwich in his mouth some more before it sounded like he was a fan of zombie porn.

XXX

A narrow-eyed look was Sylar's reaction to the mention of flight. I _didn't mention it on purpose – it's useless and…useless to mention._ But the moment passed, not that Sylar expected Peter to press it. The next bit of interest had Sylar's eyebrows arched way up. "For the record, Peter: no zombie blowjobs. Ever. That's probably the only time I don't want one." _I might be depraved but that's nasty. _He chuckled a little, "I can't believe you actually thought about that."

XXX

"My thoughts don't always go where I expect them to." Peter gave Sylar an amused smile, watching him out of the corner of his eye. "I think I've picked what I want – the ability to cure people. Of course that doesn't leave me much in the way of fast defense or offense, so you're going to have a lot of slack to take up. I'm assuming I'd need to touch the people and could only do one at a time. A lot of powers seem to work that way. When I had healing, it wasn't something I could use automatically like other abilities." Peter made the smallest grimace at the memory of the fatigue he'd had after using healing, along with the more important one of seeing news of Jeremy's death on the television at work. "What ability are you going to choose?"

XXX

"I always have a lot of slack to take up," Sylar deadpanned with some feigned resignation. Healing wasn't really an ability on his list of things to get, but his attention still snagged briefly on the fact that it wasn't automatic. That seemed to go hand-in-hand with its purpose. "Since I'll be covering your ass…Telekinesis. You realize for every person we save, if you succeed, I'd eventually be taking care of thousands and millions of people, assuming our food and water resources didn't run out." _Again, what's wrong with the 'me and him alone' part? He'll only be using __me__ for my ability, as usual. He'll 'cure' someone he actually wants to fuck._

XXX

"They _should_ be able to take care of themselves. At least some of them. Just because they need saving doesn't mean they're helpless. Besides, every person we save is one less zombie to fight." Peter took another big bite of his burger, nearly done with it by now. "Okay, here's another scenario. Imagine I get taken out. You have a vial or a syringe of zombie cure that you can use to pick a new sidekick. It just so happens that you can pick anyone you've ever run into or known, alive or dead – I guess they rose as undead, or something. Who do you pick?" He supposed Sylar could say he cured Peter, but even though Peter would have thought the sentiment was nice, the implication was Sylar had to choose someone else. Would he pick Arthur? His father? They both supposedly had a lot of abilities. Or would he go with someone who meant more to him, like Elle?

XXX

That was a much more difficult and unclear choice. Sylar rested his forearms against the bar, still idly holding his burger as he considered. It all depended on his motivation for saving that person – revenge, love, lust, companionship. The worst part was that only one person embodied all the aspects and he wasn't sure he'd pick her for fear of, well, regretting his choice and repeating history. Virginia was not an option, neither was Martin or Samson. His birth mother…He still had questions and with no other specials to become more special or more monstrous, his killings would be justified as self-preservation of himself and another…perhaps his mother would still love him. It was a gamble. Of course, if she didn't, he would have wasted a valuable opportunity. Luke more than Micah made the list for companionship.

Sylar took into account that 'saving' any one person wasn't really a nice thing to do to them, given the situation. Whomever he saved would hate him for it and probably long for death. It wasn't like he was great company to begin with. Noah or Parkman came to mind because fucking with their heads would be fitting and entertaining, purposefully 'saving' them to live a horrible life with him for as long as it lasted. Arthur would be no fun at all. Mohinder and Angela were out because he'd kill them on principle (Mohinder was more of an annoyance factor). Perhaps Dr. Gibson? Lydia? Both would be useless but they'd been kind and they were female_._

_What about Nathan?_ Oh, if only it were that simple. He would only resurrect Nathan to alleviate the hunt on himself, the pressure to become Nathan and pay for the sin of killing him. _I'd give him back so they'd leave me alone! _Sure as hell, Sylar would never resurrect the bastard for Nathan's sake because he was still glad and proud of ridding the world of that snake. It would be a pointless gesture because no one would be around to rejoice at Nathan's fucking triumphant return. And then Sylar really would kill him again. Peter? _I already have Peter. I mean…I'd be adding another person to our group, right? (A threesome? That changes my answer…) _"That's a tough one." _Wait…does he expect me to say Nathan?! I'm not answering that! _"I'd have to give it some more thought," he declined, "It depends what kind of person I'd want for the rest of my life, or close to it."

XXX

"That's true." Peter thought about who he'd pick. _Caitlin_, floated immediately to the surface, probably due to his previous thoughts about who Sylar might save. He frowned at the idea, though. He hadn't been able to protect her before. Was she even an option? What would he do if he lost her twice? Not saving her out of fear of failing was incredibly shitty and just about the worst possible reason to hold back. Maybe there were better choices, though. _Maybe I should pick someone who would keep me alive?_ But his subconscious wouldn't give it up. He was right back to thinking staying alive didn't matter if he had nothing to live for (other than killing more zombies) and that he'd work a lot harder to keep himself alive if he was looking out for someone else. _But I can't tell Sylar '__Caitlin__'._ "Claire, maybe? There's Noah. He'd at least be smart. But I couldn't trust him, so he's out. Oh." Peter stopped, eyes rising to Sylar's. _Nathan. Um, wait, would that really be a good idea? Other than bringing him back to life, what would that do? He wanted to die. I don't …_ His thoughts were a morass, far more complicated than he wanted to consider for a fun game over lunch. "I don't think bringing Nathan back would help."

He scratched the side of his neck, lying badly, "Um, yeah, Claire, I guess." He shook his head, lifting his beer and telling the truth next, "There's no way in hell I'd bring back my dad." He finished off the drink.

XXX

Sylar snorted about Noah. _Definitely untrustworthy. _Sylar froze at that look, staring back. He didn't think he was in any danger – Peter was the one to bring up both the question and the obvious person – and the meal had been going very smoothly and enjoyably, but it was the principle of the thing. Sylar tried to breathe evenly, playing it cool but he felt like sweating, whether he was or not. Because of that, he didn't bother to point out the incestuous theme the Petrellis seemed to favor. He wondered how serious Peter was about what he'd said. Sylar cleared his throat, raising his bottle to his lips, "What about /Ma/ - I mean, your mother?" _More booze. That will help._ He admitted he had some investment in the answer, and a small right to hear the answer, too.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a brief, exaggerated frown for calling her 'Ma' in what Peter assumed was either mockery of having been lied to and told he was a Petrelli, or some Nathan-esque holdover. But the thing was, it didn't make him angry to hear Sylar call her that. He'd been through this before and so now his frown was an airing of his opinion on it without heat or, more importantly, without assault or threat of assault. Peter was getting better.

As to the answer, he pulled a sullen face and finished off his beer before saying, "You'd think she would have seen it coming, wouldn't you?" Peter exhaled heavily. Regardless of his anger, he had a duty to his family. With resignation, he allowed, "I'd bring her back, yes, but if I had only one choice, she wouldn't be it." He rolled the empty bottle back and forth between his hands.

"Let's change it up. No more sidekicks – just us. Two powers, not one, though I'll admit telekinesis is pretty great all by itself. It's only one power, yet it lets you do so many different things – attack, defend, levitate – and all at a distance, too, which reduces your chances of getting infected. What would your backup ability be if you could use two?"

XXX

"Maybe Samuel's power to move the earth and elements. If I only used it on the crust of the planet, it would almost always be reversible and wouldn't cause too much damage. Be handy for making a defensible fort or a trench, moat thing. Burying people, too." The last was morbid, so he quieted. "I could always blind the zombies with a sandstorm. I know how well that works."

XXX

Peter nodded. "That's another smart, multi-use power. I have to say, I think I'd take regeneration. Then you wouldn't have to worry about me getting turned and as long as they didn't get me down for very long, I'd still recover fine after you blew them away. Being able to go without sleep, food, water, being able to heal and not getting exhausted? Sign me up. I think that would be a lot more useful than blasting people or projecting forcefields. Plus, if you got hurt, I could give you a transfusion and you'd be good as new. Give me a shotgun or a flamethrower and I-" His eyes caught on the label of the bottle he had been absently rotating in his hands. It said the bottle was brewed in Cork, Ireland. Faintly, he finished his statement, "I think I could hold my own." Shotguns. Burned bodies.

XXX

Sylar chuckled. The image of Peter with any kind of gun was amusing to say the least. "You are such a pacifist. Two passive powers? You really do expect me to hold off the universe while you play doctor. But isn't that counter-productive of you to shoot someone then save them?"

XXX

Peter straightened, brows furrowing as he studied the bottle. He hadn't thought anything special when he'd picked it out. It had been green and towards the front. That it was Irish he'd noticed, but it hadn't mattered. He'd paid more attention to the label on Sylar's bottle than his own. But what were the odds that he would have ended up with a random bottle manufactured in Cork? He scowled at it, lifting his head to look around the place. It had no special resemblance to the Wandering Rocks, but there were little touches here and there that stood out to him now that he was looking – the color scheme, the arrangement of the bottles along the wall behind the bar. The rich wood looked as weathered and dark as that in Ricky's place and there was just that hint of wood smoke to it, different from cigarettes or cigars. In the Wandering Rocks, there had been a fireplace. Here there was none, so whence the scent? And worse still, why was there an undertone of scorched flesh to it?

Peter slipped off the bar stool abruptly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as his nostrils found some confirmation for his thoughts. It felt like someone had walked over his grave. The place was obviously different. He'd say he was seeing things where they weren't except he wasn't even seeing them. He just had this pervasive feeling that the place was more familiar to him than it should be. Somehow, the Cheers song seemed perverse. He murmured, "A place where everyone knows your name. But no one knew it." He drew in a quick, shallow breath, the burned meat smell reminding him of the stench Ricky's charred body had made after Elle was done with it. His eyes lit on a door at the rear of the room. The one to the kitchen was to the side – swinging double doors they'd already been through. So where did _that_ one lead? "None of them knew my name."

XXX

_O-kay…We're done eating?_ "Peter," Sylar said though it wasn't completely a question.

XXX

Peter strode to the door, a wave of hesitancy striking him as he reached it, making him open it slowly, not sure what he'd find. The old fear that he'd find 'the people' rose up in him as the door swung – those missing inhabitants had to be somewhere, his subconscious promised him. Inside the room, he didn't see people or bodies, but instead his eyes met something that rattled him nearly as much. There on the boxes and crates, neatly arranged and ready for an occupant, was a collection of blankets, with what he knew was a hooded sweatshirt folded for use as a pillow. They'd made him sleep in the back room (or let him, depending on how you looked at it) – Ricky and Will – and his makeshift bed had looked _exactly_ like this.

"NO!" he shouted in defiance to reality. He didn't know what to do with the surge of desperate emotions as his sense of what was real went abruptly topsy-turvy, so he channeled them into actions, and violent ones at that. He seized the blankets and threw them, but it wasn't enough. Peter kicked one of the boxes and shoved another one from the stack. It toppled to the floor. Glass jingled and cracked. Peter slammed his foot into the fallen box and those bottles not already damaged were smashed. The bottom of the box darkened as the smell of strong spirits filled the room.

XXX

It was a back room. The significance of it bypassed Sylar entirely. He looked it over and dismissed it, instead focusing on his shaken companion. Peter was tense, a little clammy, and pale; that is, until he snapped and went berserk on the room without any provocation. "Pe-" he began but didn't finish it. When Peter began stomping on things, namely glass items, Sylar felt obligated to intervene lest the other man hurt himself. He approached quickly, from behind and to the side, and wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pulling him or holding him back. He said "Peter…" in his ear, since Sylar was facing the bar and Peter was directed into the room.

XXX

Sylar had nothing to do with this and Peter didn't want him to have anything to do with this. Exasperated and angry, he tried to wrestle free of the arm and shove Sylar away. It was easier desired than accomplished, even though he managed to wedge his elbow between Sylar's arm and Peter's body, levering it off of him with a wrench and a twist. _Why is he trying to stop me? Why does he care?_

XXX

"No…Peter…." Sylar said again, just as before, hoping to induce some calm, even as he matched the other man's struggles.

XXX

Peter gave an ill-tempered glance over his shoulder at the door frame. If he drove Sylar into that, the man would probably let go of him. But it also might hurt him, especially if he hit his head. Various other forms of escalation ran through Peter's head, along with surrender – both false and authentic, as he wasn't overwhelmingly invested in winning. In the end, he fought enough to loosen Sylar's grip on him, then went to the floor, straight down, letting gravity do what he didn't have leverage to do while standing. He slithered and scrambled sideways, bouncing off the stack of boxes and backwards as he got to his feet, one heel in the puddle of caramel-colored alcohol staining the floor. "Was this your idea? Huh?" He glared, waving curtly at where the pallet had been made up on top of the crates.

XXX

Sylar blinked, coming to the conclusion Peter was accusing him of. "No. I just came here for lunch. I've never been in here before." He wondered if that was going to cut it. At the same time, he was aware that Peter wasn't angry with or at him, and the pair of questions were the only things directed at him. Nathan was no help with an answer here.

XXX

Peter narrowed his eyes at the answer but then shook his head. "It couldn't have been yours. It had to be mine – they're my memories." He was breathing hard, the fury draining out of him like the liquor streamed out of the box, spreading across the floor. "It's what you said before, that first day – 'this is my mind, playing tricks on me'," Peter said, echoing how Sylar had originally said the words. "That's all it is?" He looked at Sylar intently again, but this time it was a searching look, imploring an answer that would reassure him.

XXX

"I think so. Yes," he added when faced with those puppy-dog eyes. It wasn't like self-induced mind-games were unheard of here. In fact, they were prevalent.

XXX

Peter left the cramped room that now reeked of bourbon. He didn't go far, though, sitting heavily at the end of one of the booths, body pointed out into the room instead of across the table. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and face into his hands. He huddled in on himself, angry and embarrassed that he'd had such an outburst in front of Sylar. It made him look volatile and unstable. His shoulders slumped as he supposed he was. "I lost her. I left her behind. That's why this is haunting me. Because I've pushed it out of my mind for so long that it's no more real than anything else here."

XXX

_Oh, Peter. _Sylar sighed. It didn't matter who Peter was talking about, concerned about: Simone, Emily, his mother, Claire. The guilt and grief was the same, very familiar to Sylar himself. He was still stuck on what to say, what he could do; Peter was very partial to the shoulder-patting, so maybe…Slowly, he drew closer and tentatively did just that, giving a squeeze and eventually leaving his hand in place there.

XXX

Peter leaned into the touch, appreciating it. He felt … miserable, much of which was from the realization that he would need to explain himself to Sylar, which involved explaining things he'd never talked to anyone about (except, to a limited degree, Adam). He began to speak, but it was about something else – it was his fears of hopelessness and futility, just like he felt about Caitlin's fate. "Sometimes I think maybe this is all I've got – you and this empty world. Maybe my body died out there and I'm not going back. Matt told me if I came in here, I'd never get out." Peter was quiet for a moment, remembering how Parkman had yelled at him. "I heard him. Clearly. I knew what he meant. I came anyway." He shrugged the shoulder Sylar wasn't touching, not wanting to risk dislodging him. At least here, now, he had not abandoned someone who wanted and needed his help. It gave him hope. "I think it's okay. This isn't a cargo container where I don't know who I am or where I'm going. I know this. I had a purpose in coming here and it was a good one, even if it doesn't work out the way I wanted it to. You're not alone anymore. Even if I don't accomplish anything else, at least I'll keep you company, huh?" He murmured and hung his head again. "That's worth something. I hope it's worth something, to you."

XXX

Instead of Peter making him feel helpless, now he felt hopeless as a mirror of Peter's views. He didn't like it; Peter was usually stupidly optimistic, it seemed to hold him together but perhaps that was fraying and if it went away…Sylar didn't know what would happen to either of them. _That's a shitty consolation prize. It's not even a prize. (I'm never a 'good purpose'). _He wondered how much his opinion mattered: that Peter was slightly crazy and his motives unfounded, his ideas impossible. _Maybe he just has to think it's possible and that…keeps him going. I'm not keeping him here; why does he make it sound like I am? If I'd just behave his life would be perfect. For someone who thinks I should suffer and die alone, he has a funny way of showing it. What a stupid silver lining to find with me. He didn't come here to save me and I'm a waste of his time. _But still, there was nothing to be done about it. Sylar tried to shake off the twinges he felt internally and agreed with Peter, "Yes. Of course it is."

After a moment, Sylar supplied, "You…you shouldn't beat everything up, Peter. Sooner or later, you're going to break something that I can't fix." Realizing that sounded sappy as hell and said far more than he ever wanted to for which he cursed himself; he tried to cover it gruffly, "Just…don't be an idiot." He grabbed Peter by the scruff of the neck like Nathan used to, giving it a sort of squeeze/massage for a moment. Somewhat bitterly, he finished with a few hard pats to the shoulder as he walked back to the bar, "Emily and the world are counting on you and all that nonsense. Now my burger is cold."

XXX

"Emma." But Peter only whispered the correction. He didn't know if the word carried. "I busted her cello," he said a little louder. "Can't fix that. I'm a pretty lousy pacifist, Sylar." He looked up with a small smile. "You get me mad and ..." He stood up and walked over to the bar, shaking his head at how stupidly destructive he was. "Get me mad and I'm a regular Petrelli. But when I'm not, I can do things no other Petrelli can, with powers or without." He reached past Sylar to swipe his plate. "Let me put that under the warmer for you. Hang on." He said this more softly than the rest, going off to heat Sylar's burger up as a show of appreciation. He snagged a bag of potato chips off a bracket near the swinging doors, adjusted the infrared lights, and leaned on the counter next to them as he opened the bag. There was a serving window through which he could see Sylar well enough to talk with him.


	90. Wandering Rocks

Day 34, January 12, Afternoon

Sylar tried for a wry grin. It was true, what Peter said. He wondered at how the attempts (and failures) at being good seemed to mean nothing no matter who made the attempt. Well, people at least noticed when Peter was a good boy. He watched his food carefully. Just in case.

XXX

"I've told you about the cargo container, right? I got out of it when a bunch of guys broke it open in Cork, Ireland, thinking it was full of stuff they could fence. When they found me, they were angry, felt cheated, and thought I had to know something about where the stuff they'd come to steal had gone to. I didn't. I didn't know my name; didn't know I had powers. They took me back to a bar called the Wandering Rocks. And they … beat the crap out of me. There were three of them. They took turns. It didn't jog my memory." He sighed, remembering how Caitlin had cleaned him up and how much, how desperately, he'd bonded with her. A tiny smile flitted over his lips. "After they let me go, I slept in the back room on top of the liquor boxes, with some old clothes and a couple cast-off blankets. I didn't know where else to go for a while." Peter looked down at his feet. "Eventually, Elle showed up and fried the proprietor while I wasn't there. His name was Ricky."

He took the plate from under the warmer, getting a double layer of napkins to keep from burning his hand, and brought it out. He sniffed at it as he did. _Burned meat. That's where the smell was coming from! 'Don't be an idiot' - like that's going to work._ "Your plate, monsieur," Peter said, affecting an overdone French accent. He circled the bar and dug out a second beer (this one a popular American brand) before returning to his seat, where he could drink and eat chips while Sylar finished his meal next to him. Peter poked at the now cold mushrooms on his plate, experimenting with putting them on the salty potato chips. They were fine that way. It was a taste combination he didn't think he'd ever had.

XXX

Sylar accepted and adjusted his plate. "Thanks," he replied quietly, still thinking about the story. He tried not to examine why he wanted to beat the crap out of the people who'd hurt Peter and how someone getting fried to a crisp for it was fitting. Something wasn't making sense about it. "I get why you would stay if you had nowhere else to go, but why did they let you stay? Why did they let you go if they thought you had their stock?

XXX

Peter poked around in the foil bag, devoting more attention to selecting his next chip than necessary as a way of avoiding looking at Sylar. "There was … a girl," he said with difficulty, his throat giving him trouble all of a sudden. He took a drink of beer and focused on his breathing for a few long moments.

XXX

_Ah_. Even that much sufficed and Sylar let it drop, but eventually Peter continued.

XXX

"She … cleaned me up after they were done. She was friendly. She was ..." He took another drink because he needed it. "She was the first friendly thing I knew – after weeks in the container, then … them, and their questions that I couldn't answer. Good cop, bad cop, maybe, but you know," he looked to Sylar for validation, "when you don't have anything else …? Anyway, after they left me alone for a while, I phased out of the ropes that were holding me. I started to leave out the back, but there was a commotion going on in the front. The guys who'd passed them the information for the heist were in the bar, wanting their money, their cut, whatever. Of course it wasn't there, but she was, alone. I heard the guys threaten her."

Peter took another drink. At this rate, he was going to need a third beer fast. That probably wasn't a good idea, so he went back to shuffling the chips around. "I went back. I ran them off. And then … I stayed."

He waited, but Sylar didn't seem to have anything to say in response. Peter went on to explain the embarrassing but fairly harmless part of the story. "They, uh … once they knew I had powers, they brought me along on a heist and had me help them hold up an armored van." He grimaced. "I mean I helped them _rob_ the van. I didn't hold it up. I just spun it around, actually." He waved a hand loosely. "Telekinesis, but I didn't know what I was doing at the time. It was all coming on instinct."

XXX

"And after that?" Sylar pressed, only somewhat interested. Nathan didn't know any of this.

XXX

Peter wanted to say there wasn't much to tell. But there was, and it ended badly for nearly everyone. Only Tuko got away unscathed. And maybe Will, but he didn't know that for sure. "They never found the stuff they were looking for in the shipping yard. I think it was a bunch of iPads or iPods or something like that. One of Ricky's guys, his name was Will, tried to steal the money from the armored car robbery. I read his mind, though, and stopped him. He shot me a few times and took off. After that, Ricky seemed to think I was something special." Peter gave Sylar a crooked smile. "Then the Company came looking for me." He was quiet for a long period before adding, "Ricky sent me down the street to his sister's place. She was the one who'd cleaned me up, took my side, thought I was special in a … more real way. Elle killed Ricky."

XXX

Sylar's head tilted. _Of course you're special._ But Peter said it like being special was…something special and Sylar understood that, or at least, he thought he did. How interesting they had that, of all things, in common. Shameless flattery came to mind. It frequently worked on insecure specials after all and most were too stupid to see it for the dangerous seduction it was. Peter had said as much but now it made sense! His thoughts were entirely inappropriate for the conversation, even as a passive audience, but excitement was hard to contain when he'd just stumbled onto the key to sex. It took him a moment to drag his thoughts up, filthy from the gutter. "What did you do about that?"

XXX

Peter shifted uncomfortably on his stool, trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation. He knew he wasn't coughing up the important part, the part he needed to explain a lot more than why he hadn't gone after Elle or whatever it was Sylar was implying he should have done. He turned his head to look anxiously at the door to the back room, then reached over to Sylar and manhandled his deltoid some, wanting to touch. He blurted out, "Sylar, I left someone to die!"

XXX

Sylar was doing a horrible job of proving Peter's 'freezing up on contact' comment wrong. _Okay, okay, okay! _He leaned away quickly, eyes wide with surprise, fully expecting to have a Peter-induced 'accident' at the bar. _Not my head!_ he whined to himself. But there was no pressure and hardly any grip, so he remained seated and intact. Sylar adjusted himself to look like he'd been shifting his weight. _Right. Change my face to look surprised at his words not his action. What was he talking about?_ "Ricky?" Sylar frowned, confused by that train of logic.

XXX

Peter's voice rose, frustrated by Sylar freaking out over the touch and not getting how upset he was over this. "No, Caitlin!" He frowned and quieted back to conversational. "Though I suppose I did for him, too. Just with him, I didn't know. All I knew about Elle was just that she was someone asking around about me. It didn't seem like that big a deal or I never would have left." He shifted again, fighting against the urge to call a time-out and refuse to talk about it further. He didn't want to do that. He couldn't even hide behind the concern that telling Sylar would endanger people – they were all dead or lost.

XXX

"Who is Caitlin?"

XXX

"She was Ricky's sister."

XXX

"Okay…What happened to her?" Peter seemed both eager and reluctant to talk about this. Given the recent random explosion(s) that Sylar was currently investigating (naughty detours aside), he should have been tried to be more…understanding or something, lest Peter lose it again. _I thought killing people was off limits…Guess that's just when I do it, huh?_

XXX

Peter reached out and pushed his empty beer bottle, desperate for another one. "This would have to be one of my versions of hell, Sylar. To be trapped somewhere with you and have to tell you the worst things I've done in my life, the things I most regret, the times when I made decisions that hurt people and they weren't mistakes because I knew how it would turn out when I made my decision, but I made it anyway. Those are the times when I wonder if I ended up doing what my dad would have thought was right." He shook his head. "I didn't do what was right – what _I_ thought was right. I _know_ that, but I didn't know what else to do!"

XXX

"Fine! Then don't tell me! I don't care! It sounds just like _my_ hell!" Sylar fired back without totally thinking about Peter's sins he'd like to hear confessed before changing his tone, "But when you go batshit crazy on some random room, I need to know why!" There was no finishing the burger after this, the various ups-and-downs, the threat of attack and head trauma were churning his guts.

XXX

Peter's brows drew together as Sylar's voice became emphatic – the man had his complete attention. Peter was aware they were close, physically – he'd seen closer adjoining stools in bars, but if this turned bad, it was going to be bad. They were within elbowing distance of each other as it was. It registered as a danger, but for the moment, he ignored it and hoped they could get through close-quarters emotional venting without someone getting slugged or at least pushed around.

XXX

Sylar huffed, trying to regain his composure. He managed only a so-so job. In a calmer but no less passionate voice, he began again. "Not that you care or that you asked, but don't think that killing someone is the worst thing you can do to them, Peter. The things you do to a living person are the worst; you know, _gutting_ their _soul_ and their _mind_! And then you tell them to keep living, or maybe _you_ don't." Sylar cruelly mentioned the man's suicide comment and general desire to have Nathan replace him.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and frowned, getting that Sylar was talking about what had been done to Sylar and not anything to do with Cork or Peter's recent outburst. It sounded like he was blaming Peter for the entire Nathan thing, start to finish. His frown deepened and he pulled his head back, brow relaxing a little and eyes narrowing. _This is coming out now? Well, it probably needed to come out anyway._

XXX

"Killing can be a mercy sometimes. You do it to animals, children, the elderly, the sick. Killing, death, is usually quick and final and there's no pain after for people who don't regenerate. It's not like anyone blames you for any of it. Death just happens, sometimes, Peter, and you can't fucking avoid it." With a heartfelt and gentler delivery, he nearly implored, "So…please….grow up."

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out with a forceful exhale. His lips were a tight line, almost a scowl. He had a lot he could say about death in general, Nathan's in specific, and Sylar's lack of it. But he didn't, not for the moment. Avoiding the death of anyone present seemed more important. So he put the chip bag on his plate, picked it up with one hand and his empty beer bottle with the other, and slid off the stool to carry them wordlessly into the kitchen. When he came back a few seconds later, he stopped at the end of the bar and leaned on it in a bad attempt to look relaxed. "How do you want me to respond to that?"

XXX

_Fuck_. Sylar could tell that hadn't gone over well. He watched carefully in case it looked like Peter was leaving, walking out. There would surely be repercussions even if he did stay and Sylar resigned himself to that. He was disappointed as to the whole thing. Sylar looked up at the question, surprised at it and even more miserable because of the question itself. "I don't know," he admitted in a mildly frustrated, vulnerable, disappointed tone.

XXX

"Let's go back to the immediate thing. Yes, I went batshit over a room, but it wasn't random to me. Most of this place," he waved his arm generally to indicate the world, "seems to be about you – your memories, your places. Your apartment, but not mine. This is the first thing I've run into, other than palm trees, that seems to be about me. I can feel it, this place, _this entire world_, creeping up on me, especially when you're not around. That bottle I grabbed first was bottled in Cork. That room was laid out …" He pointed towards the back of the place, towards the room in question. "You know, maybe it was coincidence and I'm making a lot out of nothing, but it was close enough to make me think reality was slipping or something. And you know I don't think this place is real the same way you do." He swallowed and looked away. "Okay, maybe kicking the crap out of some boxes wasn't the most mature way to deal with it, but I didn't take it out on you, or myself, and it's easier to fix than that storefront."

Peter grimaced and gestured at the remains of Sylar's burger. "Go ahead and finish. I'll find a mop and get started." He walked off into the kitchen, fairly sure he'd seen a yellow, rolling mop bucket near the sink. _I'll need that and a trash can. I can just throw the whole box away, since it's not like anyone's going to mind losing a few quarts of bourbon._

XXX

This was the simple if not brief explanation he'd been looking for. Listening to the backstory was fine, possibly helpful to Peter, but it wasn't what he'd really been after. Even better, it made sense, a lot of it. Of course he'd noticed he hadn't been hit or otherwise hurt in the process of Peter's fit. Sylar opened his mouth to say as much but Peter was moving away. He shut his mouth for a second then opened it again to say that Peter didn't have to clean the room then thought better of it. So Sylar was left with the burger and beer, still sullen and concerned he'd hacked Peter off once more but he obeyed. _Reality creeps up on him, too. Most of the world is about me. Huh._

XXX

The mop bucket with mop was where Peter had remembered it. He rolled it into the back room. The first order of business was getting rid of the wet, kicked-in, leaking box. There was no way to do it without getting bourbon all over him. He carried it out without coat or gloves, tossing it in the dumpster. Back inside, he gingerly picked up the scattered pieces (sparing a moment to hate on glass a bit more) and put them in the trash. He looked at the dry mop and empty bucket, realizing he'd forgotten a step. It was back to the kitchen with the thing rolling along noisily behind him. He got water, added dish soap for good measure, and returned. He mopped, only to find he couldn't operate the wringing mechanism one-handedly. Or at least, he couldn't figure out how to do it – there might be a way, but Peter had never mopped a floor with anything more complicated than a Swiffer. This huge, dread-locked, industrial-strength mop and thick, yellow, commercial bucket with a lever-actuated squeezer was unfamiliar to him. Well, gravity still worked, so he let it drip between rinsings and succeeded in getting the liquor off the floor and replacing it with a lot of water. He recovered the blankets he'd thrown around in his earlier fit and used them to sop it up. Finding the sweatshirt, he paused and fingered the knotted strings that hung from the hood. Even through the mixed scents of the room, he knew the garment would smell like her. He'd worn it when they went to the beach. She'd told him about Cuchulain and how he'd gained his power from others. Peter threw out the wet, dirty blankets along with his bourbon-soaked shirt.

Clad in the grey hoodie now, Peter rolled the mop to the kitchen and put it away. He washed his hands and returned to Sylar's side, getting that third beer now and sliding back on his stool. He opened it and took a shallow draw. It was some kind of English honey lager. He didn't like it much. "I'd had the impression the deaths you'd caused weren't just … 'things that happened', but that they were things you'd _done_, on purpose, intentionally. That you went places and hunted people down so you could kill them," he took another drink of the surprisingly dry beer, "and take their abilities. Or," he said shrugging, "just kill them. Was it something else?"

XXX

The grey hoodie was new. It looked soft and comfortable and it appeared to be all Peter was wearing for a shirt. Peter's words made him forget about it. Unfortunately. "Since you don't really want to talk about that, except to hear my reasons, I assume you're trying to make a point out of something. I have more than one reason for killing people – abilities, just to kill them, both, yes."

XXX

Peter frowned. That wasn't a useful answer, though he did click to the idea that Sylar thought Peter wanted to hear his reasons, yet he then wasn't giving them. Except to say he had a lot of them. 'Just to kill them' also stuck out like a sore thumb, but Peter left it alone for now. "Do you think you have any responsibility or blame for their deaths?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth then shut it. He had several reactions to that and it took him a moment to sort them properly. "Yes and no." It was simple and straightforward even in his delivery. His voice was gaining a tone of 'where are you going with this?' but he still answered truthfully and without troublesome specifics.

XXX

_Christ! This is impossible. Is he not going to actually answer anything?!_ "Do you think killing them was a mercy then?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled through his nose quick, darkly amused but not. "I didn't do it for mercy. I killed one person out of mercy and spared others for the same reason." He shrugged, unable to recall all the outliers as quickly as he would like to determine his motives for each death. "There is a difference between death and being put to death, if that's your point, even though the end result is the same. I was…talking about both earlier. I guess the saying 'people are killed all the time' is maybe a better way to put it."

XXX

_Who was that one person, then?_ Peter gave Sylar the biggest frowny face he could with it still being serious. _He's not being sarcastic. He's just … stubbornly not answering anything, and he doesn't even look like he's doing it intentionally_. Peter drew in a deep breath, still staring at Sylar like he was trying to will the right words to come out of the man's mouth. _I can be angry about this, or not._ He let the breath out and shook his head slowly. His frown turned to a sardonic smile and he reached out, turning his arm so as to put his forearm to Sylar's shoulder. He jostled him – a deliberate contact because he had the impression Sylar didn't like it or was bothered by Peter touching him. Maybe he had a variant of that weird tingle Peter got sometimes when they touched – Peter didn't know, but he gave him a shake anyway, hoping to annoy him in the same manner he annoyed Peter.

"That was completely unhelpful," Peter said, crossing his forearms on the bar and resting his forehead on them. Head still down, Peter lamented, "If I were trying to tell you what I did on a normal day at work, it wouldn't be a bunch of 'it depends' or 'never the same thing' or 'yes and no' if you had asked about something specific." He sat up and reached for the beer. "You're frustrating, Sylar," he pronounced, drinking some more. "And this beer sucks." He looked over at Sylar's. "Is yours any better? Is that still your first one?" _Am I drunk? On two and a half beers with a meal, I doubt it._ He sighed, not caring too much about Sylar's answers. _Tipsy maybe. It would be interesting if I was a lightweight in this world, or if all the alcohol was way stronger here than in the real world._

"I don't want to talk about anything else." He got up and went to fetch his coat, pulling on his gloves and sulking about the whole thing.

XXX

Sylar heaved a sigh. "I don't mean to be frustrating. Sometimes you don't seem to understand what you're asking. It's complicated. You told me not to talk about that, so I don't. For the most part," he amended, standing after the other man. There was more he could say about it, other questions he could ask, but he held back because Peter wasn't interested and he'd all but requested that Sylar shut up.

XXX

Peter stopped in the middle of pulling on the cut glove that fit over his brace. _Of all the times to pull the 'you told me not to talk about that' card! Is he just messing with me?_ "I'm asking you to tell me now."

XXX

Sylar watched him for a moment more. Peter was across the room. Of course, that hadn't been a deterrent before…"Alright. Ask the questions again."

XXX

Peter tugged off the glove and stuffed it back in his pocket. "The people you've killed – did you kill them on purpose, intentionally? You hunted them down so you could kill them and take their abilities? That was your decision?"

XXX

"Yes, I kill people intentionally most of the time. Sometimes I have to defend myself but…that's an argument all to itself. Yes, I hunt them. I want their ability. They don't want it or won't use it or they hate themselves. They don't see how special they are so I take it and I use it how it should be used. I take it away from useless people; I make it special. Maybe that's a mercy, I don't know. Half the time death isn't the point, I just want the ability and death is a side effect. I kill them because I'm angry and they're lives aren't worth more than mine – that's how people treat me. People, like you, take notice. Killing…taking abilities, gives me purpose. And people want me for that purpose because I'm useful and good at what I do." Sylar didn't look away from Peter's eyes the whole time; delivered his reasons calmly, logically, then waited.

XXX

_'People, like me, take notice.' What does that mean?_ But first Peter wanted answers to what he'd asked earlier. "Do you feel responsible for their deaths?"

XXX

Sylar inhaled. "I told you it's complicated…Yes, in the sense that I take life, I plan it, I intend it, sometimes I desire it and sometimes I don't. I've…I had to get over the part of me that…couldn't handle the killing." He looked away now, licking his lips, focused more on his own thoughts and feelings, the memories, too. "I understand other people's arguments but I reject them. Do I feel responsible? Not particularly. Death is a part of life, the food chain, and all that. No, I'm not responsible because it isn't…black and white. I've been pushed and tempted and manipulated into killing. It wasn't my intention to ever kill people, I would have preferred not to but I have to deal with it now that I do. I don't rule out the…extenuating circumstances of my past or the 'what-if' variables even if it's just wishful thinking. That's not what you want to hear but that's how I see it and I know I'm alone in seeing it that way, so we…usually default to your moral hero's way of things." Sylar tried for a smile.

XXX

Peter met Sylar's attempted smile with narrowed eyes and head pulled back. If he looked like he was judging Sylar, that was probably because he was, or at least was trying to. Everything was yes and no at the same time, which sort of made sense. Being a serial killer was a dangerous, antisocial activity to pursue, so that Sylar had reasons for and against wasn't surprising. "You've thought about this. Are you okay with who and what you are? And what did you mean earlier about how people like me take notice – take notice of what?"

"I know that's not really a fair question about what you're okay with. But it seems to me like you're okay with it on one hand, but then not on the other, so I want to know more about where you're coming from there." His voice was hard and clear, brows drawn together, and watching Sylar closely with a tiny tilt of inquiry to his head. Peter moved a couple steps closer, but was still most of half the bar away from him.

XXX

Sylar's eyes snapped to Peter with suspicion but he tempered his expression until it was hidden. "Of course I'm okay with everything, who I am and _what_ I am. I made myself, didn't I? I mean, what happens if I'm not okay with myself and what I've done? Are you…" Here, Sylar turned and slid from his stool with smooth motions, approaching Peter casually, "going to help me?" he asked that with pleading sarcasm, applying his wide-eyed innocence that seemed to sucker Peter right in every time even as he grasped at the man's coat lapels as if helpless.

XXX

Peter took a half step back as Sylar approached. For a moment, he thought he was about to get throttled even though that didn't mesh with anything else that was going on – words or expressions. Nothing was making sense. Sylar was going from resolute and determined, content with his past and trying to calmly explain it, to slinking across the room with an out-of-place innocence and then grabbing at him. His hands came up and off to the sides as he waffled between leaning away and letting Sylar do whatever it was he was doing. Mostly, Peter just stood there and looked surprised.

XXX

"No; you never believed that anyway, did you? You know exactly what I am." Sylar sidled up to the shorter man closer still. "I enjoy walking on the dark side, I'm not good with temptation. I like the power, the control; I do it for the fucking release! You respect the abilities even if you think I'm an abomination; you notice. Maybe you know how much I love…" he grasped Peter's right hand, mostly covered in the brace. It would be easy to gain compliance with this in his grip, although it was light for now and the man's left hand was free to strike. "…I love getting _hit_ on by heroes." Sylar raised the hand to his mouth and licked, wet and hot, across all the empath's knuckles, purring, "Maybe this is my kink; maybe I'm just playing nice."

XXX

_What the hell?_ Had Peter been less startled by the whole thing, he would have been provoked by the suggestion Sylar got off on killing people. When Sylar grabbed his hand, he didn't react at first. Then, _Wait, what are you doing?_ "Stop it!" Peter tried to pull away. Sylar's grip tightened. _Is he going to bite me?_ But no, it was just a lick – disgusting – and making Peter want to rise up on tip-toes with tension. Teeth bared, his left hand went to Sylar's right shoulder, shoving him.

XXX

Sylar weathered the push, stepping back and then adjusting his balance forward right after, admonishing with a teasing tone, "You broke the bed in the back, Peter…That's okay. We don't need a bed."

XXX

Peter's eyes went to his right hand. It was securely caught. At the moment Sylar had took it, Peter hadn't been thinking he needed to oppose the grip. He'd just been glad creepy-Sylar had let go of his coat. But now, Sylar was holding it hostage. Since Peter wasn't inclined to allow that (and he might have had he any idea of why Sylar was doing this), it translated to a need for getting free as quickly as possible. Jerking, twisting, and anything else that involved trying to get his hand free directly would be painful. That left the option of making this behavior too expensive for Sylar to continue. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be doing much in the way of defense. It occurred to Peter that might be intentional – all of this made sense if he assumed Sylar was trying to goad him into attacking him. But either way, Peter wanted loose.

He punched Sylar in the throat.

XXX

Peter hit him all right, just not where Sylar expected it – then again, when did Peter ever do what anyone expected? Sylar released the hand at once. He could have held on but his purpose had been fulfilled and the empath was very likely to escalate. He allowed the instinct to clutch his throat as he coughed over the initial pressure. _Goddamnit, Petrelli! Goddamn, Petrelli!_ It angered him because Peter refused to play along, obey the rules and nearly every strike he made was aimed to cause major damage. _I'm playing by his fucking rules and he's not playing anything at all. Every time I try to talk, I get hurt – what the hell?! I was trying to help!_ He wouldn't have minded so much if the other man would tone it down, even so, he couldn't really complain about the location, severity or intent of the blows. In this case, Peter clearly wanted him to shut up. The rest of his recovery was spent massaging his throat to check that it fucking worked, hacking and wheezing for air in a surely dignified manner. Everything worked, though it would hurt to speak. The growl he wanted to make was going to be delayed.

XXX

Peter hustled backwards as fast as possible, getting to the door and knocking it open. He stopped there in the partly open doorway with cold air at his back, huffing, nose wrinkled, and watching Sylar. He didn't think he'd hurt him very badly. It wasn't like he'd had much of a wind-up for the blow, but it was a delicate part of the body. He waited to see what would happen next, a little surprised that Sylar wasn't pushing the fight.

XXX

He could still glare, though, so he did. Sylar rasped with feeling, "You're frustrating, too." _In so many ways. This must be how men indicate attraction to other men: hitting the back of the head, throat, strangling, kicking the knee. 'Love taps,' right?_ From that point, he didn't know what was going to happen. Did they both continue on, go home, or was Peter leaving by himself, one foot out the door already? The immediate concern was Peter's return to the shared bed tonight.

XXX

Peter quirked a brow, rolled his eyes, and tilted his head in a wordless, 'Yeah, I probably am' gesture. Sylar could clearly breathe and speak. Those were good signs, but they didn't preclude the possibility of swelling. Peter let the door shut behind him and suggested, "You should put some ice on that. Go get one of those bags of food from the freezer. Use it."

XXX

If Sylar could have sighed, he would have, but he followed the directions, going into the kitchen and digging out a baggie of pre-cut carrots. _He hits me, then he tries to help. What's that syndrome called, the hostage one? He expects me to go along with it, whatever it is._ It was frustrating only to get half (if that) of what he wanted every time. "It'll be cold enough outside," he grumbled. He felt shaky, shaken, weak after the conversation. Being punched was both painful, emotionally, and helped him normalize as he wondered why Peter had to do things the way he did. _(I hate myself. How is that not obvious? Does he know?) Because he'll kill us and make things worse if he knew. I had to distract him. (I just want to sit here for a while). On the kitchen floor? That's pathetic. (Then that's how I feel. Pathetic)._ Dutifully he kept his face close to neutrally blank as he pressed the cold bag to his throat. At least it meant the mini-fight was over. "What now?" Sylar asked into the too-quiet silence.

XXX

Peter had followed Sylar, somewhat, when the other man went in the kitchen. What that meant was Peter kept most of the width of the bar between them, but angled to keep an eye on him through the service counter. When Sylar returned, Peter didn't have to stoop and juke to keep line of sight. In answer to his question, Peter said with a wry smile, "Well … standard first aid training would dictate I have you lie down, relax, and slow your breathing for the next fifteen to twenty minutes while we let the ice pack work and I keep a close eye on you. The danger is that swelling might constrict blood vessels and cause you to black out unexpectedly. But I'm not sure if you'd put up with that as a treatment, or if I'd put up with how you might put up with me. So how about we compromise and we'll both sit on the floor. Okay? It's not nearly so far to fall, if it comes to that."

XXX

Sylar's expression was highly dubious, but Peter already guessed his response to that. "I am not going to fall down," he complained and dismissed the idea, frowning about it. _I did mention a bed and the floor._

XXX

"The other option is that we go home," Peter said, which came out as more of an ultimatum than he intended. Certainly he was already mentally vetoing the rest of the trip. He assumed it was early afternoon, the place wasn't in sight, and then they'd have to get back … all in the frigid air and short amount of remaining daylight. Plus, Peter's morale was flagging. If his was, he assumed Sylar's was worse.

XXX

"Alright, fine," Sylar huffed. He came around the corner of the bar and sat somewhat close to the stools. Peter was the most interesting thing here so Sylar observed him because he could. This could get more awkward or it could be comforting, sitting, on the floor, with nothing else to do.

XXX

Peter sidled closer before folding his legs to sit so-called Indian style on the floor. He was now only about ten feet away, which was still an odd distance to be from someone you were friends with, and unwisely close to someone you didn't trust. "One nice thing about this place is that it's pretty germ-free as far as I can tell. 'Sterile' has its advantages." He regarded Sylar as closely as he could from where he was at, looking at the guy's color. He doubted anything was seriously wrong or would become so, but he saw no reason to take the risk. Peter glanced down at his right hand, rubbing his left thumb over the knuckles where Sylar had licked him. He supposed the spittle was sterile, too, not that it was wet anymore. "What was all that about?"

XXX

In a much better act of innocence, Sylar answered, "What was all what about?" _That's another thing he does. He asks me endlessly why I do anything. I only ask him when it's important or makes no sense or I'm…bored or curious, but he_ wants _to know the reasons why._

XXX

"I mean that … What you just did – that ... approach. Why?" Peter was a hair's breadth from asking what he'd done to provoke it, but that made it sound like he was at fault and he didn't feel he was. The more he thought about it, the more he thought Sylar had started the whole heavy-handed, over-the-top flirting specifically to get Peter to hit him, but the motivation for that was a mystery. Sylar didn't seem happy now, so maybe he'd expected something else?

XXX

Sylar shrugged. His interest was caught on Peter's thumb rubbing his just-licked knuckles – was that a gesture of disgust, 'get it off,' or was it…like a caress? The man himself was ambiguous enough that he discerned no answer. Probably disgust what with the mention of a sterile world. _Goodie. I'm sterile so he's not freaking out about my germs._ "I just wanted to. Obviously." _I wanted to do more than that. It's not like I can just call time-out or stop to a conversation, not once he gets going. It's always a lose-lose, it just depends what I chose to do that will make me lose. _He didn't know how that was going to be taken. "Is it supposed to feel like something's twisted?" he said of his neck. It was mostly neutral. His hands held the ice pack and adjusted his clothing to make his throat more visible and comfortable, offering himself up to see what Peter would do. It would make everything better if Peter would play nurse again.

XXX

"Your neck?"

XXX

"Yes." _What else would be, Peter?_

XXX

Well … he didn't know what it meant to feel that way. With a beat of hesitation and a bevy of checking glances, Peter knee-walked the few steps over to him and knelt to one side and to the front of Sylar's right. It was the side he'd been hit on. Sylar was making only occasional eye contact, mainly looking away and letting himself be examined. Deciding it was safe, Peter draped the ice pack on Sylar's shoulder and looked at the area in question. He was pretty sure, from memory and the vasodilation, that he'd struck Sylar mostly on the side of the neck, the impact falling mainly against the sternocleidomastoid muscles. That Sylar could speak and swallow without much difficulty confirmed it. He touched the back of the fingers of his left hand lightly against what he judged to be the center of impact. "Here?"

XXX

Sylar made a happy noise, something of a hum, though disguised it as a groan of discomfort – he thought it was successful. "Right here…" he indicated the area, fingers brushing Peter's. It didn't feel great and it did feel somewhat twisted or crushed or something, he didn't know what.

XXX

"Hm," Peter said. He turned his hand to use fingertips, pressing them lightly for a few seconds against the stiffer skin above the area, which would be bristly as the day wore on, then over the smoother, softer skin where he'd struck, then under it. Nothing was throbbing or distended.

XXX

This was making up for everything. The touch was barely-there, but it was intentional and kind and skin-to-skin. Not wanting to seem weak, he rested his hands on Peter's forearms, not considering that it also kind of increased his neediness.

XXX

Peter jumped when Sylar touched him, just a little, more a start really. A wash of pins and needles through his extremities announced the flood of adrenalin that small contact had created. He looked down, taking a couple shallow breaths. But it didn't look like anything to be worried about. He took a deeper breath and let it out as he turned his attention back. "It's just localized here?"

XXX

"Yes. It's mostly where you hit me, that area," Sylar indicated it again. "I still feel pressure; it feels tight. It hurts my headache." _You hurt me. What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?_

XXX

"Okay." Peter gently palpated the front of the throat, but everything seemed to be where it needed to be. The memory of choking Sylar ran through his mind. He glanced up at Sylar's face, remembering the guy waking and rubbing on him, just as he'd made a pass moments before. Was there a common factor in what they'd discussed before each of these? Peter had the feeling there was. "I think it's just the swelling." He replaced the ice pack. "Just hold that there for a while longer."

XXX

Sylar swallowed as the touch extended to his throat itself. It was just instinct but it probably made him look nervous. Their eyes met at almost the exact same moment, both of them likely thinking the same thing. It didn't look like Peter was uncomfortable…Sylar knew he was feeding off the attention, completely caught up in enjoying the other man's gaze on his person, on his skin. His throat was chilled because of the ice but Peter was warm. "Is that normal? What happens if it continues?"

XXX

"It's normal," Peter reassured, deciding not to address all the possibilities and alarm his patient. "You're going to be fine." _But let's stay sitting down just in case_. He scooted away, out of arm's length, but not so far away as he'd been sitting before. He watched Sylar speculatively, trying to draw a parallel between the previous 'we were talking about how Nathan died, and then he got mean like he wanted to piss me off' and the more recent 'we were talking about him killing people in general, and then he started another fight'. _What about the other fights we've had, like the one at the storefront or the one in that kid's room? What were we talking about before those?_


	91. Topping the List

Day 34, January 13, Afternoon

"Are you ever going to make your point, the reason for all the questions? Or was that all just a joke to see if I'd talk?" Being pampered took the edge of Sylar's questions. Would he ever feel stupid if that was the case, if it was a joke; his attempt at helping Peter through whatever weird therapy was turned against himself and he blabbed his secrets for some of Peter's or perhaps some stories that he didn't particularly care about. The ice pack was chilling the blood to his head via his carotid; it served the dual purpose of aiding his headache a little. He could easily curl up somewhere despite his hurts, with his companion in the vicinity or even closer. "Knowing you, you'll tell me 'I just wanted to know; that's how I am, Sylar.'" He did a credible job of imitating Peter's voice, cute frown included. "But I told you so you could tell me what you were freaking out about earlier."

XXX

"Huh?" Peter pulled himself out of his introspection. It wasn't important at the moment, anyway. Peter huffed a laugh at Sylar's imitation. "Um, it wasn't a joke, but, uh, the questions were the point. I wasn't trying to make a different one." He waited a long beat, then asked, "You thought I would tell you what was bothering me?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar allowed some 'duh!' to slip into his tone. He'd still fallen for it, though, knowing that Peter was asking just to know and judge and he'd still answered the questions anyway. _Or maybe now I'm trying to change my reason for answering in the first place._

XXX

Peter's eyes hooded and he looked down to pick at the way his jeans were folded around his knee. "I told you most of it, part of it." He plucked at the cloth a little more. Voice lower, he continued, "I didn't have much control over my abilities before. You know that. They didn't give me any help in Level Five. Adam was … selective in what he told me. And then I lost my memories, so I didn't even have that. In Cork, my abilities were coming and going and I didn't know what I had and didn't have." He paused to chew his lip, still studying the floor and his knee aside from the occasional glance up. "I teleported us – Caitlin and me – into a city in the future. It was … an accident. The place was deserted, like here. When people found us, they were in decontamination suits and took us to a treatment facility, mostly by force. They were yelling at us, panicked, not how you should treat patients, but I doubt they were trained. We were separated – Caitlin and me. I found out a disease had been released …" He sighed. "About the time I'd teleported forward from, near the time I'd been in Cork, maybe a month later. It had spread fast and killed about … over ninety percent of the people in the world – in the entire world." He frowned up at Sylar for a long moment. "I found out later I'd been the one who released it. So, you know, obviously I went back and I didn't."

Peter chewed his lip again, hunching in on himself. He almost whispered. "But … I didn't take Caitlin back with me." He was quiet, letting Sylar work out for himself what that meant.

XXX

Sylar just…stared. A lot of things started making sense about Peter Petrelli. "That's what you meant…" he mused aloud. Unfortunately, Sylar could imagine all too well the kind of burden that entailed, killing the entire planet basically. It was so much worse than .07 percent of New York, one city and it paled beyond Sylar's personal count. _I'd…freak the fuck out, too, if something like a bar and a backroom reminded me of it. _While he heard the part about Peter's former fuck-buddy, his 'girlfriend' (of course that would be what Peter focused on), he had a more important question, pertaining to their current situation. "Who was immune to the disease? What was it like, do you know?" _Was it like the Shanti virus? Were specials immune? Is that why we're here? _/He remembered Angela telling him the quick-and-dirty, need-to-know, vague details about the virus when he went after Adam when Peter was with him./ Now this information made more sense and connected to other things Peter had said or done.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a measuring look, then came out of his huddle somewhat. Those were questions that didn't hurt to contemplate the answers. They had nothing directly to do with his own culpability. "Um … I know it had visible symptoms, because we were examined and decontaminated. So that says a lot about its pathology. It can't have a significant incubation period if they were mainly relying on visual cues." He paused, staring off into the distance and trying to remember dry charts and facts from his epidemiology class. The more recent and easily remembered bioterrorism protocols he'd been inculcated with as an EMT weren't what Sylar was asking for, or so he thought.

He shrugged finally. "I don't think I saw enough to say. I didn't see anyone who was infected and the corpses were covered. There was hardly any quarantine period at all, but I don't know what that meant." He sighed. "I know Nathan died in the first outbreak. I know Mom was alive. I … I met her. They called her. They acted like I was so lucky to have a living relative they could call for me." He shook his head slowly at how their surprise had driven home the reality of the disaster to him. "She brought back some of my memories – early ones, family stuff, so at least I understood who I was. But the rest, like my abilities and anything recent, I was still struggling with. Then we ..." _were walking and saw Caitlin and I teleported and that was it._ He shook his head slowly. "That was it." He poked at the fabric on his knee again, tensing and releasing the muscles of his legs. He knew he needed to give a better explanation. In a rushed, glum, and bitter voice, he said, "I tried to get to Caitlin. They wouldn't let me, so I teleported, and ended up back here and now." Peter looked up, around the bar. "Well, sort of here and now. 'Here and now' for then, back when I'd left. Adam found me."

XXX

"Is that disease responsible for this?" Sylar twirled a finger in the air to denote the world around them. "Could it be responsible?"

XXX

Peter looked around the place and considered, including considering the possibility that his own idea of the past – carnival in danger, Sylar in a basement, Matt Parkman's mental prison – could be fabricated, as false as Sylar thinking he was Nathan. He didn't think so, but he supposed it was possible and somewhere along the line, Peter allowed that Sylar deserved the respect that his idea of reality was as valid as Peter's. After a few moments, he said, "Not that I know of. Where are your memories of it? Where are mine?" He chuckled as a particularly morbid thought struck him. "Where are all the zombies?"

XXX

Sylar tried to chuckle and choked it off quickly. It was uncomfortable to do that. "I'd say they ate each other," he grimly half-joked. "But there's no bodies and no signs of natural disaster or radiation, nothing. I don't have any memories of any of this. I was at Matt's, then I'm here. I'm not really immortal and neither are you. It's not like the world works like it used to – it's fucked up. There's no explanation," he heard his voice rising in upset because the confusion and worry was compounded from having been here so long alone, but he thought that Peter could understand that much by now. He shook his head. "I always thought _I_ fucked it up. The world, that is. Any explanation that works is a good one, you know?" _(What explains it is actually Peter's 'it's not real' thing. Didn't he call it a dream?)_ "Did you ever have any…connections with anyone with abilities? Like the…ones you mentioned before? Not a family member or co-worker, but a friend?"

XXX

"My life hasn't exactly been rife with friends lately, or since I got my own powers." Peter swallowed, thinking and making the assumption Sylar meant 'close friendship' for 'connection' instead of 'lover'. "There have been people I've talked with, and been friendly with - like Mohinder or Matt. Rene maybe, or Hiro. Adam, but that didn't turn out well. Neither did Matt, I guess. All I can really say is that compared to strangers, I guess we were friends. But if you mean ..." He tilted his head and looked at Sylar curiously, applying the definition to the man he was regarding. "I never lived with any of them for a month, or sat around and talked about ... anything with them. We never talked except about whatever crisis was going on right then. That's it. I hardly knew them." Which was probably why Adam had found it so easy to lead him astray.

Peter continued to study Sylar steadily. _He's more my friend than any of them were or are, and I still want to beat the crap out of him ... a lot of the time. Not all the time, though. Not right now. _He made a single, amused noise in his throat and looked away. _Not like my family got off any better. I'm pretty rough on them, too. Am I really thinking Sylar's my friend?_ He smiled wryly at the floor. _I've got lousy taste in friends, then._ He tried the idea on like an unflattering suit. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but Peter wouldn't deny they'd built a kind of relationship in the time they'd shared here. He shrugged and glanced back to Sylar. "I don't know what ability any of them would pick to fight off the zombie hordes."

XXX

Sylar considered that and looked right back at Peter during the visual examination. The empath was probably wishing he didn't know Sylar so well and that he'd rather 'live and talk' with anyone else instead. There was nothing to be done about it, though Sylar tried not to squirm in place even after Peter quit looking at him. Sylar couldn't help his lips moving at a grin; it didn't come to completion but the rest of his face relaxed because the man's meaning was obvious and it warmed him. _He doesn't trust them either. I know he's said it, but __he means__ it. He…only works with them because…he has to. Same as me, same as anyone. That's why he never talked to them after the crises or…maybe he was too busy being a hero._ He allowed the grin to bloom into a smirk. "Have you ever slept with someone with abilities? I know Simone didn't have one, but did Caitlin or Emma, anyone else?"

XXX

Peter smiled a little. "Ma fell asleep on my shoulder in a church we were hiding in overnight. But I doubt that's what you mean."

XXX

Sylar snorted. "No."

XXX

Peter studied Sylar for a moment, trying to decide how much he was willing to tell him of personal things that weren't Sylar's business in the least. Peter pursed his lips and then chewed on the lower one briefly, coming to a decision. "I haven't slept with Emma. We aren't even dating. She has an ability, but she's still trying to come to terms with it." He moved on before Sylar asked him things he wouldn't answer. "As far as I know, Simone didn't have an ability and neither did Caitlin. That's everyone, because before them, I wouldn't have known if they did." He glanced away and then back. "What happened with Elle … didn't go that far."

XXX

_Wait, not sleeping with Emma? Not even dating? Why not? They're just…friends? I bet he doesn't want to be 'just' friends. And she has an ability? Please. He wants her. The old 'I'll help you control your power' move._ Sylar was opening his mouth to pursue this Emma information but Peter had already moved on; clever boy.

XXX

With the intention of making sure Sylar didn't get a follow-up for details, Peter asked the question in return. "How about you?"

XXX

Sylar's smirk returned with evil promise. "Two women. You already know about Elle. I fucked Lydia, at the carnival. The empath-tattoo lady I told you about." _I sort of slept with her. Almost twice. Rounding up…_

XXX

Peter grimaced at the coarse way Sylar phrased it. "Did she mean anything special to you?"

XXX

Sylar frowned at him, confused by the logic. _Oh, his 'fucking because you care' thing._ "No. She was…with someone else who didn't like me. She had a daughter, maybe fourteen, fifteen years old – the kid had a power, so...No good mother in her right mind would keep a predator around her kid. Samuel sent her to…figure me out but she wanted me to kill Samuel. She was nice, but…for obvious reasons…" He waved it off.

XXX

Peter nodded and said nothing, wondering if there was anywhere Sylar drew the line as far as the taking of abilities was concerned. In Peter's own bout with it, he'd turned on brother and mother without hesitation. Peter knew Sylar had gone after Claire when she was no older than sixteen. _No one in their right mind would let Sylar loose on the world,_ he thought bitterly.

XXX

"Who would you pick to have here, if you could have any woman? No family members. It has to be someone you can fuck, someone you know. Emma?" he asked the last like it would be a scandal if Peter chose otherwise.

XXX

Peter's brows rose. "'Someone I can fuck'?" he repeated. "That's a pretty crass way to put it." He waited a few disapproving beats. "Maybe Nurse Hammer, so she can help me deal with you," he said sourly, but he laughed at the end, making light of it. He looked away and sighed, letting a moment pass before answering, "Caitlin. Not because I'd be saving her – well, not _just_ because it would save her – but because I thought … You talk about connections? I thought I had one with her. Or that I could have had one." Peter frowned and reached over to pick at the brace, thinking they'd been sitting long enough and really ought to go.

XXX

It took him several seconds to place Nurse Hammer – the large black nurse he'd impersonated at Mercy. Sylar assumed that was a joke. _Ah. So it's Caitlin he wants. I don't know if that's better for my chances or worse._ Despite his concerns, he wanted to know. "Describe her."

XXX

Peter scratched along the edge of the brace. He'd gotten it wet at some point in the mopping and although it had dried, it was now itchy, probably due to soap suds. "She was … Irish. About my height, shoulder-length, curly-wavy reddish-brown hair. Green eyes, pale skin, freckles." He smiled softly, looking at Sylar's feet but seeing something entirely other. "She was quick. And smart. She had a mouth on her, and I mean that as far as verbally, so don't get any ideas. You would have liked her wit. She was good with people, but she saw things as they were, too. She gave me a chance. She gave me a lot of chances. She liked me just as I was, without any of the past or the abilities or the other reasons. She wanted me to be … family. Hers, maybe." Peter glanced up at Sylar and shrugged one shoulder. "I basically told her yes." He'd agreed and she'd inked him, though all her careful, beautiful work was washed away within minutes of finishing.

He sighed and changed the subject pointedly. "Who would you choose to be here with?"

XXX

It made him depressed, intrigued and a little warm all at once to hear Peter talk about his misplaced girlfriend or…fiancée? Sylar knew he couldn't live up to that. If Peter liked her so much, he almost wished to meet her. The regard Peter had for her was clear: she actually sounded like a decent human being. "I'd pick a…doctor I knew. Dr. Gibson."

XXX

"A doctor?" Peter asked. That was surprising, given the aversion Sylar seemed to have to all things medical. But maybe Gibson wasn't a medical doctor. "How do you know them?" Although he used a generic pronoun, Peter assumed Gibson was female, given Sylar's previous statements linking 'women' to 'someone you can fuck', as though the male gender were mysteriously off-limits. It was a weird attitude to have when coupled with Sylar's offers to couple with Peter.

XXX

"She was at the police station when they found me after…um…I barely knew her. The police chief wanted to torture me into confessing and she wanted to talk – you'd like her," he said wryly. "She had an English accent and thought my hearing," Sylar pointed to his ear, "hearing clocks, was cool. She kind of helped jailbreak me. I had a gun at the end, but she didn't flinch. She…saw I had abilities and she let me go; it wasn't like she had a power or anything. I guess if I brought her here she'd be safe," Sylar sent a checking look to Peter. "It's safer now," he insisted about himself and the world. "No…car accidents, no natural disaster, no Company, no powers…" Actually, the more he thought about it, she would only need protecting from himself and from Peter, who, even if he had a girl of his own, would probably steal Sylar's – there was no guarantee she'd like him, Sylar, anyway. He rubbed at his forehead, "Maybe not. Just…thinking out loud."

XXX

Peter nodded. "Now that you mention it, that was one of the things I liked about Caitlin. She saw my abilities, but they didn't scare her. And unlike her brother, she wasn't leaping at having me use them to benefit her. Not that he was all that bad about it. She just ..." He shook his head and shrugged. "I could read her mind now and then. She liked _me_." He said it like it was astonishing that someone might appreciate him for himself because, well, it was. It wasn't about his family or connections or money or looks. Not that Caitlin had minded his appearance, but she didn't covet it; it was a benefit, but not a trophy to her.

"Come on." He gestured at the bag Sylar was holding to his throat. "Let's ditch the carrots and get moving."

XXX

_No_, Sylar decided. He wanted this perfect lost girl kept far away. Wherever she was, she could stay there. There was no way he could stomach Peter in love with someone right in front of him while Sylar had nothing and no one. He was a little irritated his choice had been ignored. _Your abilities don't scare me,_ he thought with determination. He stood, replacing the carrots in the freezer, and followed after Peter. Once outside, Peter waited for him so he led the way towards the bridge and Home Depot.

XXX

"Where are we headed?" Peter asked as they took off in the same direction they'd been going before. "I think we should go back to the apartment for now. I don't want to get stuck out here after dark, or have to walk back late." He was concerned about Sylar's stamina for it and not too wild about the prospect himself – especially when he wasn't sure how much further the place was, or how the weather might turn as the day wore on. It was cloudy at the moment, which could turn to snow at any point, or clear up, or remain the same. He put on his headband and slipped on his gloves.

XXX

Slightly irritated, Sylar paused before reorienting them towards the Pegasus. It was going to bother him if he'd unintentionally ruined their errand – how many times had they tried to finish one stupid project? What he said was, "So you're not dating Emma. Do you want to be?"

XXX

"I wouldn't have minded. She's nice." It was about the blandest answer Peter could give. He hoped Sylar would get the hint.

XXX

"Does she like you?"

XXX

Peter frowned. "I broke her cello – busted it all over her living room floor, the instrument someone gave her as a gift. We're not even on speaking terms anymore, Sylar. Why do you want to know?"

XXX

"You came here to save her or get her back, so I want to know what she means to you." _I might need to know what she means to you, what I'm dealing with here._ "I want to know about her, so I'm asking. That's what normal people do, isn't it?"

XXX

Peter grumped, grunted, and shrugged. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

XXX

_Excellent._ Peter bought it, as Sylar had expected he would. "Where do you know her from?"

XXX

Peter couldn't help being prickly, suspicious, and defensive about the whole subject. "I think the first time she really paid attention to me was when I saved her from being run over by a bus." Maybe he could distract Sylar by telling him that story, but even that would lead to the information Emma was deaf, a weakness Peter didn't want to reveal.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Typical. Fucking damsel in distress. Or maybe he just goes around perceiving catastrophes he needs to avert. _It was a line of questioning he'd have to explore another time, after more thought. "How do you know she has an ability?"

XXX

"Would you drop it, Sylar?" Peter snapped in exasperation. "We were just talking about how no one in their right mind would let you around their kid if the kid had an ability. Well, Emma has one. And it's not dangerous or defensive or anything that will warn her you're coming her way. I'm not going to tell you where to find her or why you should. She's a human being in danger and I know her personally, so I care about her even if she's never 'someone I can fuck'."

XXX

"Hey!" Sylar protested in affront. "I wasn't asking where you 'thought' she is, or _was_, or where to find her. She doesn't exist except as a figment of your mind. And I don't kill kids, thank you very much. I told you, I let three or more of them go and treated them well. I took _care_ of some of them, died for them sometimes. What I said earlier was about Lydia's mothering skills - just because people won't let me near them or their children doesn't mean I'm _going_ to do something. Hell, I was free to roam around her kid, who was still alive when I left." He allowed that to sink in before continuing, "Now, I want to know how you know she has an ability – obviously you saw it or you have it, either or both." An expectant look was aimed at Peter. "So, what is her ability?"

XXX

Peter huffed, rolled his eyes, and stomped along quietly for a while, chin tucked to his chest as he considered what Sylar had said. So Sylar didn't kill children. Little help that was, given that Emma was an adult. But it was worth something. Peter wondered if he could talk Sylar into not wanting Emma's power. Sylar had a good point about how she wasn't in any immediate danger – at least not from him, not here. "Her ability lets her see sound as colors."

XXX

Sylar stared for an extra few seconds. _Are you kidding me…?_ "That's it? That's useless!" _All this fuss for a lady who sees sound as colors? How annoying!_

XXX

_Good. Glad you think so._ Peter shrugged and kept his chin tucked. "It's an ability. Does it matter to you how useful it is?"

XXX

"Eh, sometimes." Questions in this vein were complete, for now – he moved on seamlessly, "Why did you hit me just then?"

XXX

Peter lifted his head to look Sylar over – mainly just his face, neck, and chest. They were walking fairly close to one another, within arm's reach. Peter noted the proximity only because of the subject of hitting. "I told you to stop and you didn't. You were," he quirked a brow, "escalating. So was I, I suppose." _That's what I do when I can't figure out how else to resolve a situation._

XXX

"Huh," Sylar grunted, acknowledging that he'd heard. It had been nice, getting to ask his questions and bother Peter a bit, mostly without incurring damage, lethal, lasting or cumulative. Now he wanted to think about it. Bed sounded like a welcome destination, especially since he got to share it.

XXX

Sylar said nothing for the next block and looked to be continuing that trend into the next. Peter eventually asked, "Does it matter to you how useful or powerful an ability is, when you're deciding whether to take one or let them live?"

XXX

"What, you mean about Emmy?"

XXX

"Emma!" Peter corrected testily. He shot Sylar a look, beginning to think the guy was messing with him about her name. He seemed to remember everyone else just fine. "And no, I meant about anyone, not her specifically."

XXX

Sylar smirked a bit about that and continued, answering the question. "Not in this case. In this case, I'm just curious. I like abilities. If you're asking about how it was with my ability, with people around, then I have to know if you're 'still asking now' because you already punched me and you might not like the answer."

XXX

Peter's next look was more uncertain than anything else. He didn't get what Sylar was asking for, aside from a 'don't hit me for my answer'. He frowned, wondering what Sylar could blurt out that would deserve a punch. _Maybe it's something about me and my old ability?_ If that were the case, then Peter didn't think Sylar was in any danger. "Yes, I'm still asking now."

XXX

He spared a side-eyed glance at Peter, considering it. Perhaps they were developing something of an understanding or at least a similar code. _It depends how…much my ability is pushing me. It depends on my options. (I've taken ones I've never even used…). _"I haven't come across many that I've turned down, consciously or otherwise. But I have turned some down before. I do…choose the better ones, I like to think." Just as he chose his words carefully, changing 'target' to 'choose.' Peter was awfully sensitive about word choices sometimes, even though the man abused the concept himself and waffled on it, with words like 'fucking.' '_How crass of me!' _Sylar checked his companion again, seeing how that was being accepted (or not).

XXX

"Huh," Peter grunted. There was nothing about the statements he found provocative, which was both a relief and a concern, since it meant Sylar still had no idea of what sort of things caused Peter to react. Yet he'd asked, just a few minutes earlier, about the punch Peter had thrown in the pub – asking was a good sign. "What about mine? The new one, the one I have n-, yeah, well, sort of now. I don't know. I haven't tried to swap it, if I even can." He wasn't sure if he'd survive if he were able to do it – where would his mind go? Would it get split like Sylar with part of him residing in comatose Sylar's brain and part of him running around in his body? What would that be like? What would Matt do about it? Could he fix it? That sparked a new thought. "You didn't kill Matt Parkman when you had the chance, and _his_ ability is really useful."

XXX

Sylar didn't want to address the half-voiced question about Parkman, so he went with the other. "What about your power? I don't want it."

XXX

Peter frowned, which he thought was a dumb expression to have on his face. It was the rejection, the 'you're not good enough', that he took from Sylar's comment even if Peter didn't want to take it that way. "Good," he said more roughly than he intended. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to shed the insecurity with it. It would help if he had more information. "Is there a reason?"

XXX

"Are y-?" Sylar straightened as a new thought struck him and he looked at Peter differently, wonderingly, like things made sense. "No, how could you. You said you never took a power with my ability. My ability is understanding how things work." He paused to see if that connected with Peter in any way. "When I use my…. method, my body copies the power, but I also understand how to use it. There's very little…'experimenting' I need to do. With your method," and he tried to say that without being excruciatingly condescending, "you just copy the power and you have problems like being unable to control or use it or, like you said, even knowing you have it. That's why my control will always be better than yours because I'm not getting unknown, unstable abilities just by brushing shoulders with people. That's why I don't want your power."

Sylar checked his partner, almost eagerly for several paces. It was making his head and neck throb but it was worth it and the cold helped. "I wonder if that's the difference between us. I've always had to control myself and you haven't – precision versus quantity…Whether you believe it or not, I _do_ control myself." _I wish I didn't have to or have to as much but…there it is, _he thought enviously without admitting it_._ "The strange thing is that I got a virus that wiped all my powers and when I fixed it, I still had my original. And when /Dad/ took your abilities and you took that synthetic one, you still got empathy."

XXX

Peter's head bobbed once in a nod, but otherwise they walked in silence for a while. Sylar might have thought the subject was dropped, but far from it. Peter was feeling his way through it, remembering what it felt like to gain a new ability with both his original and the later power. The original had felt like almost nothing at all – a wisp, a faint stirring inside of him – but once he knew what to feel for, he'd felt it a few times. His later power was much more … tactile. It gave him sensation on the skin of his hand and racing through his veins. It felt _good_, like a drug hit, and sometimes he even shut his eyes during the taking, though it seemed inappropriate and rude to the person he was borrowing from to let on how much he liked it.

"But, what if you-" _No, that's stupid. Don't ask him that._ He frowned severely, watching the road in front of his feet as they walked. But he was going to ask anyway. "I mean, it's not that I'm _suggesting_ you do this, but if you did ..." He glanced over at Sylar a couple times, intent and questioning without having asked the question. _He's not an idiot. He must have thought of this already. It's not like I'm giving him a new idea. I'm just asking why he's not interested. That's it, right? (I don't think I should care so much that he's interested.)_ "If you … took my ability … then wouldn't yours still work?" He shrugged shoulders tense from the thought of his own murder. "You'd be able to understand whatever you got, right?" He went on, speaking a little faster, "Like if it was my original ability. Yours would still work. You'd still know any power you got that way?" The end of the sentence lilted up in question even the exact words didn't reflect one.

_Is that my destiny? To let him get more powers without having to kill people? But then … I'd be dead._ Peter sighed unhappily. _If it saved other's lives, if it saved Emma's life … would I do it? _"Would that … guarantee that you wouldn't have to kill people anymore?" He asked hesitantly, not sure what to do with the answer.

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow, meeting the look cast his way. He deduced the reason for the other man's hesitance, what with the direction the conversation was going, but let Peter voice it in his own time mostly because Sylar was so surprised to hear it. Did it involve what he suspected it did? _Is that an invitation? I know he says he's not suggesting it but…it's the way he's wording this…_Peter's motive became clear at the end – a relief of sorts that Peter wasn't that suicidal. Casually, testing, Sylar dissembled, playing a little dumb, "I don't have my powers right now and you don't have your original ability."

XXX

"I know that!" Peter said testily. "But I don't think it will always be that way. I _can't _think it will." Then he snapped, "You're avoiding the question again!" Sylar's evasion about something so important pissed him off. Peter was considering sacrificing himself (not at the moment, of course, but later) and to get some vague non-answer went all through him, like not even his life deserved a direct answer.

XXX

Sylar smirked humorlessly. He'd wanted to know how Peter really felt about that…concept he was putting forward and now he knew. "I don't think that would work. There's…lots of reasons why," he artfully omitted his own intermittent empathy and acquisition of powers he didn't intrinsically understand, "but the primary one is that you didn't understand the abilities you got with your power. That's like expecting your power to work differently just because it's in my brain – you've had my ability and it acted the same, I think. I've never had two abilities work at the same time, except my ability with another power plus regeneration; that type of thing. I had chances to take your power…I guess I, or my ability, wasn't interested." He shrugged because it could be very useful but it didn't help him fulfill his end goal and sate his hungry desire. "I want the understanding. Sometimes my ability is smarter than I am."

XXX

Peter frowned severely at him. He was still angry – not only had his possible solution been trashed, but Sylar was still not answering one of Peter's core concerns, which was whether he'd kill him as soon as they were out of here and back in the real world. "You sure seemed interested back in Mohinder's apartment!" Irritation strongly flavored his voice. He wasn't happy about being murdered, either. Beating the crap out of Sylar would do a lot to even the score there, and maybe it would do something about his unacknowledged fears as well. He balled and released his left fist and his stride became springy as tension ramped him up. _But … wait …_ "What happened after I died then? What did you do? Why didn't you take my ability then?" The questions came rapid-fire as Peter realized he didn't know what had happened between the time the glass lodged in his skull and when Mohinder had brought him to Petrelli residence. _Did he really pass me by? Is he serious about that?_ "How did Mohinder survive?"

XXX

Sylar just huffed. It was the allure, and what's more, the display of Peter's other powers at the time that had tempted him to try to kill Peter, not the least of which was the fact that he'd survived throwing them off the high school stadium, possessed regeneration and other abilities. "If I didn't tell you before, I think you've exceeded the limit for asking questions about the past," he intoned like he was in control.

XXX

"Asking, maybe, but you haven't _answered_ any of them!" Peter canted his body towards Sylar as they walked, punctuating his words by gesturing widely with sharp, agitated motions. "Answer me for fucking once!" If Sylar was compelled to obey him, then he would, right? "What did you do after I died?" he repeated doggedly. "You were going to take my ability before, so why didn't you once I couldn't stop you?" _Wait, what if he _can't_ take an ability from someone who's dead? _Peter hesitated, brows pulling together. "Why did ..." _But maybe he _didn't_ let Mohinder get away? What if Mohinder got away on his own? (Carrying me? … Or maybe he came back for me.) What if I'm giving Sylar too much credit here and Mohinder not enough?_ Peter cocked his head, asking with more curiosity than exasperation, "How _did_ Mohinder get away from you again?"

XXX

This time Sylar growled under his breath. The answer was beyond embarrassing, so he didn't explain it. "Mohinder can be a slippery bastard. He got lucky and took you away. I was after the list anyway, but you…literally walked into it and fell into my lap, so…" Sylar's eyes scanned up and down Peter briefly because they were walking and his head was pounding worse. He was not going to put up much of a fight if Peter attacked today. The young empath's brain and pluck had been delicious back then. Sylar had enjoyed that brief struggle, a sign that his prey wasn't weak, was someone to play with. "Don't worry. Mohinder is on _my_ list." A tilt of his head before he added amused and confiding, "Though he's not at the top."

XXX

_He got lucky?_ Peter watched Sylar scope him out. _'My lap' … 'slippery' … 'on my list' – Huh. It's sexual, is it? The taking of powers, or something else? No, I think it's something else._ Sylar, laughing at Peter while Peter hit him, came to mind. _It's something else._ "What kind of list is that?" Peter asked with an undisguised, beat for beat copy of how Sylar had just looked at him. Peter was still plenty amped up, but the admission that Mohinder had bested Sylar somehow had taken a lot of the anger out of him, even if the upshot of the answer was that Sylar had not 'passed him by' in any intentional sense. It put Peter right back to where he'd started in thinking he would likely be a victim if they ever got out of here. He wasn't done making digs, though. "Who tops your … list?" he said, his delivery not as deadpan as he wanted it to be.


	92. Not a Damsel in Distress

Day 34, January 13, Evening

That word, the…innuendo therein, meant nothing to Sylar. Almost immediately, Nathan recalled it: /pornography – curiosity; in the Navy, being propositioned to bottom on board the Endeavour, being propositioned to top other men, in college – hazing, parties, orgies; even as a lawyer and as a politician./ Sylar licked his lips at the realization of the question, feeling his eyes take on another kind of intensity. Peter had asked how to fuck him. He slowed his pace and reached out to grab Peter's closer shoulder, then letting his hand slide down the man's coat-sheathed arm, brushing his chest along the way, "Don't worry, Petey. You're on the list," he rasped with plurisignificant promise. "And you can top it." _I won't make it easy, though._

XXX

Peter slowed when grasped, tensing and coming hyper-alert as some instinctive part of him brought all systems on line. He wasn't being attacked, though. The hand that stroked down his arm damn near fondled him and he was thankful (and regretful) he had on enough winter clothing to muffle the contact. Even if he lost a lot of the sensation, he missed none of the intention. Sylar's eyes were dark, lips wet, his gaze direct and demanding attention. Peter returned it, feeling his breath catch in his throat as his heart started to pound. What Sylar's words meant made its way to his conscious mind a lot slower than to his subconscious, which had apparently clued in before Sylar even spoke. There was the literal (which was troubling, actually, given they were talking about people Sylar wanted to get back at) and then the subtext (which was … fuck, an _offer_).

An offer he … did and did not want to take Sylar up on. He didn't, not really, at least he told himself that (while standing there just a few heartbeats away from having an erection), but the offer was the stuff of dark fantasy the likes of which Peter would never admit to having entertained. _Oh shit. But I started it with the 'topping' comment. And by looking at him like that._ He blinked, licking his own lips, and swallowing. He realized he'd stopped and was just standing there. They both were. And it looked a lot like Sylar was right on the cusp of …

"That's good, right?" Peter interrupted and laughed, a loose, relaxed sound as he realized how fucked he was and how fucked up all of this was. It was like when he'd woke up after Jeremy had healed him. He'd laughed out of hysteria and relief and at his own stupidity for trying to stop a shotgun shell with his chest. It was like he laughed now, knowing he'd brought this on himself, knowing he wanted it, knowing he could never take Sylar up on it. "Come on," Peter said abruptly, jerking his head the way they'd been going. "Let's keep moving. It's cold out here."

XXX

He felt a flush of heat at the other man's reaction. After a few seconds, Sylar raised an eyebrow curiously. Yes, it was a good thing. Peter had obviously missed or decided to overlook the part where it made Peter a target, so…yeah, a good thing because that left only the offer standing between them. And Peter had…laughed. It didn't sound mocking, nor did the man's body language indicate it. The response was 'keep moving. It's cold.' Sylar chose to take that as acceptance and he followed.

XXX

Peter shoved his hands in his pants pocket, the better to conceal anything that might be visible. He shook his head at his own stupid libido. It was like when Sylar had loomed over him in the hallway of the apartment and Peter had gone off upstairs and tried to jerk off but Sylar had walked in on him … yeah. Sometimes, all it seemed to take was the right fucking _look_ from Sylar to get him going. _Ridiculous – I am ridiculous._ Peter shook his head again, smiling slightly. _He called me 'Petey'. I suppose it's better than 'Pete'. _Regardless of which list he was on, he felt wanted now instead of rejected. It drained his anxiety and left Peter feeling pleased. Even the nickname was seen in a good light.

XXX

Once they were moving, Sylar checked his partner's zipper out of curiosity. He was quite certain he'd given Peter an erection at least once before. This time…he couldn't tell. Literally. Sylar was no judge of what was penis and what was simply the mobile folds of denim because it wasn't like he looked at other guys' bulges as a habit or hobby. _But he put his gloved hands in his pants this time, which is nearly impossible to do. It's awkward, so why do it?_ A check of the man's face was somewhat more helpful – Peter was ruefully amused, no longer jumpy and pressing. _I might not mind a little pressing now…I offered to let him…Great. _Anxiety killed or repressed any arousal Sylar might have had, though the idea had initially sounded very appealing, if done correctly. It was unlikely and he knew it. But Peter was interested, there was no denying it. That was all that mattered.

The rest of the walk was more or less silent. In the elevator, Sylar cast heated looks at his companion, with the intent of being caught at it a few times. Peter began to undress from his outerwear once they arrived at the apartment suite – coat, gloves, headband – and Sylar lingered nervously in the entryway, taking off his own coat and shoes. The nurse's first order of business was something involving the kitchen (and that didn't help Sylar's paranoia), which turned out to be cocoa. _He wouldn't care if I was cold, but maybe he can't perform when he's cold, in the cold. That doesn't mean I misunderstood…I just…thought he'd be a lot more…aggressive or specific…? _Half way through the process, Sylar slunk closer to sit at the table, facing forward at Peter, telling himself, _This is normal._

"What's your poison?" he asked less casually than he'd intended.

XXX

"What?" Peter looked over his shoulder from where he'd finished stirring sugar into the cups. "At the moment, hot cocoa." He turned back and hunted through the cabinet in front of him for the marshmallows, finding them.

XXX

Of course subtle went right over Peter's pretty head as it had every other time before. The man responded to directness. But not to kissing. Or licking. "What's your fantasy? Sexually," he clarified, "What do you want to do?" _Fuck. Is he making me cocoa, too?_

XXX

Peter's brows rose. _That's … blunt? Direct? A little more explicit than I thought we were? (I did bring it up …_, some part of him excused Sylar.) Taking both cups, he brought them to the table and pushed one over to Sylar. Neither were full – each was only about half full of cocoa with a layer of marshmallows that took another quarter of the cup's height. He'd misjudged the amount of milk and decided against heating more or watering it down. If Sylar wanted round two, he could make it. Or he could ask politely, which seemed unlikely as Sylar asked for very little – except for sex and more intimacy than Peter had given some of his lovers. _He has this strange, 'I ask for nothing except everything from you' going on, and then acts like he hasn't asked for anything beyond basic decency, to be indecent with me._

Peter sighed and blew in his cup, not that it did any good with the marshmallows insulating the liquid. "My fantasies involve people who want me," he stated truthfully, "and who _like_ me," he added, shutting down Sylar's chances, "for who I am rather than me being their only option." He shrugged. "I suppose it says something about me that they involve people paying attention to me rather than me to them, but that's how it is in any case." He raised his cup and took a sip. It wasn't as hot as he'd expected (which would have been too hot) and the cocoa was well-mixed; it was sweet enough.

"What's yours?" he asked more blandly than if they were discussing the route to the Home Depot.

XXX

Sylar quickly asked another question, "What do you think about when you masturbate?" with the implication that Peter possibly thought about Sylar when he jerked off. _Will he admit to it?_ He wanted to put Peter on the spot and get some information for being turned down (Peter's idea of rejection was rather weak).

XXX

Peter looked down in his cup and then got up to fetch a pair of spoons. He used his to scoop out some half-melted marshmallow to eat, following it with a drink of cocoa. It gave him time to think over Sylar's continuing inappropriate questions. He noticed the evasion of his own question, but he didn't see any harm in responding. "The person I'm with, why they're there, and how they feel about me." He inclined his head a little. "It's the same answer, really." He waited patiently for Sylar to connect the dots as to why Peter wouldn't be with him, even if he was the last man on earth.

XXX

Sylar's expression soured at the non-answer. _I'm the person you're with, who cares why you're here, and you don't have a damn clue about how I feel about anything, as if it matters anyway – he just said it didn't matter._ He idly swirled his cocoa because it was probably too hot even though Peter was drinking his like it was fine. Burger and beer was a heavy dinner or lunch, whatever, so it wasn't like he was hungry. Peter's little assumptions were getting under his skin. He frowned and addressed it with more of his current candor. "Why do you think I don't like you, Peter? How would you know if I did like you? Or do you just get to decide that? I mean, you liking me, and I'm your only option, too, how does that factor into anything?"

XXX

Peter leaned back in his seat without tipping the chair, head tilting a little. Sylar's tone and his manner was confrontational now, interrogating him. _Rejection stings,_ Peter thought, considering the irritation he'd felt when Sylar had decreed that Peter's ability wasn't good enough for him to want. It was a really stupid thing to be upset about, just as Peter didn't see much reason for Sylar to be upset that Peter wasn't into him. No reason, that is, except ego, which was one of the most important reasons of all.

He gentled his tone and leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around his nearly empty cup. "You've said you didn't like me. Most of the time you act you don't, either, but then you do things like grabbing me earlier today. I think you were trying to protect me." He gave the cup a half-turn, considering the complexity of their relationship. "I can live without sex. I want your company, though." _Sometimes. Maybe. You are my only option, after all. I'd rather be with you than alone most of the time_. He frowned and spooned out the last bit of marshmallow, washing it down with the dregs of cocoa.

Ignoring the bulk of Sylar's questions, Peter put his cup down and fixed Sylar with his full attention. "Why do you want to have sex with me? Why that, specifically, from me?"

XXX

There were so many reasons he had to answer that question. Admittedly, few of them were even good reasons. Sylar distinctly didn't want to talk about it. "No. I have reasons not to like you. I want to know if you understand why I don't like you." _At least, in the way you seem to demand to be liked. _At least Peter was perceptive enough to notice Sylar didn't 'like' him, and to remember that Sylar had said so (at some point) – the empath wasn't totally deluded.

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily and looked away, lips pursed. A lot of things ran through his head as possibilities, but he didn't have enough information. He looked back. "I don't know. I don't know what caused you to do the things you've done. A little bit of it hangs together for me, but not all of it or even most of it. So why you feel the way you do about me? I don't know and I don't want to play the guessing game while you string me along. Just tell me."

XXX

Sylar stared at him. There was nothing more he could do. He was surprised but he knew he shouldn't be – this was typical Petrelli, hero behavior. It was a low he'd thought no one would ever sink to. Maybe the lack of guessing or 'game playing' was a sadistic joke but…not even a wild theory. Nothing! It was utterly dehumanizing, degrading; he had no value and the events at Mercy were normal and morally valid. Sylar felt incredibly tired and he didn't care if another fight broke out; it just didn't matter. _He thinks that's okay, assuming he remembers it at all. He thinks it's okay. (I'm not safe)._ Eventually he stopped looking at Peter, his gaze sightlessly directed elsewhere as his breathing sped up to panting. His calm was shattered, the comfort he'd been getting from sleeping beside Peter was now suspect.

XXX

"Sylar?" he asked quietly. The guy was hurting and that hurt to see. Something Peter had said had struck deep. If it were someone else, if it were some other subject, then Peter would have moved to give comfort physically – a hand on Sylar's shoulder at the least. But the topic was why Sylar didn't like Peter. Peter was wary of people who were this quiet. It wasn't because Sylar was being polite.

"I don't understand why you _would_ like me, either," he said in the same low tone as before, voice sad as he kept his seat across the table. "That's why I'm afraid sometimes that you're going to kill me. I mean, why wouldn't you? You killed Nathan," his voice caught briefly but then steadied. "You killed my dad. You were going to kill Ma. You came back to Mercy Heights to kill me. I might not know your reasons, but I know what you intend for me and my family." _What's left of it. I'm not even sure what you did to Claire._

He watched Sylar for a long beat. The silence prompted him to go on. "The reason I don't want to guess is that there are so many things it could be. Was it the stadium in Odessa, or was it Kirby Plaza, or Mohinder in that med suite when you came back for me? Or was it the Stanton or Coyote Sands or Mercy Heights? Or any of that whole thing with Matt? And those are just the times you've been killed or close to it that I've been involved in. Or maybe you're angry about something else entirely. I don't _know_."

He didn't ask again for Sylar to tell him or explain himself. If he expected Peter to be a mind-reader, then he was expecting the superhuman in a world where they were all too human. It ran through Peter's mind that perhaps Sylar was thinking Peter knew these things from the stolen memories. He exhaled heavily, the fingers of his left hand picking briefly and anxiously at the edge of the brace on his right. He rose more slowly than normal and fetched Sylar's painkillers, offering them because he didn't know what else he had to offer as a balm.

XXX

Of course, thinking about it from Peter's perspective, it probably _wasn't_ obvious though Sylar still thought it should be. Peter droning on about just how clueless he was wasn't helping, neither was Sylar's rising anger. It didn't give him any response, no way to communicate the issue let alone sort his feelings. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about but it needed to be said at some point – for now, Peter was aware there was an issue on Sylar's end. More animated at least, he took the pills. "That answers it," he said with a dull edge. _Is he safe to sleep with? _Sylar gave him a searching look. _Why didn't I originally include him in the plan to kill the Petrellis? Claire still isn't 'on the list.' Peter's on it now. (Sort of. Why do I want to sleep- fuck him?)._ He knew he should stick up for himself in this. "I have reasons for everything I do." _Why can't you see that?!_ "That's all I can tell you for now." _I should probably wait until we can fight about it – it's not like Petrelli would think he has any blame._ "I'm going to read," Sylar said like he didn't care what Peter did with himself. He wanted to think, so he escaped to the bed.

It had been such a long day: Peter's weirdness and claimed ignorance, confessions, getting hit again, almost getting hit _on_ – for once! He'd been so close, he could taste it…or maybe that was the lingering taste of Peter's knuckles on his tongue…Sylar comforted himself with the knowledge that Peter's body very much wanted to fuck him. He shot another piercing look over the top of his book, _I wonder if he needs to jerk off. Again. Has he been getting off?_

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily at the lack of answers, which Sylar claimed was an answer. The 'all I can tell you for now' made him wonder if Sylar was operating under some mental compulsion to be obtuse. But it wasn't necessarily that. He could simply be unwilling to tell. Peter knew it wasn't like he was a trustworthy, sympathetic ear for the man. After all Sylar had done, Peter found it hard not to be either wary or seething, especially when reminded of the past. He collected the cups from the table, noticing how Sylar hadn't touched the cocoa he'd made him, that Peter had shorted himself on to have enough to share. It pissed him off more than anything else had. He felt ignored, taken for granted, despised, and rejected. He was unwanted and unappreciated – or at least, the things he wanted to be wanted for, and appreciated for, were meaningless to Sylar. Instead, Sylar just wanted to fuck him, even as he talked about how much he didn't like him. Peter was seething again. In a quiet fury, he poured the cup out, rinsed them both, and headed downstairs without any announcement of his intentions.

XXX

Sylar sat up and frowned heavily at the other man's abrupt exit. What did that mean? How far was Peter going? He worried despite everything. _Well, fuck you, too. Oh, wait, you won't let me._ It was obvious he wasn't meant to follow and…the bed was comfortable. Maybe it was better to be alone to be both safe and somewhat comfortable (because there was more comfort to be had, if he could arrange it).

XXX

Peter put his emotions into music, not returning for dinner until some hours later. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself on toasted raisin bread and had one of Sylar's apples with it. Still feeling angry and hurt, he didn't volunteer to make anything for Sylar, nor ask him what he wanted. Peter sat on the couch near one of the lights, where he transferred the measurements they'd taken that morning to his sketchpad, then browsed through the books for ideas. He didn't stay at it for long, wondering as he climbed in bed how much longer he'd have to keep these close living arrangements with someone who would kill him if circumstances were even a little different.

XXX

Sylar frowned some more through his relief at seeing Peter again. He definitely felt ignored and momentarily abandoned. _He knows how I feel about that and he does it anyway, on purpose._ The silence grew stronger; Sylar bunkered down on himself, not attempting to break it because he hadn't done anything to earn this treatment. His pride outweighed the slight rumble of his stomach when Peter made his own dinner. _If I want to eat, I'll make something_, he told himself. He was lonely, even having the empath's presence – his back was turned, not a look, not a word spared for him.

After Peter readied himself for bed, Sylar followed, brushing teeth and hair, pajamas and using the toilet. He carefully approached the bed Peter already occupied, laying on his designated 'side' (they had sides!) about a foot away from Peter to be cautious. And, admittedly, he really wasn't up for trying anything in spirit or in body. He let things lie between them and eventually fell into a tortured sleep. He was in Taub's apartment – the blue walls, white trim and dark taupe carpet he'd know anywhere. He sat in a small body before a bloody corpse that filled him with such terror and shame. Whoever he was, he realized he was a child and he knew the corpse was his mother, dead by his doing somehow (he both knew and didn't know how it was his fault, if his actions directly caused her end). Sylar…Gabriel?...lay next to her cold and entirely distant body, waiting for her to wake up and comfort him. He rocked himself, plucking at her, jostling her to help the process, crying the whole while.

From nowhere, on the other side of his mother, appeared…another mother – one whose face kept shifting back and forth between two dark haired, dark eyed women. One wore sweaters and hairpins and a cross, the other pearls and eyeliner. Both were his mother. They called to him, 'Gabriel…Gabriiiel!' Their arms outstretched to…grab or embrace him, he couldn't be sure. And he was torn between who was right, who was alive, who would punish him and hurt him the worst over being betrayed because he _had_ to choose! He'd already killed one mother! Her blood was all over him now. He tried to scramble back; while he moved, he didn't gain any distance, it was like he squirmed on ice with no momentum or leverage. He was stuck! They would get him and tear him apart under the guise of love. There was no one to hear, not that he could get much sound out anyway, though he tried to question to make sense of it.

XXX

Noise. _Huh?_ Peter waited a beat, playing 'Dream or Not Dream' with himself as he tried to sort out what had woken him. But there it was again, along with a fitful kick by his bedmate. _Not Dream._ Aside from the brief, startling blow, they weren't touching – he didn't remember touching Sylar at all earlier, having been feeling unsafe and unhappy when he'd gone to bed, huddling on his side and staying strictly apart. Sylar sounded distressed, his breathing ragged and forced. Peter reached out automatically with his foot to find the part that had kicked him, establishing the contact that was so important to him. Peter fumbled through his sleep-addled memory for what Sylar had told him to do if he had a nightmare. _'Throw a pillow at me.' Well, I'm in bed with him already, so …_ He took his pillow and nudged Sylar with it firmly, in the side. "Sylar? Sylar?"

XXX

The corpse beside him convulsed and a hand locked around his ankle – he could feel the pressure! Sylar or Gabriel, turned to see his mother's grey, lifeless face like a zombie, morph into Peter Petrelli's satanic grin. The…body (still his mother's, bloody clothes and a skullcap just barely attached, sliding around, leaking red) heaved itself to its side and began to drag itself towards him, working with the other mothers in reaching for his head to take his memories. Somehow he knew that was the point of everything. He also knew the process would be far more prolonged and agonizing than it had been before. He held out his arms, kicking, pushing the fiendishly strong and determined corpse away, and struggled against all three (four?) of them, trapped and outmanned in his frail child's form – it would fail him, his strength would give out and they would remake him into…whatever they pleased, he didn't know: something useful and special surely; someone who wouldn't kill his loved ones.

XXX

Peter let go of the pillow after Sylar hit his forearm, only to have the pillow shoved at him as Sylar flailed in his direction. He backed up, off the bed entirely to stand next to it, uncertain as to how intentional Sylar's attack was. In the dark, getting the pillow shoved in his face looked a lot like a violent rebuff – 'get away from me, NOW!' Despite how smooth a continuance that was with how little Sylar wanted his help, Peter waited before passing judgment. He knew that his own nocturnal actions were little reflection of his conscious desires. In the meantime, he turned on the lamp on the nightstand to see what was really going on.

XXX

Sylar gasped fresh air. He thrashed some more, feeling muffled in every way but the light burning his eyes even through his lids came from somewhere outside his terror and he followed it out, gratefully. He raised a hand against the light, panting and still panicked. It all washed over him a second time when he saw who stood by the lamp. Peter Petrelli, alive, in his own body, but looking him over all the same. Sylar stared back in horror, poised for the slightest wrong move (but even then, he wasn't sure he could hold it together). He felt his breath choking, his eyes still felt muffled but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop, could never stop and that's why he was here.

XXX

Peter saw the moment when Sylar truly woke, when realization dawned on him that he was in a bed and the nightmare wasn't real. Peter had had that feeling himself. Years ago, it had only meant waking or half-waking from disturbing or passionate dreams, rarely troubling his sleeping companion if he had one. But since his abilities had manifested, it had been better for him to sleep alone. When he had his memories and knew who he was, his dreams were more often violent and his waking from them left him disoriented and emotionally jarred. He could see that on Sylar's face now. Sylar, who didn't want to share anything with him of himself, had asked (insisted) on Peter sharing his bed for just this reason. At least on some level, Peter thought, Sylar wanted his help. He let out his held breath slowly, putting the pillow back on the bed before climbing on himself, careful and slow with his motions, telegraphing before committing and constantly watching the other man. Peter lay on his side facing Sylar. He reached out and touched him on the outside of his elbow, testing the waters. Maybe Sylar didn't want to be touched at all; maybe he wanted it as badly as it looked. When the contact wasn't refused, Peter scooted closer and raised his arm in mute invitation for a hug.

XXX

That tiny touch, meaningless by itself but made incredible by context, nearly broke him. He was so disgustingly weak, beyond pity and repair yet it made him feel…soothed, to the core, somewhere deep he couldn't reach inside himself. His throat ached so hard it made him cry more. Sylar let Peter do whatever he wanted then, he fell into the hug without even seeing it; he could only feel it. He wanted _out_ and _away_ and this solid human mass of warmth would do for now. It wasn't like he could do anything else right now but clutch at his companion's soft t-shirt, which was the most amazing thing he could remember feeling. He felt sure rejection was inevitable, though it was a good thing he wasn't being pushed away because he didn't think his grip would ever loosen.

XXX

Peter pulled Sylar into him, repeating the positioning he'd used at the police station, but this time they were a lot closer with neither of them in winter wear. Sylar was cradled against his chest, arms folded between them, face against Peter's chest and hands buried in his shirt. Peter's chin was on a level with the top of Sylar's head, tousled hair brushing his neck. His right arm was around the other man's back while his left was trapped between them and under Peter's body. He stroked Sylar's back slowly, thinking back to how hollow-eyed the guy had been after a few days of solitude. Sylar had implied he hadn't slept after Peter left the apartment. _Is he having nightmares now, even though we're in the same bed, because of last night's argument?_ Peter curled his fingers so it was his first knuckles rubbing up and down, feeling the other man's body shake with quiet weeping. He gave a brief, tighter squeeze with his right forearm and tucked his head to the side, pressing his cheek to Sylar's head, rocking them briefly side to side. Peter made a faint sound deep in his chest – the only sound he'd made so far. It was a whine of sympathy before he went back to merely holding. He moved his left hand forward for a little more engagement, even if all he could manage was a touch of fingertips on Sylar's right forearm. It was nice to give comfort and have it accepted, to do something for someone and have them … well, he wasn't sure if Sylar appreciated this or not, but at least he allowed it and that was something.

XXX

Sylar prayed his sobbing explained everything and nothing at the same time. He needed both, or…the reality of one and the illusion of the other. He was disgusting and he didn't know how Peter could touch him. Tears were to be ignored, punished at worst but it felt like such a pressure valve even as it hurt to breathe, to think, to feel. Sylar was sure he was hysterical – that was an excellent explanation if nothing else; he couldn't label it otherwise. The contact hit a part of his brain that was fucking ravenous and it devoured the proximity as he gushed saline and snot on Peter once again. The emotions cycled out of him until he was angry and he kneaded and tugged (both towards and away from himself) the man's t-shirt, as if trying to move the man himself. _I hate you!_ he thought vehemently. He meant it and much more, every flavor or hatred and friendship, competition, envy, rejection, pain, longing, lust and love within the word.

XXX

Peter switched to patting as Sylar grew restive and he leaned back to give an inch or two more space between them. He couldn't see Sylar's expression, but he could see the fists balled in his shirt and feel the fabric tight around his torso. His hand moved up to Sylar's shoulder, smoothing down his upper arm to where the t-shirt ended and bare skin began. His hand moved over it, stopping to clasp lightly just above Sylar's elbow. He gave a light tug like another invitation to embrace – waiting, watching, and letting Sylar process while also letting him know he was welcome and safe. He didn't ask any questions or demand explanations. This was not a time for either and anyway, the situation was obvious. Knowing the details wouldn't change anything, but he'd listen if they were offered.

Sylar was so human and fragile that Peter held and comforted him without a judgmental thought to Sylar's past. All that 'angry killer who had his reasons for all he did' routine – Peter didn't think Sylar was happy with those reasons. _Bad choices – just like me with Caitlin – things I still regret even though I know it was right. (Sort of.) Does he regret what he's done and just can't admit it?_ Peter gave him another squeeze, sympathetic to that, understanding the fear that could hold Sylar from sharing something like an 'I was wrong' with someone he trusted as little as he did Peter.

XXX

So much Sylar wanted to blame and hurt Peter – just for being here, for making him feel this way, for asking questions, for holding him now, for hurting him before. It was easier and simple, unlike what he felt now: complicated. At the same time, he wished to cling with grateful, pathetic need and hurting Peter would end this thing, which hurt worse and soothed him. He couldn't bring himself to pull away despite his own sense of morals and pride – both of which were in upheaval. A few more rough, going-through-the-motions tugs of Peter's shirt helped settle him, along with the invitation for the hug to continue. The direct contact made him hold his breath, unsure of what that meant: stop or…? It confused him so he quit tugging.

He did not want to know what Peter thought of him in this moment but he could deal with it another day, it seemed. For once, he just needed and for once, he was getting it. Sylar couldn't remember a time since Elle, all those years ago, when someone had held him while he cried and didn't push him away when they thought he should man up. He told himself that now with little effect. He liked where he was and he would pay for it later if he had to. Some strange olfactory sense was aware that Peter smelled comforting (because his nose was useless from the crying); the man was warm and Sylar was still tired, if possibly less tense than he was before. His upper arm, which had been doing the primary shirt-pulling, rested around Peter's ribs and back, keeping them in place. If he slept again, he hoped it would be better. His eyes ached so he closed them.

Day 35, January 14, Morning

Peter woke up with Sylar's head on his left bicep, his right arm loosely slung around the guy, Sylar's breath puffing on his chest. Their legs were similarly entwined. The smell between them was heavy, but healthy and human. He didn't mind. So much contact! He didn't tend to sleep this close even with lovers, but he wasn't a stranger to waking up like this from time to time – though it was usually more comfortable. He was hot, almost sweaty. His jeans were binding and uncomfortable, getting more every second … because, he realized suddenly, the close quarters and intimacy, combined with the biology of waking up, was giving him an erection.

_No!_ He wasn't sure how the two of them had become so close, but now that he was awake, he wouldn't stay that way. He pulled away as gently as he could, disentangling himself and moving out from under the covers. He sat at the edge of the bed, raking his hair out of face as he tried to recall the events of the night. He remembered moving and repositioning the two of them so dimly he might have been imagining it – more clear was Sylar cuddled up to his chest, sobbing. _What started that? Did it just happen? Did I wake up and he was crying?_ He seemed to remember Sylar making noises and thrashing, but the details and timeline were fuzzy. _Didn't he have a nightmare? I think that's what happened_. It fit all the information and had the benefit of being innocent enough that Peter didn't feel (very) bad about climbing all over Sylar in his sleep.

He stretched a little, stiff. So was his shirt. He looked down and picked at the suspicious, crusty spots on it, glad he could remember Sylar crying because otherwise his next guess about might have caused that was a lot more worrisome.

XXX

Whatever pillow he was pressed against was getting a promotion – it felt fantastic and unlike anything Sylar had ever experienced. It moved and made noise, waking up, so he became aware that it was a person but it lacked any sense of threat so he gave it no mind. He purred and reached after it, still half asleep, eyes shut. The movement away got his attention enough that he woke. _Peter…?_ his mind supplied cluelessly. Peter Petrelli had slept with him like that? Peter had been that close to him? Had that been something hard against him lower down? Yet the empath wasn't rushing for the shower or anywhere else – instead he sat at the edge of the bed, quietly and calm as far as Sylar could tell. _What does that mean? Should I pretend to be sleeping or…_Asking questions was likely to start the day in an unpleasant manner and that decided him. He couldn't help himself, though. It was stupid, especially when he didn't know how Peter felt about any of it. A hand placed in the middle of Peter's back, rubbing there in a barely-platonic way, "Peter," he said almost as a question, though the implication was clear: come back.

XXX

Peter looked back at the touch, pulling one knee on the bed. Sylar looked a little rough, but easy on the eyes all the same – that face would be handsome even in the worst of conditions, he knew for a fact. Peter also knew what was being asked of him. _What kind of a lover would he be?_ Peter couldn't help but ask himself with that hand stroking his back. He couldn't remember Sylar ever touching him like this before – nice, intimate, friendly, not frightening and threatening with dark promise even if the potential was still there. His eyes held Sylar's. Both of them looked uncertain of where things stood between them after sharing hours in one another's arms. _Has anything changed? He still doesn't like me, does he? If we did … do something … it wouldn't change anything else. He'd still probably kill me when we got out of here; he still wouldn't help Emma and the others. I'd just be in even deeper than I am now._

XXX

Peter allowed the touch. Sylar pressed for more. "Lay down. I'll give you a massage," he appealed. Peter wore a shirt and it was interfering with Sylar's gutterbrain.

XXX

Peter reached back and captured the hand that was touching him, taking it down to the mattress where he trapped it for the time being. He glanced down, not sure what to do with it now that he had it, his hand loosely around Sylar's wrist. He ignored the offer and changed the subject to one he found less disturbingly tempting. "How do you feel?"

XXX

Both of them looked at their hands. Sylar felt a strange flutter of excitement and a slow tide of something warm about it. "Better." He didn't pretend to misunderstand what he knew Peter meant. It was honest; it just slipped out. He didn't regret it; it felt good – it felt good to feel good.

XXX

Peter petted the back of Sylar's hand a couple times, about as 'barely platonic' as Sylar rubbing his back. He wasn't sure what their relationship was, but he thought something had changed – more inside of him than Sylar, probably. He was losing that hard edge of hatred and the constant blame that he used as sword and shield against Sylar's humanity. He wondered if the events Sylar had needed comforting over included Nathan's death. Peter didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, if it did. "What happened last night?" Peter's hand stilled and he watched Sylar closely.

XXX

Sylar inhaled slowly, deeper than before at the petting. He had no idea what that meant, none at all. It seemed a weird thing for one man to do to another but…he couldn't argue the feeling. Then it stopped and Peter turned on him with intent. Sylar tensed, wondering if having his hand trapped (and stroked) was some kind of overture to the hand being damaged if he didn't give the correct type of answer, a response he couldn't fathom at. He stared back at Peter. "I had a nightmare. You hugged me. I fell asleep." That was usually what Peter's questions were about with this sort of thing, right? 'How the hell did you end up in bed with me again?' Sylar…didn't know if he wanted to think about the other possibilities behind the question.

XXX

Peter gave a bobbing tilt of his head. _Yes, I remember that much, dork,_ he thought with amusement. "I was hoping for some details. I'm not going to put conditions on me being there for you when you're upset. That's not how it works. But if you're willing to tell me what was happening for you, I'd like to hear. I'd like to know what matters to you. That's what you want me here for, right?" He smiled a little, voice soft. "Slay the dragons, be a hero, keep the nightmares away? It's easier to do if I know what I'm fighting."

XXX

_No conditions?_ Sylar noticed immediately; then _(Yes, that's exactly what I want you here for). _Firmly enunciating, he took his hand back and clarified his position…somewhat. "I am not a damsel in distress. I can fight my own battles and hold my own." Looking down at the recently freed hand, he reconsidered and changed tactics. "But I'll play your game. Assuming I wanted that, what do you want in return?"

XXX

_Sylar, a damsel in distress._ Peter had to really fight to keep his face serious for that mental image, despite how much he knew that everyone needed help at one time or another. "All I would want," he said slowly, not understanding the question, "is enough information to do a good job. And," he shrugged one shoulder self-consciously, "to know that I was doing a good job. If I was."

XXX

"That's it?" Sylar deadpanned in disbelief.

XXX

"That's it."


	93. Under My Skin

Day 35, January 14, Morning

"And I have to tell you…?" His question trailed off; Sylar was honestly uncertain of what Peter wanted him to divulge.

XXX

"When you're upset. What you're upset about." Peter glanced away, trying to think of how to communicate better. "Like if I wake you up, how would I know if you were angry and wanted to be left alone, or if you were sad and wanted," he gestured between them, "what we did last night. Otherwise I'm just guessing."

XXX

Sylar couldn't grasp how someone sobbing wasn't obviously upset but there were different rules for psychopaths who sobbed. He'd needed so he took. _(It was offered). _It was a very sore subject and the only reason he spoke about it was Peter's near indifference to the occurrence – like it was somehow normal or expected. Maybe for Peter it was normal and expected; maybe mentally unstable people did that a lot or the medic's job involved it for all he knew. "And you're not going to do anything with the information other than…not-guess?" He remembered Peter bringing up the memories he said he wouldn't. It could have been so much worse. _He wants…an operating procedure. That's normal. I want the same thing from him. I won't tell him and he…lies – or says one thing I know will prove to be a lie…He lies to himself, so he lies to me. He's emotionally compromised to hell. When it's…obvious, I can tell him. I can always hit him._

XXX

"I don't understand." Peter was lying. He believed Sylar was asking if Peter was going to belittle him with whatever troubled Sylar's sleep the most, if he was going to make waking time into a more active humiliation than whatever happened in the nightmares themselves. It was so vile that to even suggest Peter might do something like that, that it was insulting. So he pretended he didn't get it.

XXX

"You won't…ask me to do things in the future because of this?" An obvious question and concern, but Sylar voiced it anyway. Deals with Petrellis often resulted in 'sin and dirty-work first, payment-as-agreed later' but the payment never came and he usually found out he'd been fucked over and used. The bitterness of that lingered. A smart person would omit any references to future repayment in this situation – it was time to see if Peter was that slippery.

XXX

"No." Peter looked at Sylar intently, torn between confused and concerned. _Has he in the past only been comforted based on what he'd do?_ The image that came to mind was a mother extracting a promise from a crying boy to clean his room, and not showing any sympathy until he agreed. It was so twisted Peter couldn't see it as a real scenario until he replaced the mother figure with his father. He swallowed, suddenly able to imagine it all too clearly. What would it have been like if he'd been raised by his father and a female version of his father, or a disinterested other parent? Angela, for all her failings, had been a loving mother and many times ran interference between Arthur and her youngest son. What if someone like her hadn't been there?

"That's what I meant by not putting conditions on it. And you don't have to tell me anything. Just like last night." He gestured at the bed again. "I'm glad you feel better. _That's_ what I get out of it." He waited a few beats, letting Sylar think about it, before standing. "I'm going to go clean up." He started around the bed, hesitating at the end of it. He touched a protrusion of blanket, beneath which probably resided one of Sylar's feet. "Thank you for letting me help you." He gave Sylar a long, steady look. "I have things I need, too." He nodded to himself and left for the bathroom, making his escape before he said anything more revealing. Peter needed to help people, wanted to, and even if it was Sylar, the last person on Earth Peter was willing to help, Sylar _was_ the last other person on Earth as far as he was concerned right now. He'd liked holding him.

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter's back. _Did he just thank me for…? And he 'has needs, too'? But I've been asking what he needs. (No. You've been asking what he wants. I think he was saying he needs to be helpful). I thought we established that he won't help me and I can't be helped. It doesn't say anything about him being trustworthy. (He hasn't done anything monstrous, either)._ So there he lay, busily thinking, feeling things out. It felt nice, non-threatening even if he didn't have many answers. _Does that mean he's moving in and sleeping with me full-time? (I should tell him putting out is 'helpful')._ Sylar smirked to himself. He could still smell Peter. It was clear Peter was a sucker for the 'playing sick and weak' act, especially when it wasn't an act. His headache felt a little better, probably due to endorphins and a seemingly successful arrangement. Sylar wandered to the kitchen, perusing the breakfast options with half an interest. He toyed with the idea of joining Peter in the shower, if the door was unlocked.

XXX

Peter stripped and showered, glad to be out of the grimy, damp, snotted-on clothes. He emerged, shaved, then washed his face and brushed his teeth. He was midway through his dental routine when he realized he had a problem – he had no other clothes in the bathroom with him. Under normal circumstances, in his own apartment, this was how it always was. Here, with Sylar, it hadn't happened before because he wore his dirty clothes downstairs to work out, then across the street to clean up at his place. But his clothes had never been more than a little sweaty in the past. He spat and rinsed, putting away his toothbrush.

He put his brace back on (for the last week, he'd been taking it off for bathing), wrapped a towel around himself as securely as possible, and set out. After a fruitless search of the guest room, he unwillingly paraded himself through the living room and exited to the hallway beyond. He called back, "I'm going to go look for clothes." There was an apartment at the end of the hall where he'd found the thick winter coat he'd been wearing and the shorts he had downstairs in the workout room. It seemed like his best bet, so he walked down the hall to start there.

XXX

_Well, I was wondering if I was supposed to take that as an invitation…_Eyebrows raised, he stopped what he was doing and stared as Peter waltz out the front door in nothing but a towel (so he assumed). "Sure you need 'em?" he muttered, then louder, "Need a hand?"

XXX

Peter didn't answer. He was uncomfortable about the whole situation. It had 'mixed signals' written all over it. The fact that Sylar hadn't done anything (much) about the things Peter had done which could be taken as flirty weighed heavily in the man's favor. _Maybe … he's kind of okay?_ It didn't fit, but on the other hand, Sylar's behavior of the last few days didn't fit with him being a monster, either.

XXX

Sylar smirked. _Sure you don't._ Peter cleaned up nice, even for a casual…outing. He deduced Peter would return as soon as possible, successful or otherwise, or catch a cold, so he didn't worry. It was way more amusing than it was sexy, although it served as a reminder of how comfortable Peter was around him now. The empath was clean and Sylar wanted to dirty him up again. And smell him. Sylar plotted how to get more physical contact from Peter (who was giving more of his own accord without any manipulation or request) – he couldn't break down every five minutes to get attention, it just wasn't feasible or believable.

XXX

Peter returned wearing what he was sure were fashionable (within a demographic he'd aged out of ten years ago) cargo pants kept up with a belt that was on its last notch. The grey, sleeveless t-shirt was almost too small, which didn't make a lick of sense, but it was what he had found quickly. _It's better than a towel._ He knocked twice as a formality, then opened the door and came in without waiting for a response. He took the bath towel from his shoulder and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. "You, my friend," Peter pointed at Sylar, "are going shopping with me today and we are going to get some decent clothes." He stopped to evaluate how Sylar was dressed – in the sweat pants Peter had previously worn, and a t-shirt that was also too short for him, exposing a little more darkly-furred belly than Peter's eyes could pass over without pause. They paused now. _He's wearing my pants …_ After a moment, he cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly and coloring as he looked away. "Yeah … we've … definitely got to go shopping." Trying to change the subject, he moved into the kitchen. "So what's for breakfast?"

XXX

'_My friend'? __He puffed up at that.__Foiled by…a teenager's clothes. Dressing the part? Acting our age? _Sylar still looked him over, appreciating the tight shirt now (but it would be hell to remove in a pinch) and since he was doing that he caught Peter's look back at him…lower down, if he wasn't mistaken. _Mmm_. Breakfast was going to be hard. "We already have lotion," Sylar murmured to himself. To Peter, he said, "Strawberries?" and slid a plastic clam carton of them over the counter, keeping his hand on it an extra moment just to bother the other man and get a reaction. "They're an aphrodisiac, you know. Lots of seeds for fertility." _While I get my forbidden fruit. _He leaned on the counter and watched Peter intently, biting into his apple like he wished to devour his companion.

XXX

Peter chuckled. He looked between the berries and Sylar's face, Peter's hand touching the other end of the carton, but doing nothing else, waiting the extra beat until Sylar pulled his hand away. "Hm," Peter gave a blandly amused hum in response. He opened the noisy plastic and pulled one out. "Are they really?" _Don't they say the same thing about pomegranates? Of course, they have a lot of seeds, too._

XXX

"They were called 'fruit nipples' and everything." _This seduction is lame. Feed him then fuck him already. (Feed him what exactly?) Right._ The question was put on him originally – what was for breakfast. It sounded like Sylar was supposed to prepare it. "Toast, cereal, bagels,…pancakes?" He didn't offer up any of Peter's ridiculous 'hummus' and veggies because they still didn't make up a meal.

XXX

Peter shrugged, glancing around. Nothing was made or being made as far as he could tell. The strawberries would go great with pancakes, but he didn't feel like making them himself. "Maybe some cereal with the strawberries in it. That sounds good." He moved to get the milk and cereal, leaving spoons, bowls, and sugar to Sylar.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said and turned to get started. "What's that hummus crap you got?"

XXX

Peter gave him a brief frown. "It's hummus. Ground up chickpeas." Or at least that was what he'd been told. He'd never made it himself, but he liked eating it. "You can mix a lot of other stuff in it to make it more interesting, if you want. Like salsa or bacon bits or chopped hot peppers or whatever." Not that he tended to eat bacon, but he was pretty sure the artificial ones weren't animal products. Little crunchy bits in the dip made him happy. It gave him a different experience to seek after, just like he was doing now with the strawberries hiding under the bran flakes in his cereal bowl. Sylar had fallen silent, so Peter let his thoughts be absorbed by the pleasant adventure of his food.

XXX

By the time Peter was nearly done with breakfast, Sylar had been thinking. He was horny. He wanted to get with Peter badly and his need was growing, fueled by the little man's every action. Peter liked having his questions answered (or so Peter thought), and Sylar wasn't really sure why he chose that question to answer other than the fact that it served his needs at the moment – a desire for more contact like they'd had in bed.

Walking up beside his seated…companion, Sylar laid a hand on his shoulder as Peter often did to him. It came to be a comfort to Sylar, to be able to touch in this way because it was unfamiliar to him and also all too familiar – almost incestuously so. Peter didn't give it much notice at first but as Sylar lingered, he paid attention. Sylar didn't immediately make eye contact about it, instead focusing on what he wanted to say.

"Remember when you asked me why I wanted sex, specifically, from you?" Of course, Peter probably didn't remember the actual question, though it surely lurked in his brain somewhere still (one of those silly excuses he made up to avoid or prevent sexual contact). That was the whole idea – that this answer was a surprise.

XXX

Peter had been lost in truly inconsequential thoughts about the tiny strawberry seeds he could faintly see at the bottom of his bowl, swimming in the last bit of milk. He'd been wondering if they were worth trying to fish out and eat – the value being not nutritional, but entertainment. Sylar's hand on his shoulder didn't register right away. It should have – Sylar intentionally initiated touching him seldom enough that Peter should have clued instantly. Perhaps it was the lingering warmth from spending the night comforting the guy – his defenses weren't up as they should have been. He looked up and listened to the question, blinking as he oriented to the new topic and pushed his bowl away a few inches. "Yeah."

XXX

Sylar couldn't tell if he was lying or if it mattered. "I want sex, specifically, from you, specifically, for lots of reasons: I am your brother, sort of."

XXX

_Whoa! Wait, what?_ Peter leaned away, drawing a confused breath and trying to figure that out. _Brothers having sex? Um … no, no._ Not that he hadn't thought about it a few times, but those were bad thoughts, not to be acknowledged or encouraged. Thank God he'd never shared anything like that with Nathan, or else Sylar would know it now. He said nothing, eyes locked on Sylar's, waiting to see where this bizarre revelation was going.

XXX

Sylar let him lean away, but his hand stayed in place on the shoulder. He was far from finished. (Honestly, the idea that incest bothered Peter was laughable). "So I feel brotherly towards you the way Nathan was but…some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter, you have to know that. I want to ruin you, possess you, use you, and protect you in ways Nathan never did and never could." As Sylar spoke, his voice deepened, growing rough, and his hand began to caress the Jersey knit of Peter's t-shirt collar and barely brush the nearby flesh.

XXX

_Nathan had those feelings, too?_ There was a half-second of speculation about what that meant before the rest of Sylar's words obliterated his thinking process. _Ruin … possess … protect … _and the touch that was there so light that Peter wanted to strain for more. He had stopped leaning away without realizing it. The rumbling tone of Sylar's voice swept him up in escalating arousal. It was an answer, and a damn good one. It was specific to Peter and specific _for_ him. Sylar wanted _him_ – uniquely, specially, just because of who he was. It even explained away the incest angle, while leaving Peter tantalized by just what exactly Nathan might have felt towards him.

XXX

"I want to fuck you for revenge, against Ma, against Nathan and everyone. Take you from them and keep you." His fingers slid around the back of Peter's neck, under his hair as the man breathed harder and felt hot to the touch.

XXX

_Keep me? Revenge?_ Warning bells were going off in Peter's head, but it was difficult to focus on them over the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. His skin was tingling everywhere Sylar was touching him. He looked up at the man looming above him, dark and sensual. The contrast between the danger Sylar posed and the gentleness of his touch was making Peter's blood rush. His lips parted as he panted.

XXX

"I could have…had every living member of your family; I've…sampled most of them. I wonder sometimes if I should have fucked Nathan, so I could say I had the infamous Petrelli brothers but…I know what he was like in bed. I didn't miss anything. Now…I'm curious and very optimistic about you. You have such potential." He gripped the graceful column of neck, massaging it for now, a thumb stroking up the strong, visible muscle around the throat, over the artery. His other arm reached around to hold the far side of Peter's face. With that, he slid himself into Peter's lap, giving in to instinct. The rigidity against his crotch matched his own – it was a very good sign.

XXX

Desire turned to revulsion so fast it took Peter's breath away. Another word Sylar had spoken earlier and Peter had glossed over came back to him: _'use'_. Wedged between the infinitely more sexy 'possess' and 'protect', Peter had ignored it at first, but it was clear now how it fit in. He was to be 'used' for Sylar to get his revenge, 'used' for Sylar to complete his sick collection. It had nothing to do with Peter – he was expendable again, important to Sylar only because Peter was the only family member Sylar could lay his hands on at the moment. And once he was done 'using' Peter to torment Angela and whoever else he had it in for, he'd kill him and move on to another member of Peter's family. It wasn't over. Sylar was not 'kind of okay'. His recent good behavior was nothing but a sham.

Breathing shallow and fast, Peter lifted his chin, trying to pull together his thoughts in the face of Sylar caressing his throat and settling on his lap. He didn't know what to do and was momentarily frozen by the emotional whiplash. Revulsion or no, not all parts of Peter's body seemed to have gotten the message. He was still disturbingly turned on.

XXX

Sylar dipped his own head down to rest his nose and lips against the incline of Peter's neck and shoulder, cradling face and neck, inhaling deeply and sighing at that small victory. It was completely wrong how good Peter smelled.

"I _love_ forbidden fruit." Sylar's voice was a baritone, heated growl against his skin as Peter's Adam's apple jolted up and relaxed again with a breathy exhale.

XXX

_Oh fuck._ Peter deeply regretted every mixed signal, every word and action that hadn't been a firm shutdown of Sylar's desires for him. For a few seconds, he felt like this was all his fault – he'd led Sylar on by walking through the apartment with nothing but the towel, he'd given the wrong impressions by being too close when comforting Sylar after the nightmare (or maybe he shouldn't have comforted him at all?), or maybe it was the strawberries and he should have rejected them, or at least objected to Sylar's now-obvious innuendo instead of humoring him with that chuckle.

It was the unjustified guilt over the strawberries that changed Peter's mind. He was not responsible for Sylar's actions. He was not required to question his own motives or double-check the wisdom of accepting goddamn _fruit_ from Sylar. And Sylar knew all of this, or else it wouldn't be 'forbidden' fruit. He knew damn well where Peter had drawn the line and what was evidently attractive to him was crossing it. (That and the apparently irresistible urge to emotionally traumatize every Petrelli he could reach.) Peter's lip curled. His body stiffened. His heart was pounding for an altogether different reason now – rage.

XXX

"I want all your spirit and passion, everything you have to give. I covet it. I love a challenge. You're still my enemy and I want to play rough and see who comes out on top. If only you'd play along." He feathered fingers into the man's hair, feeling of it and mouthing his partner's throat because it wasn't a 'kiss.' "Just take what your body already wants. _Take_ _it_ and you can have it, Peter."

XXX

Sylar's body was too close to his own for Peter to drop him on his ass like he'd done on New Year's Eve. Although turning cold and acting disinterested would probably hurt Sylar more, it wasn't Peter's style. His blood was running hot.

He jerked his upper body sideways, away from Sylar's lips. "You've already taken the best part of me." And while Sylar was (hopefully) distracted puzzling out that Peter meant Nathan, Peter shoved him in the other direction, shifting his hips as much as he could to further the motion. He wanted to dump him, literally, and get Sylar away from himself. When the initial push didn't achieve his goal, Peter snarled, grabbed the back of the chair, and wrenched himself up.

XXX

That halted everything like nails on a chalkboard; Sylar's face showed surprise, not that the other man could immediately see that. He gave Peter credit and despaired at the same time that Nathan was (finally) a reason not to have sex. It was a better reason than 'liking/not liking' but it shut the door on any sexual acts with finality because there was no way around it. _And I opened my mouth and brought it up._ Sylar moved as directed, standing up quickly - sitting in Peter's lap while talking about Nathan couldn't end well and he didn't feel like getting kicked in the balls. Just as clear was the fact that Peter had been lapping up the attention, but not the words. Sylar backed up, hands at his sides at first, mostly looking at the floor. /"Most of what we are is what people expect us to be. If you take that away, nothing means anything. Who's to say I'm not all that because of you?"/ Sylar shut himself up; completely ashamed of how low and how personal that was to all of them, completely deserving, too, of anything Peter wanted to do about it. Just remembering that moment, Peter being dead, made his throat tighter than it already was. His erection fled. He didn't want Peter thinking so highly of Nathan and being so dependent, either. "No, you're not…" he tried, shaking his head.

XXX

Peter got to his feet and kicked the chair out of his way. It skittered off across the floor and fell over. The important thing was that it wasn't underfoot and nothing was between him and Sylar. He sort of wished they'd eaten something that involved a knife, but the one he'd used to cut the strawberries was over next to the sink. And anyway, he didn't want to stab Sylar – he wanted to yell at him. So he did.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" In a split second, he decided to ignore the recitation of Nathan's words from years before and keep the focus on Sylar, here and now. His wrath was less morally ambiguous that way. "I have 'potential'? Potential for what? So you can jack yourself off to thinking about killing my family? Huh? Or just rubbing it in Ma's face that we-" He cut off, shaking with anger, remembering how she'd clutched at his hand and begged him not to go. No longer yelling, but still fuming, Peter spoke haltingly, so angry he could barely get the words out, "She told me not to … not to try to get you. Was this why? Did she know you'd … 'use' me? It has nothing to do with '_me_'. It has to do with you finding a new way to hurt people in a world where you can't kill the only person you've got access to!" He waited a beat, chest heaving as he glared at Sylar's shamed face. _Be ashamed! Christ, you have _so much_ to be ashamed of!_ "You're fucking right – we're still enemies."

XXX

_Yeah…Why did I say any of that again? (Because he asked…?) What did you expect, that he'd find any of that appealing? (He's not listening! I just said what I liked about him!)_ Sylar was more hurt and saddened but those things didn't have an outlet; he didn't know what else to do, so he was angry. It wasn't his best vicious effort but it was still angry at being pinned down and judged. "Right, Peter. I'm hurting you _so much_ here. I'm really abusing you, aren't I? I'm sorry," he blasted his sarcasm, "but how is anything that I want any different than what you want from me? What is it you want to _'use'_ me for again? Does that have anything to do with me as a person or just my usefulness? I should probably be _really_ insulted. Did you offer to 'like' me for sex? No! Quit making something out of nothing, Petrelli! This is reality and using each other mutually is kind of fucking implied! I know what happens if I agree to your schemes. And, you know what?" Sylar pointed at Peter's sternum from a good six feet away. "You should really decide how closely you want to be associated with your family – you send nothing but mixed messages: 'they're such horrible people, I would never do anything like that,' then 'but they're my family and I love them and I'm going to protect them.' Just make up your mind!" Sylar inhaled when finished, panting a little from the tension. More calmly, he managed to add, "You….are and are not your family. They factor into almost everything, good or bad."

The horrible idea of being enemies (again) weighed him down. He- _they_ had been so close to something, even if it wasn't sex, Sylar desperately wanted it back, wanted to preserve it. "It's not black and white, Peter." Since Peter had shut up long enough to listen, more or less, Sylar pivoted and sat on a stool at the kitchen bar, half-turned towards the man. He scraped his fingers through his hair several times, elbow on the countertop. Morosely, he offered, "I'll stop talking. That always helps. Try to forget I said anything," he waved a lackluster hand to shoo it all away.

XXX

Peter stared at him, breathing hard through his nose as he had for all of Sylar's part, holding his tongue and listening. He didn't want to drop the subject as Sylar obviously desired. Peter wanted to keep arguing. Or, well, at least yelling and venting and getting some crap off his chest that had been suffocating him for way too long - even if he had to take turns with Sylar doing the same. He chuffed a startled laugh at Sylar's last statement. "Does that ever work for you? Huh? What else should I forget while I'm at it?" He waited to see how authentic Sylar was with the 'I'm going to stop talking' bit. There was no point in raging at him if Sylar wouldn't engage. Peter did not want an unresponsive partner.

XXX

Sylar managed to glare into Peter's eyes. _No, it never really works. How about 'everything'? Forget everything, if you can._ "I don't know. I don't go around making people forget themselves," he snipped. He ran his fingers through his hair more because it was helping and it was something to do. "Can't we be friendly?" he asked, half-begging, half-curious. It sounded pathetic, and it was, but Peter had some positive things that worked in his favor, comfort and care among them.

XXX

Peter scowled, nose wrinkling in disgust at the idea. He looked at the ceiling, the walls, the windows. So Sylar didn't want to fight. _Well, fuck,_ he thought in frustration. Then he shook his head and walked over to retrieve his chair. Returning it next to the kitchen table, but orienting it to face Sylar, he sat in it and slouched backwards, crossing his legs with one ankle on his knee. "No, we can't. Not right now."

XXX

The sneer wasn't a good reaction. Sylar bit his lip and looked away, nodding to himself about what that meant. The glance he sent Peter was hopeful as he sat instead of, well, leaving him. The man's answer earned an eye-roll, "Not this exact minute necessarily."

XXX

Peter took a deep breath and let it out, trying to be marginally less belligerent. "What I want you to do is save people's lives. What's your problem with that? Is it that you don't believe me? Or that you think there's a double-cross involved?" Here, Sylar's possession of Nathan's memories worked against Peter and he knew it. He'd tricked Nathan more than once, pretending to do one thing and then sucker-punching when his brother bought it. It was something they'd done all their lives, like those crazy wild pitches Nathan would toss him when teaching him how to play ball. It had set a tone between them – a high degree of betrayal was to be expected and tolerated among the Petrellis. Was that what Sylar thought Peter was doing? Sylar wasn't family. Peter was playing it straight with him.

XXX

Sylar's lips pursed and he crossed his arms. He had an answer to that, of course, and reasons behind it – good ones! – but none of that would require or inspire Peter to listen to all the parts of the explanation. Peter thinking a double-cross was unheard of was….was…well, it was stupid in the extreme. The empath was not that dumb; he must be making a point. _Why would anyone ever believe a Petrelli? _He stared at Peter and didn't speak.

XXX

Peter waited … and kept waiting. Sylar clearly wasn't thinking it over or looking of the right words. He was clamming up now that Peter had asked something important. Frustrated, Peter put both feet on the floor, leaning forward to put his face in his hands. He muttered to himself, "You never answer my fucking questions. Why don't you answer my fucking questions?" He glanced up at Sylar and then looked off to the side, staring in the direction of the windows as he tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he couldn't wring what he wanted out of Sylar. The man didn't trust him (which even Peter admitted was justified) and there was no way to gain his trust. It was that simple. _Having sex with him w__ouldn't do it, either. Even assuming I was willing to._

XXX

Sylar's jaw clenched hard several times, rhythmically. "I do answer your fucking questions! I just did! You were ready to come just a minute ago until I started talking. I even said what I was going to do and told you which question I was answering! And you freaked out! That's why I fucking told you to stop asking me questions you don't really want to know about – you don't want to hear the truth and you get upset when I don't answer. I don't know, maybe you want me to lie to you. I thought..." He exhaled harshly, breathing for a moment. He needed to calm down from being under this much pressure constantly. Things had been fine (better than fine, actually) before he put his foot in his mouth and now Peter had even more reason to think he was a freak. "I thought you could handle the truth, some of it, anyway, because you keep asking and I know how you talk to people. I'm not 'people.' I'm…going to take a shower," he ended unhappily; still uncertain if Peter would be here when he was finished.

XXX

Peter's shoulders sagged before Sylar's diatribe. He wanted to argue back, but there was no way without making things worse. Also, Sylar was telling the truth. He looked up when Sylar paused, Peter's face mostly neutral and a little sympathetic. He frowned and hung his head when Sylar continued. He didn't call the man back when he left for the bathroom. It was as graceful an exit as any and they both needed to calm down.

Alone, Peter heaved a sigh. He pushed his hair back and then touched lightly along the side of his neck where Sylar had mouthed him. Weirdly, he wanted to push Sylar out of the bathroom so he could stand in front of the mirror and look at that spot, even though he was sure there was nothing to see. It wasn't like Sylar had bitten him, but it still felt funny and made his stomach flutter to feel of it. When his skin prickled, either from the memory of the intimacy or the exploring touches he was giving himself, Peter thought,_ I am fucked up._

He shook his head, trying to shake it off and ignore Sylar's point about how aroused he'd been. He cleaned up from breakfast, retiring to stand in front of the windows and look out at the blank world. _There's nothing for me out there. It's all in here – between him and me. Focus, Peter. This is where the game is, where the ball is, where the meaning is – him and me. It's getting better … really … I think._

XXX

Sylar escaped to the bathroom. There he worried more about how things would be when he emerged, if Peter would still be there (it seemed likely); and he thought about how fucking close he'd gotten to Peter. Depressing situation or not, his dick was interested in the past seduction, the taste of Peter's skin, the warmth of him pressed torso against torso. He knew the empath wanted it, too; because he hadn't fought back until the very end, and his hands had rested against Sylar's hips for a moment. Erect again, he hustled into the shower, desperate to stroke off to the memory. His masturbation was quick and violent, his hand massaging at first, his penis throbbing harder every second. Grip tightening, pace speeding up, he literally jerked himself and fucked his fist. His fantasy of sorts was something vague about rubbing against his companion and hand jobs because he was unoriginal and it sounded nice. It left him dizzy in the fog of the water, twitchy, relaxing, and only half-satisfied. _The second fucking time_…he noticed about jerking off in this suite. It was better than nothing, and he knew he shouldn't complain. What made it worse was Peter's matching desire. The rest of his routine was uneventful – shaving, brushing teeth, combing hair.

XXX

When Sylar left the bathroom, Peter was still standing there, hands on hips, staring out. He glanced over, took in Sylar's watchful face, and thought about how he looked in the man's eyes. Peter knew he was in a 'power stance'. Nathan did it nearly all the time but he usually softened it by opening his jacket and gripping his hips instead of using his fists. It wasn't one of his father's preferred postures, because it didn't tend to influence others in a positive manner. It came from their mother. She did it often enough, frustrated by things, fists on hips and lips pressed firmly together as she gave someone the full weight of her disapproval without saying a word. Realizing this, Peter dropped his hands to his sides and then reached out to put his hands on the window frame. He leaned into it, stretching and trying to relax.

"It snowed last night – an inch or two. It's hard to tell exactly from up here. I think I'll wait a little while before I go out." He wondered if Sylar still wanted to go with him. He wondered if he wanted Sylar to go with him. He pushed away from the window and turned back to Sylar. "I don't want you to lie. There's more honesty between us than I've had with most people for years. I don't want to lose that." He walked over and picked up the heavy book on brain injuries, then snagged his blanket off the bed. He swiveled the leather chair near the foot of the bed, the one he'd slept in once while waiting for Sylar to recover from dehydration. "Of course, part of the reason I haven't shared this stuff with people is because it's hard to hear. It's hard for me to hear, too. We have strong feelings about it," he said, trying to pick his words carefully to find ones that applied to his situation and what he thought to be Sylar's as well. "We're doing okay," he said prescriptively.

XXX

_Go out? The whole window thing? Is he…going alone?_ Sylar hovered in the entrance of the hallway. He wasn't sure where Peter was going to be.

XXX

He settled into the chair and made himself a nest of it, tugging over the footstool and draping the blanket over his bare feet. He opened the book to a spot at random, but he wasn't looking at the text. He watched Sylar to see how the other man would respond to Peter backing down from … everything, and just letting things be.

XXX

Several glances at Peter showed that while he appeared relaxed (and he might have been), the empath was watching him in a way that was both curious and careful. _You didn't say anything offensive, _he thought of that. Sylar didn't have to understand why Peter would care if he was offensive. He did know that Peter retained some sense of politeness and manners, however misplaced they were in this world now. He appreciated that, the company, and the opportunity to cool off the subject. _Maybe he can learn,_ Sylar thought humorously to himself, pleased with that development. He ignored the looks and claimed the bed, right in the middle, with his own book. The lower blood pressure and stress, along with the orgasm and shower and other comforts, soothed his never-ending headache. He read slowly because he could; quiet time could be nice.

XXX

With no other interaction presenting itself, Peter read. Several pages of tiny type and heavy jargon later, he rubbed at his eyes and looked over to Sylar. Out of the blue, he asked, "Nathan had feelings for me? Are you serious?" He knew he should be angry that Sylar knew something so hideously personal (and probably untrue. It had to be untrue, right? What did it mean if it wasn't, though? Did it change anything?), but his burning curiosity overwhelmed his self-righteousness.

XXX

"Oh my God…" The book dropped to his lap as Sylar rubbed his forehead. _Headache's back, I see._ "I forgot how much you like to _talk_. And _pester_. And touchy-feely _everything_!" Peter. Always digging away at the one thing a person didn't want to think about or that one thing a person couldn't formulate to begin to talk about. Always with the morals and the emotions…Sylar understood so much better now, the role of elder, highly annoyed and frustrated brother. There were too many memories of that, all (or most) tinged with a reluctant affection. It was warming and sickening at once. "Why do you approach me like I'm a normal person with normal feelings and reactions?"

XXX

"I'm approaching you like you're someone who knows something very personal about someone I love … loved," Peter said very seriously. "They're dead. Me knowing this about them doesn't betray any secrets – it just helps me understand the person they were. You're the only one who can do this for me." He considered and rejected trying the guilt-trip angle that Sylar owed it to him or that the information didn't belong to Sylar in the first place – neither of those would help. The first wasn't true and the second was debatable, since Sylar had been given the memories on the order of someone who had more right than most to decide on their disposition, much as Peter might disagree with it.

XXX

This was one angle he'd hoped to avoid – divulging Nathan's secrets to the curious younger brother. It made Sylar an accessory at best or a dirty snitch at worst. Either way, he was a no-name portal to Nathan. Confusing was the part where he dreamed he owed Nathan any secrecy after the shit he'd done to his own family. The man was still an unfortunate side effect, a part of him, so…was it his secret to tell or not? Sylar pointed out the flaw in Peter's logic, "If Nathan wanted you to know about something, he would have told you, so that is technically a secret of his I would be disclosing."

XXX

_And you're going to disclose it anyway. Cool._ In response to Sylar attempting to guilt trip him instead, Peter gave half a shrug in acknowledgement and glanced up and to the side for a moment. That Sylar felt a need to point out the immorality of Peter's curiosity was ridiculous. He'd been happy enough to blurt the secret out when it served his purposes. When Peter looked back to Sylar, it was with practiced entreaty. _Spill it, man._

XXX

Harkening back to their…argument…discussion thing from earlier, Sylar realized another problem with Peter's ideas of 'fun conversation.' They were only fun for Peter. Big surprise. Sylar narrowed his eyes about the puppy dog-eyed manipulation. As an outsider, he noticed it (and still fell for it), and as the guy's brother…he fell for it hook, line and sinker. It was bizarre how easy it was for Peter to trick Nathan into believing a bald-faced lie – Nathan was desperate, eager for that blind, yes-man agreement to his awesome way of thinking. The younger man's deception should have been obvious, each and every time. "You just like to talk about things you can hit me over," Sylar determined.

XXX

Peter grimaced and hung his head. _Yes. The last time I pressed him to tell me stuff about Nathan ended with me choking him out to shut him up._ He sighed. The reminder took all the wind out of his sails. _Maybe I shouldn't ask? (But I want to know!)_ "I will do my best not to do anything. I will try, Sylar. I will really try."

XXX

"Oh, good. You'll try," Sylar droned sarcasm.

XXX

Peter winced at the reminder of Claude's words to him about 'trying'. He dropped his head the small amount he'd raised it, and kept his mouth firmly shut, ending the manipulations he'd used earlier.


	94. Rejection Bites

Day 35, January 14, Morning

_We didn't discuss what happens if I don't answer. I'll __choose__ not to be insulted that you'd rather talk about Nathan's kinks than about mine._ "Fine, whatever," Sylar bit out gruffly. He already knew this wouldn't be pleasant; how could it be anything less when he inevitably spoke like he was Nathan on this of all subjects? This was his chance to shatter some of that rose-colored glass which Peter surrounded himself with. It was tempting and Sylar seriously considered it for a moment, then he considered the more truthful words he could use and avoid a beating. Peter…valued the truth, so maybe, this once, it would actively count for something. _(I can always play it off as a joke)._ "He raised you and you worshipped him; you were close, loved each other…He was horny," Sylar shrugged. "I'm sure even the blind and disabled find you attractive. It…occurred to him more than once, but nothing…big or obsessive or…serious." _Not too obsessive and serious anyway. Brotherly love and all that crap? Petrelli is as Petrellis do? _"C'mon, Peter. If I didn't have every single one of his memories, I would have definitely said you two were doing something. You _have_ to understand that." _He does, doesn't he? Wait…What if he thinks that's…sexy? I don't want to re-enact…_ "I'm not going to be your brother for you. Ever. For any purpose." His voice and posture were taut with discomfort.

XXX

Peter raised his head slowly, listening with an intent face. He liked the compliment – clearly Sylar liked how Peter looked. He was trying to puzzle out what he and Nathan had done that led Sylar to think it was fair to accuse them of looking like they did more – not that Peter cared too much what people thought of honest displays of love. He knew there had been nothing inappropriate going on, and Sylar knew it, too. For once, him having Nathan's memories was useful. "O-kay," Peter said slowly in response to Sylar's last statements. Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. "Whoa. No. No fucking way, man. Never." _That would be sick. (And kinky.) And really, really sick. _Peter shook his head.

XXX

"You like dick; you love your brother…" It seemed like a natural conclusion. "Didn't _you_ ever think about it? With him? With Claire?"

XXX

"No, no! Not ..." _I'm lying._ He squirmed. "I mean … no. Not really?" _Why did I bring this up?_ "Not … I mean, not ..." He stopped and took a deep breath. _I'm making it way worse by not answering directly and plainly. I look guilty as hell and I never actually did anything wrong._

XXX

Sylar raised a knowing eyebrow and kept it that way.

XXX

"Okay, I thought about it a few times. But it wasn't something I should have been thinking about, so I didn't." That was true, at least as far as Nathan went. The occasional prurient appreciation of his form was unavoidable, but as Sylar had said of Nathan's memories, it wasn't serious or obsessive. It was more incidental. Claire, though, could not be characterized that way. "I didn't even know I was related to Claire at first," he mumbled. He lifted his head quickly with a sudden flash of anger. "Wait, are you implying that I fantasized to ideas of Nathan and Claire _together_? I'm not a voyeur and that's disgusting, anyway." He wanted to be vehement about that, but considering he'd just admitted to harboring immoral thoughts about his brother and niece (separately, thank you very much), so getting bent out of shape about the two together seemed indefensible.

XXX

"No, I wasn't," Sylar scowled at the implication and the idea, "But thanks for answering it anyway." The last part was facetious.

XXX

"Did … Wow, I don't know if I want to know this, and if I don't, then … I guess don't tell me. But did Nathan think of her that way sometimes?" Peter cringed to even ask, but he wanted to know. Had Nathan been that low? And what if he was? It was just a fantasy. Was there anything wrong with it? _Why am I even asking this stuff?_ "No, I don't want to know," he cut off any possible answer Sylar was going to give. "He's a human being. Whatever worked for him, you know, that was his." Peter stood up abruptly, kicking off his blanket, setting aside his book, raking back his hair, and stalking into the kitchen.

XXX

_Okay, this is awkward even for me now._ Suddenly his pillows needed adjusting. _I'll pretend I didn't hear any of that. Please keep my mouth shut! I don't want to know either! _The topic and the inquiry was the source of awkwardness. This was stuff Nathan, king of denial, would have lied, cheated, and killed rather than divulge – it was that secret. While, yes, Claire did the same needy puppy-dog number as Peter, it was…different and as such, it didn't garner the same…'response.' Claire was his daughter, even Sylar had trouble distinguishing himself from that; she appealed to him on an emotional and protective level, and one of supreme guilt. Besides, Sylar knew she wasn't Nathan's type.

XXX

"I know he wasn't perfect, Sylar." He stood in the middle of the kitchen, not really wanting anything aside from the opportunity to run away from the conversation. _I need to go work out._ He was feeling antsy all of a sudden, but he knew why. Reluctantly, he returned to the chair. _This is how it started before, too. I got upset and started pacing, then eventually I charged him._

XXX

"You can say that again," Sylar muttered, eagerly hefting his book again when he was released from the conversation – and when Peter sat once more. He wasn't sure what he should think now that he'd so cleverly planted an appealing…not appealing? taboo in Peter's head regarding Sylar's sexual interests. It was an incredibly stupid correlation to make, literally shooting his efforts in the foot. Upset with himself, Sylar pressed a different angle. "Is that how you…justify things like that, I mean, sexual interest whether it's right or wrong: 'whatever works for them; it's not my business; they're imperfect'?"

XXX

Peter bristled, glaring at Sylar for a moment, teeth bared. Then he pressed his lips together and dropped his eyes, getting a grip on himself. _Wait a second – he's not saying there's anything wrong with how I justify things … he's just asking. Right?_ He gave Sylar a piercing look, deciding that was the case and his anger was misplaced. "Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah, that's … that's right, but I wouldn't say there's anything right or wrong about interest, necessarily. With Nathan, if he thought about Claire, I'd say we're not always in control of what we're attracted to, no matter how wrong it would be to act on it."

XXX

Sylar's head tilted immediately, blinking, as he tore that apart in his mind, looking to apply it to himself. He did nothing else for a good thirty seconds. _So…desires…interests are okay, it's the…actions? If I could- no, if I wanted to stop the actions…according to Peter's morals, I'd be okay? (That sounds way too easy and way too simple). And it sounds like I wouldn't get laid._ The mere thought of conforming or surrendering so Peter would, what, like him? was ridiculous. If he didn't pursue and push, there would be no sexual tension or advancement because Peter wasn't into him at all. Well, Peter would fuck his body in a heartbeat but he'd ignore the rest. Out of the confusion and hurt that caused, Sylar's eyes narrowed and he attacked at whatever he could – in this case, Nathan, always an easy target. "So incest is bad even for Petrellis; out of all the sins you've committed, that one still stands out. How does that work with your whole 'love thy neighbor and thy brother and anyone else you can fuck'? I mean, you've obviously forgiven him more than his seventy-seven times seven."

XXX

Peter's scowl came back. He propped up the heavy book that had been lying unattended in his lap since he'd returned to his seat. "What I decide to forgive my brother for is none of your business," he said sharply. He let the silence lie for a moment as he stared sightlessly at the book. "What are you getting at?" he finally asked, looking up. He wasn't sure what Sylar was implying – that Nathan had harbored thoughts about Claire and Peter needed to disavow him because of it? Or was it simpler, and Sylar was angry that Peter had forgiven Nathan for anything, ever?

XXX

"Oh, Peter, please," Sylar sarcastically pleaded. "If you wanted to say that and make it stick, you wouldn't have _fucking turned me into him_! It is my business. You should have thought of that before you – and mommy dearest – decided I should be the new and improved Senator Nathan Petrelli. See, this is where you lose the right to privacy and not answering shit that I want to know!" He was…angry, agitated, and directionless. _(What was I getting at?)_ A few short, nasal pants of breath focused him a little more. Passive-aggressively, he pretended to drop the whole thing and calm down, "I'm not getting at anything. You're perfectly okay with perverted thoughts by anyone." _Including me! Aha! I got you! _"And it would be strange for you to consider sex with your brother and then be weird about having sex with other unlikely people." Sylar went back to his book, smirking slightly because he couldn't help it.

XXX

Peter bristled again at Sylar's sarcasm, his scowl morphing to a snarl. The only thing that kept him from biting back at Sylar immediately was trying to figure out what the hell Sylar wanted to know that Peter wasn't answering. By the time those few seconds of uncertainty had passed, Sylar was moving on to pretending it was no big deal. "What's-" Peter cut himself off. What he wanted to say was that Nathan, brother or not, was an enormously more likely sex partner than Sylar. One person he knew and loved; the other seemed to go out of his way to provoke Peter, when they already had so much between them that it was a marvel Peter didn't end it for both of them. He glared at Sylar, toying with the idea. It didn't have as many downsides as it should have. His features showed his lethal thoughts as clearly as they could have. _If I kill him and that kills me, then it will be quick and over. If I kill him and it doesn't kill me, then I'm still rid of him even if I'm stuck here. And it might kick me out of here, possibly without even killing him for real, out there. Maybe it would kick us both out and then he'd be pissed I tried to kill him._ Peter's expression shifted to a frown. His eyes dropped introspectively. _He'll feel betrayed then. He trusts me, some, not to kill him. I've told him I wouldn't_. Peter leaned back, pulling into himself and sighing as he gave up the fantasy of offing Sylar. He looked at his book, glum and quiet. _There has to be another way._

XXX

_No response._ Based on the glaring looks he was being given, Peter understood; he just…didn't respond. Sylar did take the glaring a tad more seriously than he otherwise would have, based on their past and more recent events and freaking Nathan in general. It was satisfactory, if not what he'd been after. Maybe Peter understood that was irksome and did so on purpose. _He didn't hit me. He started it by asking about incest, an act he detests, and Nathan, a touchy subject, so what did he expect?_

XXX

Peter read only long enough to prove he wasn't running off from the 'conversation', such as it was. Once that time had passed, he stopped staring at text he wasn't absorbing, and rose. "I'm going downstairs to work out."

XXX

Sylar's head came up. _That was his plan earlier, wasn't it?_ "I'm coming, too." Shutting his book after noting the page number, he scooted to the foot of the bed, closer to Peter. He could have easily drifted off to sleep reading there, but Mr. Activity wanted out and Sylar didn't question his need to stay with Peter. _Opportunities perhaps._

XXX

Peter frowned, but didn't object. Sylar could be wherever he wanted to be. Maybe he'd just read in the rec room, like before.

XXX

After a quiet elevator ride (he wondered if they took the lift because of Peter's politeness/medical awareness and the concussion), Sylar followed him into the exercise room itself.

XXX

Peter picked up his workout clothes from the corner of the room, where they were hanging on a bench to dry. He looked over at Sylar, trying to decide what to do. _I could go to the bathroom and change there. That's kind of prudish and weird. Or I could change here with him watching me. _Changing around others was hardly foreign – he did it every shift at work and regularly when he had been on the swim team or at the gym. But that had always been surrounded by people who weren't interested in him, or whom Peter didn't care were interested in him. Sylar had been in his lap earlier, nibbling on his neck. Peter reached up and scratched at that spot. He looked away, chewed his lip, then turned his back and began to strip as quickly and efficiently as his brace allowed. _He's not going to run me off._

Peter took off his shoes and socks, then the too-tight t-shirt and the too-baggy pants. He left his boxer briefs on, even though during a normal workout, he went commando. He pulled on shorts and a looser t-shirt. He looked at his bare feet, glancing over at Sylar's. Sylar had not moved this whole time, probably ogling him, but Peter didn't raise his eyes to see. He was considering the foot thing. He'd been working out barefoot because it wasn't like he was sharing the facilities with anyone else, and what diseases or foot fungus were they going to share in the unlikely event Sylar joined him? But it was rude. And at the same time, Peter very specifically only had the one pair of fitting shoes at the moment. _Well, if Sylar doesn't like it, he can go back to the rec room. The show's over, anyway._ Lifting his eyes to Sylar's face, he gave a threatening half-glare before moving to the equipment.

XXX

Sylar for his part, stood near the entrance, arms folded, peering around to see what was what. _He'd rather spend his mornings in here than…(staying in bed with me)?_ That's what it was – an escapist location. He didn't see the appeal. When he looked at the apparatus (because calling them 'machines' was too generous), he saw a variety of kinky platforms. He caught Peter's eye when the guy turned back to see where he was or what he was doing. Then…Peter started to strip. He was changing, of course, but…it involved stripping down to underwear. Sylar stared and stared. This was as naked, intentionally so, as he'd seen Peter with this pair of eyes. Peter had amazing skin and a somewhat prominent butt currently turned towards him in the almost-too-tight black boxer briefs. Sylar's hind brain didn't know what to say to that or how to articulate what he saw.

All this after the empath had been holding him earlier, letting himself be touched, allowing Sylar to sit in his lap and mouth him…If it was a clue or a hint, it made no sense. It was as mixed a message as any so far. It made Sylar's face heat up and his heart beat faster. _He's so…confident, so vulnerable. How does he know I won't do anything to him? _Peter certainly acted like he didn't care, as if Sylar weren't in the room. _He's in a weight room. It has weights. He feels safe here? This is his place, __obviously. _The stubbornness, the capability, the challenge, the fearlessness, the vulnerability was a heady combination. He was making progress with Peter. With effort, he pulled his mind from the gutters, trying to focus on anything else other than the desire to bend Peter over, touch him, rub him, own him.

The glare he received was a completely bipolar warning. Sylar glared back on principle. _Yeah, glare at me, Petrelli. You're the one you started taking your clothes off of your own accord._

XXX

Peter straddled the bench for a chest press, one where he could put his forearms on the padded handles and avoid the problems of his right hand. It was why he did this one first, before he was sweaty, tired, and less careful. He did some shoulder stretches as he tried to watch Sylar and pretend not to be watching him at the same time. One wall of the room was mirrored, but Peter had his back to it at the moment. Eventually, he got over it and moved on with his routine.

XXX

Sylar circled the room, pretending to closer inspect the equipment like he didn't know what their purposes were. Peter wasn't acknowledging him, which was neither here nor there. He stole glances at the other man. "Do you usually work out alone?" Sylar asked, voice a little rough from…earlier. Peter really expected inhuman acts of restraint from him, not to make use of the toys all around towards evil ends.

XXX

Having finished with his upper body exercises while Sylar was poking around at things (or whatever it was he was doing – Peter was trying not to watch him and mostly succeeding), Peter had moved on to crunches on the incline bench. His knees were locked in place around the set of roller bars, head down the slanted board. He paused for a second, then finished the set he was on before answering. He didn't bother to sit up for the answer; he just laid back and stretched a little. "Yeah. That's how it's been for the last few years, when I had the opportunity to work out at all."

XXX

Sylar recalled Peter's comments about his own isolation because of abilities. _But he hasn't said anything about me being here. He wants an audience._ After all, Peter was a little pervert who enjoyed showing himself off. _He likes teasing me and I've encouraged it – is that good or bad? _Sylar considered making another hand job comment just to watch Peter react and jump around like he had before. "You like that you can do whatever you want here, don't you?" Sylar looked up at him from beneath his brows, pausing his circling for a moment. If the Petrelli enjoyed the power trip, it meant one more thing in common between them and destroyed another one of Peter's excuses. Peter had a dark side and Sylar just had to find it and coax it out – another challenge.

XXX

That stopped Peter twelve reps into his fifteen rep set. He ended sitting up and gave Sylar an appraising look. _Where is that going?_ He'd heard the tone of voice. Now he saw the expression. At least it didn't look like his first, split-second fear, which was that Sylar's question was a prelude to showing Peter how easily Sylar could destroy his small control over this world. He still wasn't sure that wasn't what Sylar was getting at. With a quirk of his brow, Peter said neutrally, "I like getting what I want wherever I am." He gave a tilting bob of his head. "Doesn't always happen."

XXX

"How far would you go to get what you want?" At the other man's look, he amended with some annoyance, "Whatever that may be." Sylar continued circling the perimeter of the room, surveying its contents while he waited for the answer.

XXX

Peter lifted his chin as he surveyed Sylar. _He really doesn't know me. Or is it that he doesn't believe me and thinks I slack off when people aren't looking?_ "As far as it takes."

XXX

Sylar's expression was closer to a frown of serious curiosity than anything else. "How hard are you trying to get what you want here?" _Or is something else going on?_

XXX

"'What I want here?'" Peter snorted softly and finished the set before rolling off and heading for the machine Sylar was hiding behind. Technically, Peter still had his obliques to work on, but fuck that. He wasn't going to lie on the floor or tilt his upper body back and forth while Sylar watched. He wanted to apply a little more muscle than that (plus herd Sylar out of his current spot, or at least crowd him). Peter sat down and made adjustments for more weight than usual on the leg press. "I'm _here_, Sylar," he said before starting the exercise. "And you're alive. A few weeks before I came to get you, no one wanted you dead more than me." He wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction at how things had worked out and shoved hard at the weight, flexing his thighs to full extension. "So how hard to you think I'm trying, huh, Sylar?" He grunted with exertion as he kept moving the weights. "Would you ask your brother's murderer for _help_?"

XXX

Sylar stared at him a moment. He then vacated his spot, walking a wide circle around to Peter's right so he could see the guy. He watched some more, frowning a little. A lot more credit need be given to the Petrelli upbringing because sometimes Sylar was fooled that Peter didn't want to kill him. Maybe it was just Peter's Petrelli libido that was confusing things. Peter's phrasing was also open to interpretation: _I wonder if that's changed…He's not trying really hard, at least, not consistently._ Sylar's head came up as he straightened, multiple reactions, the least of which was anger, darting through him. He enunciated his displeasure, "No." _I don't have any brothers!_

XXX

_Of course not – because you're done asking people for help no matter how much you need it._ "Well, _I_ would," Peter said self-righteously, "because people's lives are more important than my ego."

XXX

"And anyone else's life is more important than mine," Sylar murmured treacherously, half under his breath, as he turned back towards the weights. He knew he was considering the dumbbells as blunt instruments in Peter's demise.

XXX

Peter had gotten a little too full of himself there. Something about the tone of Sylar's muttering drove that home, even if Peter didn't catch the words. "What?" He slowed down on his reps to hear better.

XXX

"Nothing," he snapped. _I wish there was one of those punching balloons._ Sylar hefted a pair of weights, a fifteen pounder and a ten pounder, morbidly considering the pros and cons of heaviness in a murder weapon. It was only speculation...for now. The subtle threat made him edgy and depressed, killing the good mood he'd had earlier. Peter, who would hold and comfort him, who wouldn't fuck him, who wanted to kill him still (because why would that ever change?), was tightening the screws of tension, not in a good way, and increasing Sylar's frustration exponentially. The empath's comments and casual disregard made him angry on top of it. "You don't seem to have any ego involved in killing me. Why is that?" Sylar turned his head enough to look Peter in the face, his own expression dark.

XXX

Peter stopped, brows drawing together slightly. _I _do_ have ego involved in killing him. Don't I? I didn't go after him after he killed Nathan the same way I went after Dad. I was stopping Dad to save people, to prevent a disaster; I was after Sylar because … that was personal._ He'd been a lot hotter after finding out about Nathan, plus more determined to get his brother back. "Other things are more important," he said vaguely, trying to work out if the attempts to kill Arthur and Sylar were parallel.

XXX

"Aside from that and being alone. We're the only living things here. Would you kill me if those things didn't exist?" Sylar was insistent, more curious than invested. He'd since turned his body to square off before Peter, his butt against the weight rack, arms crossed. "I already asked if you hated me and you barely made an answer."

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together and his face held the expression of concentration and thought from a few moments before. "If we were back among people and," he hesitated as he framed the scenario, "the carnival wasn't an issue? No, I wouldn't try to kill you. We've already talked about that." He reached down and sullenly adjusted the weight a little lighter, to something more manageable. "Assuming I had to go up against you again, for some reason," Peter waited a long pause before continuing, "I think I'd try to talk to you first." _Not that I'd probably be able to stop him anyway, what with all his powers. _"Would you listen?"

XXX

Sylar narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Peter down, waiting to see if he would crack. Sylar didn't move either. Peter didn't budge and there was no follow-up punch-line, so in itself, the statement was serious enough. Sylar's head tilted at the question. _Talking? We never did that. Do I want that? As much as I enjoy the surprises and the action…Would I trust him?_ "Would you be alone?" The probability of sneaky Petrellis creating a diversion seemed obvious.

XXX

"Yeah, probably." Peter chuckled drily. "I can't think of anyone else stupid enough to go with me for something like that." That wasn't entirely true – he could think of several who were brave and determined enough, willing to take whatever risk was necessary to stop Sylar. But he thought it would pad Sylar's ego to tell him how dangerous and unstoppable he was.

XXX

A shrug prefaced his reply. "I might listen." Peter was almost no threat by himself and Peter probably knew that. It put all the power in Sylar's hands. At this point, since he really didn't feel like himself or like much of anything except a fucking wreck, he wouldn't (or maybe couldn't) kill Peter on principle, or even as a default – not any more.

XXX

Peter hesitated a moment, then nodded slowly. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a hopeful, broken half-smile. "Good. I hope I'd have something useful to say."

XXX

_(Yeah…I hope so, too)._ Sylar silently agreed, surprised and disgusted with himself.

XXX

After a few more reps, Peter asked, "What sort of tact should I take? Like, with Nathan, he'd want to know what he was going to get out of it. Maybe with someone else I should make sure they understand the consequences of what they're about to do. What's the best way to talk you down from something I don't want you to do?" It was a bald question and Peter knew that, but sometimes just putting it out there was better than dancing around the topic.

XXX

Sylar gave a sour look at that. He had almost fallen for that. He straightened up off the weight rack. "Okay, sharing time is over. I'm not some half-wit you can lead around like that. I am not a normal person you can talk down and I'm sure as hell not Nathan," he said with some heat, pointing at Peter's chest. The reminder was a crude slap in the face. "You might remember that he's dead and I'm a walking weapon bank. You'd rather fucking fight me and die, or kill me, than talk anyway. We both prefer if that way, so let's just stick with what we're good at, huh, Petrelli?" Sylar kicked a medicine ball, aiming at the wall, but it was heavier than it appeared, maybe twenty pounds. It rolled, but it lacked momentum and pained his leg and the whole thing was irritating as hell. He marched out of the gym, slamming the door because he could. _Jesus! What would we talk about anyway? He'd just try to convince me to be a good guy, some peace-loving hippy. That'll go far. Why didn't he ever try talking before?_ He paced in the lobby, his footsteps and breaths loud in the large echoing marble room. That last thought he turned over in his head again and again because it was new and easier than thinking about any other times he'd tried 'talking.'

XXX

Peter kept his face impassive until Sylar left. Then he smiled in amusement. _Okay, that didn't work. Yeah, I know you're a loaded gun, that's why I asked where the safety was – apparently you'd rather I led you around like a half-wit than just get things cleared up like adults …whatever. At least he left me alone to do the rest of my workout in peace. _Peter rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, as he dismissed Sylar's antics. He made a mental note that Sylar's dislike of manipulation extended to the most overt and open of tactics – what Peter had been offering was hardly even manipulation and more of negotiation, but Sylar had rejected it just the same. Considering he'd just brought up a hot button issue for Sylar, the rejection was practically polite. He finished his workout and changed into the baggy pants he'd found earlier that morning, but stayed with the less-snug t-shirt he usually reserved for exercise rather than the too-small one he'd had on before. He looked around for Sylar, thinking it unlikely he'd gone far.

XXX

By then Sylar had formulated a new approach and he wanted to try that before the tried-and-tested 'beat Peter's face in.' Seated in the rec room, elbows on knees, hands barely clasped, he looked up at the sound of the door. "Why didn't you ever try talking before? By your logic, you expected to die either way." _You could have talked to me and you didn't?_ That almost…hurt with a foreign feeling of loss he could barely explain. "Early on it…wouldn't have worked but…later…Even when we were brothers, you didn't…" he trailed off, thinking about that problem. "Why would you suggest talking now? Nothing's changed."

XXX

"You don't think anything's changed?" Peter blinked at him, moving to sit on the end of the piano bench, facing Sylar, his right elbow on the key guard. He was sleeping with the guy and fixing him meals. Even if it was required medical care Peter should have been willing to give anyone, giving it to Sylar (and to the degree and duration) hadn't been easy. Did that mean nothing?

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, not appreciating the redirected question. He didn't want to answer it; didn't have one; and didn't see why his thoughts mattered, either. "You still want me to do something."

XXX

Peter regarded him steadily for several long moments, studying Sylar's face and the play of expressions on it. Finally he glanced off to the side briefly and took a deep breath. "I know you better than I did. I know you've … done the things you've done for reasons of your own. I don't understand them, but I think they are, and must be, understandable. Even …" He shrugged one shoulder. "Even Nathan." That one encompassed a lot of territory, but Peter didn't want to get bogged down. He moved on. "So whatever it is you're going to do, if I want to stop you, I have to see it from your point of view. I have to know why you're doing it. Then I have to help you … not do it, if it's something that shouldn't be done." He pursed his lips and shifted his legs tensely. "I'm not good at finding options, Sylar. But … fighting you … is not a good one. I don't _want_ to die, Sylar." At some point in the last month or two of living with Sylar, he'd started to see him as a person with autonomy rather than someone Peter could pluck out of Parkman's mind-jail and drag to the carnival to do his duty. Sylar had a choice in what happened to him and how things played out – that was clear.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed dangerously and he glared. The pressure of his rage built to a boil, straining at his muscles and demanding action, retribution for those belittling, mocking words. "As someone who never got his fingers wet, I don't think you can understand. I am _special_ and there is nothing you can help '_fix'_! I don't need Nathan! I don't need you!" He stood and covered the few steps between them quickly. "I fucking warned you, Petrelli," he growled and snarled, grabbing at the front of the other's shirt, hauling him to his feet.

XXX

Peter didn't respond quickly enough to the shift in mood. He saw it – yeah – but he didn't expect violence to come of it. Likewise, when Sylar stood and closed with him, Peter straightened and leaned back, tensing, but not leaping to his own defense. Sylar had grabbed him the day before in the clothing store and done no more than vent at him. He assumed this was the same and let Sylar have his outburst uncontested.

XXX

Sylar drew his left fist back, punching Peter across the face. It hurt his hand and he shook it out but he held on with the other. "I fucking warned you!" he blamed. "Stop psycho-analyzing me! If you think this is my mind, then you're going to play by my fucking rules! I am Sylar! And you are a fucking _ant_ now, compared to me!" he screamed this at Peter and it felt good to do it.

XXX

Painfully, Peter discovered he had assumed wrong. _Ow! Fuck! Asshole!_ Not fighting back before had led to this – that stood out plainly in Peter's mind. He hadn't stood up for himself in the back of the clothing store so Sylar was taking it a step further this time. _Well, there's one answer for that_. He didn't want to fight, but Sylar was going to continue if he didn't fight him (either today or next time). He'd lost the last two fights – he _had_ to win this one. He wasn't in a good position; he knew that. The backs of his knees were against the piano bench, the piano to his right, the rest of the room to his left, and Sylar holding him off-balance and bent back. The only good thing was that he wasn't hurt too bad yet – smacked around a little and with blood in his mouth, but he wasn't even too rattled.

"Fuck you and your stupid rules!" He brought his left hand up between them and swung it out, striking the inside of Sylar's right elbow, throwing himself back and trying to force a fall to get free. It would be onto his back, onto the bench – that wouldn't be a problem. Having Sylar kick him while he was down would be.

XXX

The strike to the bend in his elbow wasn't strong or particularly painful, but it had the intended effect of startling him and loosening his grip a little since the muscles were tensed. Peter then tugged and twisted away. Sylar had been pulling back for another preparatory strike so he was slow in reorienting to grab at Peter and restrain him. Having the Petrelli loose was far more dangerous – he knew more hand-to-hand and he'd shown he wasn't afraid to use the rough stuff. Sylar tried to stomp on some part of him was he moved away, anything to slow him down. He immediately saw why that was a bad idea.

XXX

Some portion of Peter's shirt ripped as he fell. He tried to tumble off the bench and onto his feet, but it was a bad angle and Sylar was right on top of him, legs moving and feet threatening. Peter dodged, Sylar connected with the back of one of Peter's calves, and gravity did the rest to put Peter entirely on the floor. "Ah!" He rolled onto his back and kicked out wildly, hitting Sylar on the shin. He would have rather knee-capped the jerk, but he hadn't taken time to aim. Hissing as he pulled air in past gritted teeth, he pulled his foot back for something more accurate and debilitating, but Sylar was already out of range.

XXX

Sylar took the hit without a sound and backed off. There was no way he was getting close to Peter even though Peter was the one on the fucking floor. The adrenaline had him panting. It was clear Peter had thought he wouldn't be hit earlier – he thought Sylar was weak and tamed. It added to his anger. He was angry enough to want to kill Peter, but he wanted the familiarity of the fight to normalize everything. It was 'on,' like it had been at Mercy – do or die. "I didn't know when I killed Nathan, I'd castrated you," he sneered, watching the man rise to his feet. "Are you that fucking impotent without Big Brother holding your hand? Did he take your balls to the grave, too?"

XXX

"You seem real concerned with my balls, Sylar," Peter said as he took the opportunity to scramble upright. "I think you just can't handle the idea that I'm not desperate to drop trou for 'Mr. Special'." He had his balance and did a quick sizing up of the situation. All useful weapons – pool balls, cue sticks and the like – were on the opposite side of the room. The few books next to the couch weren't any good. To get to the metal chairs, he'd have to get past Sylar. So it was just him and Sylar, hand to hand. Peter knew his own weaknesses and he knew Sylar's pretty well. The last thing Peter wanted to do was hit Sylar in the head, or hit anything with his right hand, and he figured Sylar knew both of these. Which meant, of course, that was what he led with. Hand extended, he literally grabbed at Sylar's face with his right hand, forcing the other man to deal with it or get jabbed in the eye by the brace.

XXX

_What-?!_ Was Sylar's only reaction to having a hand shoved, not thrown, at his face. He leaned back (his height and Peter's reach didn't completely nullify the attempt) and smacked it aside. Just as he straightened to focus on the next attack, he saw the feint for what it was – or rather, he felt it. Peter's fist slammed into his ribs, grinding against bone and compressing the thin muscles. Sylar pivoted to present his front rather than his side and back, grabbing at Peter's shirt once more to swing at his face with his left.

XXX

That first solid blow was so sweet to Peter. He didn't think he'd landed anything in the last fight with that sort of impact, other than when he'd head-butted the bastard. He'd finally – finally! - been able to hit him with some power behind it. Sylar weathered it well enough to turn Peter's joy into frustrated rage. It should have counted for more! Then he got hit on the right side of the face again, this time nearly on his temple and enough to jar his thoughts once more. He couldn't let the guy keep getting head shots on him or he'd be as fucked up as Sylar. Speaking of which, he needed to take advantage of the man's unsteadiness, so he rushed him, trying to angle him into the back wall of the room where Sylar couldn't get away from him.

XXX

Peter struck him like a linebacker without any padding. The impact with the wall stunned him, hurting his spine, the back of his head, driving the breath out of him. Sylar struggled to recover and pushed at Peter's shoulders and body-mass as the guy clung to him. It was too close; why was Peter holding him? The question answered itself when Peter went back to punching his side, his gut, anywhere he could reach. Sylar couldn't breathe again – his side, back, head, and lungs all hurt.

He began to wrestle and writhe to get away and avoid the blows. If they hadn't been fighting, the proximity and intimacy would have been wonderful. For now, it was poisonous and deadly – where would Peter stop this time? Would he stop at all? Sylar was completely lost as to what emotion he should feel. Everything was a tangled mess. Lust, excitement, despair, depression, regret, hatred, frustration, he couldn't decide or decipher. He could hardly think. Weak and nearly curled over Peter's shoulder from the abdominal muscle contractions and gasps for air, Sylar bit him on the shoulder/neck join hard enough to mark and returned body punches to Peter's side. They weren't as strong as Peter's but hopefully it would do some damage or provide a distraction. He wanted all or nothing – to be destroyed utterly or for Peter to quit and…something better to resume. With his brain swimming like it was now, he couldn't process if surrender or continuing his efforts would get him what he wanted.

XXX

That feeling of wild exultation surged up in Peter again as it seemed like he was finally getting somewhere. Sylar felt like he was crumpling, but Peter wasn't about to let up because of something like that. He'd hold Sylar up if he had to, anything he needed to do to keep slamming his left fist into whatever soft spots he could reach, grunting with the exertion much as he had while working out. Between the adrenaline of the fight and the rush from the impression he was winning, he hardly felt the blows Sylar landed. He shrugged off the bite, but the sexual nature of it lingered in the back of his mind. Hadn't Sylar said something about wanting this from him?_I'll give it to him, all right!_


	95. Lobby Hobbies

Day 35, January 14, Morning

Each heavy blow contracted Sylar and held him in place, despite his own defenses and attempts to move away. Peter was winning; had probably already won, and Sylar's stupid, limited body couldn't keep up with any of it. His survival instinct flickered, contemplating accepting the inevitable as he nearly hung off/onto Peter's shoulder because the smaller man supported him, keeping him in place for his fists to target. Falling at Petrelli's feet was just not acceptable but it looked like that was going to happen, too.

XXX

_Stop._ Some voice in Peter's head told him to cut it out and damned if it didn't sound like Nathan's – tense and concerned, with that faux-calmness he affected when he didn't want people to know how worried he really was. _Don't do too much here. _It was that same voice – not the usual one of Peter's own internal dialogue. He hesitated, his body wound up tight like a spring, fist curled and Sylar's gasping-but-otherwise-dead-seeming weight hanging from his right arm. He let the man slide down to the floor. Peter backed away, reaching up to wipe at the blood coming out of his mouth. The right side of his face was numbish, his left hand stung along the knuckles, and his neck ached. His head was ringing, too, now that he noticed it. Panting, he reeled a little until he found the arm of the couch and leaned heavily against it.

"An ant, huh?" Peter got out, wearing a threatening half-snarl like he might still finish the business. He had a few things he wanted to say. "So it was an ant who went through a fucking snowstorm when I could hardly walk, to get you medical supplies to save your life? An ant who's been making your meals, taking care of you, fucking _sleeping_ with you?! It was someone _meaningless_," he paused to spit blood, "who was with you last night, was it, when you needed someone? That didn't matter, huh? None of that matters," he flung his arms loosely to either side, "because nothing's changed as far as _you're_ concerned and that's all that matters to you, isn't it? Well, you can take your fucking 'nothing's changed' and shove it up your ass, Sylar! If I don't matter to you, then there's no reason for me to be here."

XXX

Sylar pushed himself mostly upright to sit, on the floor, while Peter rested against the couch and ranted at him. It all sounded vaguely familiar, bits and pieces, something about Peter needing to be 'liked.' He was surprised not to have been dropped to the floor. His core ached and clenched, feeling like trapped gas, cramps, a side ache and no oxygen all at once. It wouldn't have been that bad but Peter, fresh from his work out, didn't give love taps – he put his all into it. Sylar coughed to get air, panting heavily. After all that and Peter was still trying to manipulate him, as if guilt was still a working trigger. Sylar was still angry – he wanted another go-round just to stop the talking. That or he wanted to scream until he couldn't hear anything anymore. He didn't have the breath to yell back at Peter. Yet. _I hate you. Why won't you finish it? You think you do all that for me? You want me to do something for you! That's the only reason to keep me alive!_ "And you expect a thank you," he croaked, glaring murder up at the Petrelli.

XXX

Peter snorted disdainfully. "That's the usual response, yeah," he snapped.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. He was being given something of a choice, an important one, too. Perhaps he'd stumbled onto a way to make Peter talk about the underlying issue of whatever was bothering him – badger him, irritate and insult him, take a beating and then listen to the resulting lecture. Perhaps Peter's 'liking' issue stemmed from Sylar's 'ingratitude,' as Peter saw it. And if Peter felt 'liked', then…sex, right?

But the act of saying 'thank you' stuck in his craw. _Now you know what it's like to save someone's life, do a good deed, make a gesture and have it go unnoticed all because your intentions are evil. I didn't ask him to show up or help; I told him I'd be fine. He would be perfectly okay if I died except for the fact that he needs me to fix his stupid, self-made Petrelli problems. This isn't new, why does he think I don't know this game?_ "/What are you going to do? Beat it out of me?/" he rasped lowly, blinking and turning aside as he realized where that came from. That wasn't the response he'd wanted to give. Maybe he would get that second round after all, accidentally.

XXX

Peter hesitated, a 'Go fuck yourself' hanging on his lips as he processed where he'd heard Sylar's line before – at Mercy Heights, when he'd tried to get Nathan back. It hadn't helped then, either. "No," he grunted, feeling like he would have rather been hit in the face again than be reminded of that far more painful failure.

XXX

Clenching his teeth, Sylar remembered how Peter had wanted recognition of his victory at Battleship (not that the whole incident had ended much better). Peter liked the humiliation. And the domination. _It's just words,_ he coaxed himself. _I don't have to mean them. 'Thank you, sir; may I have another?' Right after a fight he wants me to thank him? But…that's the punishment routine, isn't it? I'm supposed to be grateful for that, too. I have to be trained to give a 'usual response.'_ Finally, the anger bled out of him and turned into despair. Some change of heart or through Sylar's own somewhat intentional foot-in-mouth, Peter no longer found him worth caring for as he had been so far. It was the desperation that made him want to continue the fight, just to feel something else.

"Thank you," Sylar said quietly, eyes unfocused at nothing, face blank. This wasn't how he wanted to express gratitude but that wasn't part of the choice.

XXX

_We're still fighting,_ Peter realized. _It's just that the blows are different._ "That's not what I want!" he burst out, coming to his feet. "You sound like you're thanking me for punching you in the gut," he said with disgust, turning and heading out of the room. He paced randomly in the lobby until the tension and the blood he'd swallowed combined to make him queasy. He went to the bathroom where he spat, retched, rinsed his mouth out, and examined himself. All of his teeth seemed fine. He'd just cut or bit the hell out of himself when Sylar had punched him. He wet a paper towel and wiped his face with it, pausing to run his fingers over the spot on his shoulder where Sylar had bitten him. _He could have bitten me a lot harder. Did he hold back because I hit him and disrupted him, or because he didn't want to take a chunk out of me? I need to sterilize that either way._ He rinsed his bruised knuckles and checked over his brace. Miraculously, his right hand had come through without being reinjured.

XXX

Again, Sylar could throttle him just for being the definition of frustrating. He sat there, immobilized by his own mind and its reactions. _Do you really expect me to thank you for manipulating me?_ He was grateful Peter removed himself to be illogical elsewhere; it was probably a good thing he didn't care where Peter went or if he was coming back. In this moment, it was a relief not to stress about that whole phobia. Several minutes passed alone, before Sylar pushed himself up. He ached, felt tired and used among a host of other indecipherable things. Peter had won, cleanly, with little effort it seemed, delighting in humiliating him then being upset when he didn't get his way (whatever that might be). Sylar was left alone after it all. He trudged to the elevator, then up into the suite.

XXX

Peter emerged to see the elevator doors shutting. It took him a moment to work that out and a quick glance in the rec room to confirm that Sylar had left. It made Peter a little pissy that Sylar hadn't waited for him, but then again, Peter hadn't told Sylar where he was going or when he'd be back. Maybe Sylar thought Peter had gone up already. That calmed him. If the guy could walk on his own, then he wasn't nearly as hurt as Peter had thought. _Or he's a lot tougher and more stubborn … which is likely. _With a shrug of his shoulders, he pressed the button for the other elevator car, thinking, _I need to go get the trauma bag anyway for alcohol wipes._

XXX

Sylar went to the freezer and got out some frozen tater tots. He couldn't deal with Peter right now, but that's what Peter would do, wasn't it – get out something cold to reduce the swelling? _That would be kind of funny if I have internal bleeding. How do you die from that, anyway? I can't remember._ His muscles were complaining because it hurt to do anything, even walk to the bed where resting was sure to be equally uncomfortable. And lonely. _Fuck everything!_ Sylar told off the part of himself that wanted care in spite of everything else. _He doesn't think I can take care of myself and he doesn't care if I can't. So the best way to get on his nerves is survive and be healthy. I'm not stupid enough to think something has changed; that's why, Peter! He's the one who won't adapt to this wasteland!_

XXX

Peter gave a couple knocks muffled by being the side of his fist rather his knuckles, then opened the door. He gave a quick glance in and to the side, even though Sylar was clearly visible and not in the middle of staging an ambush. Peter gave him a wary look anyway and moved to the wheelchair, upon which sat the trauma bag. He went through it for some gauze to pack his cheek with and wipes for his shoulder. That done, he glanced over at Sylar, wondering if he needed anything, and the reception such concern was likely to get set Peter off all over again. He straightened and walked closer, the wrapper for one of the wipes held tensely between right thumb and index finger. "Do you really not get it? You think I'm just trying to manipulate you with all of this?" He gestured around the apartment, indicating loosely the groceries, meals they'd shared, and cohabitation in general.

XXX

_What do you want?_ Sylar glared at the fact of the other man's presence. _(We've never fought here). Why let that stop anything?_ He tossed his make-shift ice pack to the bed, crossing his arms. Peter went straight to the medical supplies like he'd actually been hurt. The little man had a pair big enough to walk closer and address him again. Sylar bit out, "What else would you be doing? You don't think anything's changed either." He wasn't sure he was on board for psychoanalyzing their fights after they happened. In retrospect, allowing Nurse Peter to give him all those mental health tests was probably a bad idea.

XXX

Peter's lips tightened. It wasn't the answer he wanted. Rage boiled up inside of him until he wanted to hit Sylar again and again – that dismissive expression, like Peter and everything he'd ever done was worthless or worse – it ran all through him and hit most of his buttons regarding insecurity and inadequacy along the way. He thought maybe Sylar was right that there were ulterior motives involved and nothing he'd done was worth thanks. Peter could put an end to that. "I've been thinking," honestly, he hadn't – the idea had just now occurred to him, "that I had dreamed I'd blow up New York. I dreamed that over and over again. And you know what? I didn't – it didn't happen. So what, if I dreamed you saving Emma at the carnival? There's no reason that's going to happen either. Maybe it's even something I'm supposed to prevent, like blowing up."

Peter transferred the paper and foil wrapper to his left hand, curling it into a painful fist that did little to distract him from the fear he felt about his next words and all their possible consequences. It felt like he was giving up and he hated that, but he'd already been thinking Sylar wasn't the answer. He just hadn't gone so far as to make it real by stating it aloud. "I don't want your help with the carnival, Sylar, where I'd always have to worry if you were going to save everyone from disaster by having a little lower body count through your own mass murder. I don't want your insincere thanks when you don't even recognize I've done anything worthwhile for you. And you know what I don't want most of all? _**You**_." With a snarl and a huff, he threw down the wadded wrapper and left the room, not bothering to shut the door because he didn't trust himself to do it without slamming it.

XXX

'Don't want you in any capacity' was the clear message. 'Murderer' had been in it as well, so nothing had changed. Sylar still felt like a sucker. "We'll see about that when you need your '_big brother'_ to bail you out of trouble! That's what always happens!" Sylar roared back, knowing Peter would be forced to hear him (even if the door hadn't been open). And now he felt like a fool, several times over. He'd somehow cornered himself and Peter had…denounced him, called his bluff, stripped his protection. He didn't buy it for a moment – Peter _always_ needed help and Peter _always_ wanted to save people. The empath giving up was unthinkable. It was just more manipulation. _He tries- tried that on Nathan a lot and it usually worked. I'm not stupid and I'm not stupid Nathan. He can't cut it on his own._ All the same, Peter was making valid threats for the time being. Without Peter's savior complex mission, he didn't need to keep Sylar alive or healthy. Sylar had no safeguard and thus no safety for the first time since Peter had arrived.

XXX

Peter stomped down the hallway in a snit. He'd paused and cocked his head just outside the door, listening to what Sylar had to say, but then continued on without a comeback. _Is that … is that another he-thinks-he's-Nathan moment?_ He shook his head, but filed it away as further proof that Sylar's slips were unintentional. Peter was frustrated, angry, and put out. He felt like Sylar had somehow manipulated him into throwing away the only lead he had to saving Emma and the others. Now – he had nothing. He ground his teeth and took the stairs, needing to burn off energy even if the back of his calf where Sylar had stomped him was trying to cramp up. That set his destination. After stopping by his apartment for warmer clothes, he headed to the YMCA for a very long soak in the hot tub, followed by a day of engaging exercise.

He found an Italian restaurant within a few blocks for an early dinner and took his time about preparing it, wondering if Sylar would be eating tonight. Sylar had both the concussion and possible internal bruising to discourage taking meals. While Peter thought the guy shouldn't go around punching him in the nose, he still spent more time thinking (worrying?) about Sylar than he thought he should. It intruded on his thoughts again when he walked back, hesitating outside his own apartment building and looking up towards the penthouse of the opposite building, where he'd last seen Sylar._ If he misses a couple meals or a night of sleep, it's not going to kill him. _With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, Peter went upstairs to his own apartment and hit the sack.

XXX

There was no way he was staying here tonight. Peter was upset about being caught and they apparently didn't need each other anymore. Taking his book, ice pack, Peter's pillow, and some food items, Sylar moved to the next-door suite. It lacked the same feel – it was bigger, emptier, less lived-in but he convinced himself those were good things. It was quiet on top of everything else, leaving him with bad choices and unprocessed emotion. He checked himself for what would become bruises. He lay down, tried to focus on reading and eventually succeeded. _This is peaceful. (And safe). I don't have to be around him if I don't want to be. _Peter might come back – probably would – and could say whatever he wanted then. _This is all just a game. Nothing is new. _His dinner consisted of water, crackers and cheese, choked down around his lack of appetite. His head ached fitfully and he fretted as he felt his body dragging him down to sleep. It was going to be a rough night.

XXX

Day 36, January 15, Morning

After breakfast at the diner where he'd eaten weeks before, Peter went by to check on Sylar. Even if he didn't want or need anything from the guy, Sylar was still a human being, and one who needed regular care and checkups for the time being. He gave the door a muffled knock with the side of his fist, avoiding putting his bruised knuckles to the wood as he had the day before. When there was no answer, he called out. "Sylar?" He beat harder on the door, then stopped and listened. No noise. He turned the knob. Unlocked. He went in. "Sylar?" he asked less loudly. There was no need to yell through the door now. A quick search showed the place empty – Sylar had not expired of a ruptured internal organ due to Peter's negligence. That was a relief. _The bed's mussed, but the dishes look the same._ He robbed the fridge for the grapes and picked up his heavier winter coat while he was there. Snacking on the fruit, he proceeded to Sylar's original apartment, where he repeated the same routine, also finding it empty. _If he's well enough to be out and around, then he's fine._ Peter went on with his day's activities – swimming, half-heartedly scouting for a decent clothing store and getting absorbed in the sporting goods store instead, and finally that evening, playing a few games of pool in the rec room.

XXX

Sylar squirmed awake, then started with a painful jerk. The noise wasn't coming from his door. The night hadn't passed pleasantly or quickly. He strained to hear if and when Peter left. It was unlikely the medic was being unusually creepy and waiting for Sylar to return so he could attack him. Soon enough, Sylar thought he left, after all, Peter had 'better things to do' surely. He spent his day moving very slowly as the stiffness set in. The nature of the Peter-inflicted injury meant it hurt to move torso/arms or legs. He showered, read, made a small lunch, took a nap, and mostly recuperated on his own. He was miserable._ I wonder what Peter is doing. If I'm lucky, this is all just a dream._

XXX

Day 37, January 16, Morning

Peter made the same rounds on the next morning, then lingered in the rec room for a lot longer, hoping to catch sight of Sylar. _I wonder if he ditched me? What would that mean?_ He found himself ambivalent about it. Being alone, genuinely alone, was hard to wrap his head around and he wasn't sure he wanted to go through the exercise. This was better than the cargo container – he knew who he was and why he was here and that his continued aloneness was a function of Sylar abandoning him (not like he'd expected better of the guy), Matt not helping him (whom he_had_ expected better of), and his mother … (_yeah_). On the other hand, being ditched by Sylar meant being safe, and even if he wasn't making progress towards saving the carnival, he at least wasn't constantly beating his head against the wall that was Sylar's unwillingness to help. So there was that. _Two days isn't enough to worry. He's probably laying off, licking his wounds, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then he's going to show up out of the blue for a rematch._ Peter did his laundry and some grocery shopping, stocking up his apartment in case that ended up being the main place he would reside in from now on.

XXX

This time Sylar moaned about being disturbed from an already disturbed sleep. As soon as he realized what was going on, he shut up and lay still. He'd learned the 'stay close to known places' trick when he'd hunted and shapeshifted. People always looked near and far, but never the barely-removed distance. He wondered what Peter's second visit meant, and if Sylar decided to linger here, how many times Peter would check back, how long it would take until Peter gave up. _He said he'd never give up._ He'd finished the baseball book and the apartment came with a collection of dull encyclopedias. The first volume was huge and too heavy to lay on his gut to read, even with a pillow as a buffer, so he lay on his side and propped the thing on the bed to read at an angle. He didn't try to do much, though parts of him longed to be active and interactive. _I don't need people like he does. He needs his people. He has people, or he did. He said he'd never give up, so what does that mean for me?_

XXX

Day 38, January 17, Morning

Peter pushed the stairwell door open as he made it to the ground floor in his apartment building. It was the first thing in the morning … and there was Sylar. He stopped immediately, letting the door swing shut behind him. Peter tilted his head and shook out his arms, thinking the rematch was on and being grateful Sylar hadn't jumped him from surprise. When Sylar didn't immediately start anything, Peter dipped his head slightly and tried a cautious greeting. "Morning."

XXX

Sylar lifted his chin to that. It was brisk out, but manageable to work in.. "I thought you had a window project to finish," he intoned the statement, neither here nor there about it.

XXX

"What's it to you?" Peter challenged, not liking at all that Sylar had shown up to taskmaster him. It didn't help his mood that he hadn't given thought one to the storefront for the last few days. He felt guilty about that, didn't want to feel guilty about it, and so took it out on Sylar instead.

XXX

Sylar frowned, disappointed it was going this way already, and snapped back, "I told you you'd need my help." _That's the main issue here._ He wanted…an admission, something to revert things to their natural state; or at least how they'd been before (which Sylar would admit was much more tolerable and preferable than whatever this was going on now).

XXX

"_Your_ help?" Unintentional slips or not, Peter wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to rub Sylar's nose in it, given his mood and the subject matter. "No, you told me I'd need _my brother's_ help and I don't see him around anymore." He paced closer, angling his body somewhat and sizing Sylar up. "Now if you want to start shit with me, do it somewhere other than on my doorstep. I don't care what memories of Nathan's you have – you are not my brother and you do not get to show up and get on my case first thing in the morning." If he was in luck, Sylar would be intimidated after losing the last fight and wouldn't risk round two.

XXX

Bobbing his head forward once, Sylar sneered a little, "I think I just did." He saw the threat and matched it with his own scoping glance. (If all else failed, maybe if Peter beat him badly enough, he'd come back to the suite).

XXX

_No such luck. Well, I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to back down. Not here – this is my building, not his._ Peter gave him a wry smile in return. "Yeah, I know you did. Now you can get out of here and cut it out, or we can throw down. Choose." He squared off a few strides from Sylar, waiting.

XXX

_Like that's going to work, _he thought at Peter. Sylar's face was amused as he spread his hands to either side of himself with a hint of a shrug. In doing so, he knew he'd manipulated Peter into the fight (while maintaining deniability, making Peter choose).

XXX

_Fuck._ It was the 'come at me, bro' gesture. Peter had already given Sylar a thorough look. The odds of this being a trick seemed low, which meant it was just a straight-up fight. He hated straight-up fights because they never were, no matter what. Nathan, interestingly, had been the one to drill that into him over and over. Life isn't fair, it isn't even, and no one gets what they deserve. He hadn't been able to convince Peter that it shouldn't be that way, but he'd definitely shown him it was that way right now. Since Peter had backed himself into a corner with his posturing, gambling Sylar would back down, he had to deliver now the man was calling him on it. Knowing full well he would get hit going in, he charged anyway. Another thing Nathan had taught him: _Better to take a hit you're ready for than one you're not._

XXX

It was more instinct than anything else. Peter had to approach him, so Sylar prepared to hit him first. He planted himself and swung for Peter's middle as just payback. With the man's forward motion, the sucker punch should put him down for a good while and ensure victory.

XXX

Prepared for it, the wind was not knocked out of Peter. The blow had hurt, but much of his falling back was staged, as evidenced by how he didn't actually go backwards, but rather down. He'd been planning on straightening and punching, but as long as he was down here, he wasn't going to overlook a target of opportunity. Just like Peter, Sylar hadn't moved away. He was right there in arm's reach, so Peter reached him. Still crouched in false gut-clenching, Peter jutted out his left fist, catching Sylar squarely in the groin.

XXX

_Ha!_ Sylar thought. Just as he was realizing that something was off, pain exploded in his groin. Sylar went down, clutching himself. The hit was solid, the fight basically done. _Recover…recover…Come on!_ But the nature of the temporary injury left him helpless and vengeful; Peter had him down and would kick the crap out of him now and that sucked.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar by the hair with his left hand, wrenching his head up enough so he could growl mockingly into the man's face, "Now _I'm_ concerned for _your_ balls." Twining his fingers into that thick mop of hair, he stood and tried to steer Sylar with him towards the door. Peter deliberately ignored the many options of inflicting damage at that moment that might have ended the fight entirely. His winning condition was getting Sylar outside, not beating the crap out of him.

XXX

_Whoa! Okay. Ow._ Sylar snarled and gripped Peter's controlling wrist to try to alleviate the spread of trauma to his scalp. It was embarrassing; it was sexy; it was 'fighting words.' He panted and grunted as he was dragged for the door, based on his warped viewpoint, having no option but to 'go with it' for now. It was valuable recovery time, which was stupid of Peter to give him. When they reached the door, Peter had to open it and then Sylar sprang into action. Arms and legs shot out, expanding his considerable reach to grab and catch at the doorframe and resist being forced outside. He clung and snarled more as Peter struggled to hold the door open, yank his hair and disentangle Sylar's limbs. And the minute Peter was distracted and committed to that, Sylar put his head between the other man's legs and rushed him at the knees and thighs. He released, not wanting to take him down hard, and let Peter stumble back until he fell back on his ass, the momentum laying him on his back.

Sylar then slithered up and over Peter despite the pain in his side from the previous altercation. He tried to get between the man's legs and keep those powerful fists out of action – mostly holding or pushing them aside. Once there (though the arms would be a dangerous work-in-progress), he began pushing his pelvis against Peter's, partially faking his low-voiced grunts but not his smirking grin. "You should be very concerned with my balls, Petrelli!"

XXX

"Oof!" Peter started to scramble backwards when Sylar climbed on him, but he was slowed by surprise at the tactic. It was a poor one, as was throwing him to the floor and not following through. _He's __**not **__following through. Wait, he's not trying to hurt me?_ Peter's mind boggled. About then, he was distracted by the sexual and insulting nature of Sylar's attack, so he tried to punch him. Sort of. Not very hard. Peter was confused. _Am I supposed to be fighting him, or what? What the fuck is he doing?_ Sylar was struggling to stay in position and yet still keep both of Peter's arms from being useful. It was tough to do and obviously he was focusing on Peter's left, so Peter grabbed the front of Sylar's coat with his right. Sylar shoved the limb to Peter's left, across his body, but not before Peter managed to yank Sylar down a little closer. Before Sylar could pull away, Peter cut back with his right elbow, catching the man across the mouth. He might have split a lip, or he might have done nothing. His elbow was padded by heavy winter coat, after all, and Sylar had been moving away from the blow. Ever persistent, Peter grabbed at Sylar's front again with his right. One of these times, the bastard would open his right side. In the meantime, he taunted him, "They have little blue pills for that problem you're having, Sylar."

XXX

It was shameful how the aggression, mock-violence, tension, position, and then that elbow to the mouth turned him on. Sylar tasted blood, doubtlessly from the pressure of his lip against his teeth. They were definitely playing – _finally_ Peter seemed to understand that. His mouth gaped at a grin, at least until Peter spoke, the little prick. "There's no cure for Petrellis! And I am '_having'_ my problem right now." Sylar pulled at the other man's clothes, wanting to see how the bite marks had healed (hopefully they hadn't). He couldn't believe Peter was allowing this much contact and outright molestation; it made his head spin and his dick hard.

XXX

"That's good! First step to curing a problem is admitting to it," Peter got out, still struggling around in what he regarded as a ridiculous semblance of fighting. There were things he could be doing that were a lot more effective than what he was actually doing, but he was biding his time, trying to get just the right shot rather than taking whatever he could at the moment. He wasn't losing ground, nor did he feel threatened or even too insulted by Sylar's antics, so he felt like he could afford the wait.

Finally, he got the shot he was waiting for and slammed his left fist into Sylar's side, as near the center of where he'd beat on him a few days before as he could get. Peter didn't think there were any cracked ribs there, but it had to be bruised to hell. He kept hitting that spot until Sylar did nothing but protect it.

XXX

Moments of getting his way evaporated with his air supply in an instant. His core erupted in pain, almost as bad as the initial injuries and the healing process of cramps and stiffness. He groaned between punches. Sylar curled over, or tried to, his face landing against the same pre-bitten shoulder, helpless once again.

XXX

Peter shoved the other man over and straddled him, tightening his knees to drive them into Sylar's sides as much as he could manage. He looked down on him and hesitated. It occurred to Peter that other than the expression of pain, Sylar looked fucking sexy – eyes glittering, skin flushed, mouth parted, and hair in disarray around him. And that Peter was on top of him in what wasn't far off from being one of his favorite sexual positions. _Erm. We're fighting, right? But I shouldn't hit him in the head. Well … then what the hell do I do?_ He grabbed Sylar's throat with his left hand because he felt like he needed to be doing something violent and aggressive, or else this was going to get awkward fast.

XXX

There was a significant pause (Sylar would notice later) from when he was flipped, breathless, onto his back and straddled and when Peter grabbed his throat. The assault had taken some of the virility from his erection but he was dazed enough to consider the sexual possibilities of their position. And then there was the grip on his throat, which, even if it didn't feel the same as before when he'd been choked out, was still a serious threat. Sylar froze, eyes a little wide, trying to gauge the point of that maneuver. If it wasn't a threat, then it was weak, low, and fucking _hot_. Sylar felt a resurgence in his dick, which was still more or less between Peter's legs.

XXX

Peter leaned in slightly, more a tilt of his upper body. He had Sylar's complete attention – that was good (and very sexy) – but he didn't know what to do with it. Again, he felt at a loss here, not sure what the point of the fight was if it wasn't to win. He needed to say something, though. "Are those windows really this important to you?"

XXX

Sylar left Peter's grip alone and reached around to grasp Peter's buttocks, one in each hand, and squeezed. His brain splintered into a multitude of thoughts: _Great ass. Peter's ass. Is he letting me grope him? Why isn't he choking me? Keep your hand there. I'm hard – is he hard? Fuck me in the damn doorway – do it! _It took a few seconds to corral his mind enough to speak, purring around the interfering hand, "I could be distracted from them."

XXX

Peter grunted. It wasn't the answer he wanted; it wasn't a useful answer. Also, he was not at all thrilled with Sylar taking liberties with him. He gave a hard squeeze to Sylar's throat, as hard as he could, but brief.

XXX

Sylar's eyelids lowered with predatory interest and he rutted his erection up against Peter in response.

XXX

The thrust against his backside settled it – he was done with this weird, violent, 'toying with each other' thing. _What are you, like, five? (Or fifteen, rather.)_ Peter snorted and got up, standing and getting away from those gripping hands. As before, he passed on the opportunity to kick Sylar as he went, or even scare him with the threat of it. He stalked off several steps, which was inconveniently further into the lobby. His gloves and headband had fallen from his pocket sometime during the fight. They, also, were on the far side of Sylar. He glared at the escaped articles of clothing, then at the door out, then back to Sylar.

XXX

Of course, Peter got up and moved away, leaving him unfulfilled yet again. This time it was worse. It left him heart pounding with adrenaline and a boner, lying flat on the ground. "Fucking tease…" Sylar murmured, staring up at Peter. He wished for telekinesis to better shred clothing and pin the slippery empath down. Or maybe he wished for Peter to be interested, consensual, aroused at the least. Being turned on by a man was sick, yes, though it didn't rank on his list of sins. _He'd love it if I had shapeshifting._ Busily, he plotted ways to compel Peter's involvement.

XXX

Peter smirked at Sylar's comment. He liked the admission that Sylar wanted him and wasn't going to get him. The man was lying there panting with frustration and an obvious bulge in his jeans. He waited a beat, but Sylar didn't look to be in any hurry to get up. "No more fucking around," Peter insisted. "Get up and get out of here. If you burn this place for me, then I will take away everything about it that you want. The next time you're not looking, I will move somewhere far away and I won't move back." He was pretty sure that was the biggest stick he had available to swing – bigger even than, 'I'll kill you while you're asleep' because it was so easy for Peter to do, and cost him so little. He wasn't invested in that particular apartment, but having a boundary between them, a territory that was his and not Sylar's, was very important. _You like forbidden fruit? Let's see how fast this one goes sour on you._

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and began to get up, taking his time about it just because – and his side was now aching constantly just like his head. When standing, his eyes turned to slits at the threat. He didn't point out his unique and exceptional experience in hunting people down (it would be vastly more difficult if the target knew he was coming and kept mobile, and there was no one to question about Peter's whereabouts). _I stepped in the fucking lobby – a common area…_ "Right, because _your_ building is sacred," he snapped by way of mentioning the broken door and being punched and choked in his own apartment. He had nothing to threaten with. Peter would be ambivalent about Sylar moving or disappearing; they weren't fucking; and Peter had taken away the threat of 'not helping' with his girlfriend. Sylar didn't think reminding him of just how miserable he could make Peter's life would be beneficial – Peter should already be very aware of that anyway. Bitterly, he continued, "So next time I'm supposed to wait in the elements with all the other animals because the fucking _lobby_ is _your_ space?"

XXX

He pressed his lips together and exhaled heavily. Peter looked away to stare at the door he'd come through, then the elevators, then around the lobby. "That's a good point," he muttered, but it was loud enough to carry. He shifted his weight, trying to make up his mind how much he wanted to take a stand on principle. _It's cold outside. What if it was raining? It'd be dumb to make him wait outside._ He looked at the double doors. Requiring Sylar to remain outside the second set of doors was insulting and impractical. _It's not like I want him to wait on me, but we're the only people here. Sometimes it's going to happen. It's not like he can call me on the phone._

He tilted his head at Sylar, regarding him finally. "Would you stay in the lobby and not go anywhere else in the building?"

XXX

"Yes, fine." That was…reasonable if not ideal. Sylar prided himself on being so negotiable this time.

XXX

"Okay," Peter nodded grudgingly. He was getting what he wanted (a limit, a boundary), but he wasn't 'winning' because Sylar wasn't being forced to leave. _I need to get over myself._ He sighed lightly and glanced up, conceding the point even to himself. "Okay, well, I'll get a chair down here later. I have some extra furniture across the hall from my apartment. But before any of that, I'm going to breakfast." He shot Sylar a steady, expectant look for a couple seconds, which was as close as Peter was going to get to giving an invitation to accompany him, then headed out.

XXX

Furniture was more than Sylar was expecting. It just sweetened the deal. He raised an eyebrow at…whatever he was being addressed with. "Alright." Apparently he was meant to come along, which was just as he'd said, 'alright.' It took him about two blocks to forcibly calm everything down: ego, erection, expectations. He focused on what he'd gotten out of the…exchange, such as it was. A deal, Peter hadn't hurt him up until the end, and a pseudo-invite to breakfast. _Does this mean he's caring for me again?_ Sylar wanted that back badly. "How did you sleep?" _Since you've been away…_

XXX

"I slept fine." Which was true, as far as it went. He wasn't going to admit to the feeling of purposelessness that had been eating at him. "How about you?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head in answer. His sleep had been plagued with nightmares, phobias and paranoia. He'd been alone, stupid, pathetic emotions all over. The whole process had been quite upsetting, which was probably the point. He still didn't know where he stood, where they stood.

XXX

"How are your ribs? Would you know what cracked ribs felt like?" Peter's concern hadn't kept him from hitting the guy there again, but he was still concerned.

XXX

"Bruised to hell, how do you think they're doing?" Sylar pointed out. "I probably know what it feels like…What does 'cracked' mean, medically speaking? Broken or fractured…?"

XXX

"Yeah, that's what I mean. I'm trying to tell if you have fractured bones or just soft tissue damage." He eyed the man. Sylar wasn't having any difficulty breathing, which was another signal the injury involved no more than bruising. Obviously, it still hurt, though. "Have you been taking your painkillers?"

XXX

"No. I haven't been doing much of anything. I need to do laundry," he said aloud. _I want to move back to somewhere comfortable, my apartment or the suite. _"I…" Sylar began again, sighed, then consigned, "Yeah, breakfast."

XXX

"So … you haven't been sleeping, haven't been taking your medicine. Have you been eating regularly?" Speaking slowly, Peter continued, "It sounds like you need someone to help you with keeping a schedule and managing self-care. Too bad there's no one in the city except _ants_." He gave Sylar a lengthy, unamused look. There was no way in hell he was going to overlook that Sylar thought his assistance was insignificant at best and self-serving at worst. He was sure if Sylar thought there was a larger world of people out there, that he'd be tacking on 'glory-hounding' as well. The diner was just ahead. Peter gestured at it, since otherwise he didn't think Sylar knew where they were going. "This is the place."

XXX

"I have too been sleeping and eating – just not…well. I told you I could take care of myself." Sylar snorted something of a chuckle. "That's really too bad, isn't it? But you are an ant, Peter. No more powers, remember?" He opened the door of the diner for Peter and gestured inside, "After you."


	96. Peter's Ponderings 3: Soporific

****Notes:**** This happens in the middle of the preceding chapter.

* * *

><p>Day 35, January 14, Evening<p>

They'd fought today. Peter had beaten Sylar, been bitten, engaged in a bit of yelling that would have been cathartic had Sylar seemed to have listened to any of it. But they were still talking past each other. He felt wound up and frustrated as he had all day, ever since Sylar had straddled his lap and showed such attractive interest in him. Peter sat on the end of his bed, straddling one of the corners. His shirt was discarded nearby, along with socks and shoes – pants were still on, though. His fingers traveled from mid-chest to his shoulder, feeling along where Sylar had gripped it as he told him about Nathan's feelings for him. It was a lot to process. Even though Peter had walked away from Sylar and his offer, he couldn't walk away from his own thoughts. He'd spent the day running from them, but he knew there was no sleep to be had until he dealt with them.

_'___Some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter.'__ That was what Sylar had said. What would that have been like, being with Nathan, in bed, intimately? It was somehow easier to think of now that Nathan was gone. Whatever Peter considered or fantasized or decided wasn't going to make for an awkward Sunday brunch. That ship had sailed, leaving him free to consider what might have been, had he been a passenger.

He rubbed his shoulder slowly, unconsciously recreating Sylar's touches upon him. Would Nathan have trod him as roughly in sex as he did in real (non-sexual) life? Would he have been as callous and falsely careless about Peter's feelings? Would fucking Peter have just been an extension of the older, wiser, telling-Peter-how-to-run-his-life brother that Nathan was? Or would Nathan have let down the façade? Would the intimacy have cracked the tough pretense and maybe in bed he would be … gentle, or even considerate? Was it possible? It seemed unlikely. He was Nathan, after all. His basic character wouldn't change. But what if Peter was the one who was dominant? Could that even happen? Peter wondered. Nathan was … soft inside. 'Weak', Peter's parents would have called it and it seemed preposterous that neither of them ever seemed to see that. They were too busy projecting onto their eldest son what they wanted him to be, Peter supposed. How would that 'weakness' play out in bed? Did, maybe, Nathan want to be topped? Topping and domination didn't necessarily go hand-in-hand as Peter was well aware, but with Nathan he was pretty sure the two would be inseparable. Would Nathan allow it?

Peter opened his pants with his right hand, pushing them down. He was suddenly hard – painfully so in the confines of his jeans. Finally free, he touched himself lightly. His lids fluttered as the fingers of his left hand, still lingering on his shoulder, moved up to trace the spots where Sylar's mouth had kissed his neck this morning, before their fight. "Mmm." He made a soft, unashamed moan. No one could hear him. Even if exploring with Nathan was impossible (not that he ever would have, he told himself, even knowing Nathan had had 'thoughts'), there was still Sylar. Peter had denounced the idea of doing Sylar-as-Nathan and such a thing still struck him as depraved, but the idea of doing Sylar-as-Sylar, Nathan's memories and all – maybe that wasn't so depraved. Certainly Sylar was eager to try it.

He stroked faster. It wouldn't take long – he could feel it. Something about this subject turned his crank so hard that it would take him little more than seconds. The skin on his neck, a little up from where Sylar had kissed him, was hot and tender from where he'd been bitten. __Sylar … Sylar did that___. _He'd done it when he could have done worse; done it instead of making any more effective attempt to avoid Peter's blows. It was like he'd exposed himself to the pain just for the opportunity – he wanted Peter that badly. Peter pressed at the sensitive flesh. It hurt. His dick stiffened further, if that was even possible. He groaned aloud, thinking he would come right then, but he only skirted the delicious edge before easing back. What else was it Sylar had said_? ___'I want to ruin you, possess you, use you …'__ Oh yes. Peter wasn't going to allow any of that. It was dangerous, as well as stupid. But like with Nathan, what if there was another way? Sylar was probably just as hung up as Nathan about topping and dominance (letting him take anything even hinting at a superior role was likely to be disastrous for Peter), but that didn't rule out the opposite. It simply mandated it. And Peter … wasn't entirely unwilling to take it. (Particularly not in fantasy with his throbbing cock in his hand.) __'Just take what your body already wants. ___**_**Take it**_**___ and you can have it.'__

Peter's hand on his dick moved faster. His breathing became strained as his peak came over him. The sensation and the thoughts blended together as the fantasy of being with Sylar lost coherence. It was a mess of images of fucking his ass, pushing him down and forcing him to submit, Sylar's flushed face, steaming and wet-from-the-shower body, the scent of him heavy in the bed they'd shared, eyes so luminous and dark and rich and expressive, lips questing hungrily for Peter's, Sylar's hands touching him with so much delicacy when they were capable of inflicting so much pain.

Peter came in a hot surge, gasping at the intensity of it. He almost never came that hard alone. Sometimes he couldn't even manage orgasm at all when by himself. He didn't want to think about why his subconscious found this to be such a turn-on. For once, the rest of his head was perfectly content to let it lie.

His hand dropped away from the bruise on his neck, which he'd squeezed and prodded on the way to his climax almost as hard as Sylar had bitten him to start with. He slumped back on the bed, panting and wiping the wet fingers of his other hand on the nearby shirt. He dabbed at himself half-heartedly, then lay quietly to enjoy the buzz. He was pretty sure he could sleep now.


	97. Pho Foes

Day 38, January 17, Morning

Peter's stomach turned to ice at being so casually, flippantly even, dismissed. He'd beaten Sylar when the man was at the peak of his powers and Peter had had only one – beaten him thoroughly and brought Nathan back from the dead in the process. Yet he was still nothing to Sylar. He looked at the door opened for him, to usher him inside where Sylar wanted him to be, where Sylar could make more demeaning, insulting conversation while Peter tried to eat and be peaceable. Seething inside, he looked back to Sylar and his eyes narrowed to slits, his face frozen. In a very soft, mild tone, Peter said, "You don't have any power here, either … Sylar." He put a slight emphasis on the man's name – Sylar, the all powerful, most special, whatever-the-fuck, was as powerless as anyone. _He has no power over anyone - including me._ No reason to keep Sylar alive, work with him, stay on his good side, or try to build a relationship. "Have fun with that." He took a long step backwards (no way was he turning his back on Sylar while in arm's reach, not in Peter's current, near-explosive mood) and headed off in a random direction. Anywhere was good, because they were all further away from the man he wanted to tear apart.

XXX

Sylar turned to watch Peter…leave? "What about-?" He sighed and huffed. He knew why Peter was upset but the Italian was so sensitive and overly emotional. Oh, how Nathan remembered dealing with this hot-and-cold bullshit. "Running away doesn't solve anything, you know," he called after him; this was one of Peter's favorite plays after all. _He's not…leaving leaving is he? He said that was…something about his apartment. Do I believe that?_ "Where are you going?" he had to yell louder to be heard as Peter moved away. _I believe he'll break a rib or two if I catch up to him._ Trodding, by himself now, he made his way back to Peter's apartment, out of curiosity, to see if Peter went straight home or took a walk or whatever. _How am I supposed to ever know if he's home if I can't come inside?_ The chair Peter had mentioned he would bring hadn't appeared yet, not that Sylar expected it now or ever. He lingered there for longer than he should have, feeling and looking like a pathetic lost puppy in the damp, gray weather. Sylar wondered if he was safe. Peter's most recent history was devoid of sneak attacks. _He'd better not be trashing my apartment again! _That forced him away from Peter's building to check on his own apartment, though he wasn't happy about any part of this. When he got there, everything was untouched_. I guess laundry. I stink,_ he thought dully. The isolation was getting to him, the nightmares, his health (and his injuries). He could feel it all and he denied it because it made him dependent and needy in ways he couldn't satisfy. A boring hour or so was spent watching the wet clothes spin around and listening to the drone of the dryer.

Sylar managed soup, ate most of it. His surroundings were a comfort, his books, his bed, his clocks, if nothing else was. He didn't get very far into a book before falling into a disturbed sleep.

XXX

Peter walked off at a brisk pace, listening behind him and occasionally glancing back to confirm he wasn't being followed. That calmed him down a lot – the absence of the other. He didn't know where he was going right away, but before a block was up, he'd mentally reoriented to head to the hospital. It was a long way off and so would hopefully function to keep him and Sylar away from one another's throats. It was a place comfortable to him and probably not so much to Sylar. He'd hole up there overnight, negating the whole issue of Sylar being in his lobby or anywhere else in the apartment building where Peter didn't want him to be.

Day 39, January 18, Morning

Sylar was slow and stiff all over again. His head and side protested every movement. _Painkillers. That's what he says all the time._ Sylar took six Tylenol and didn't give a damn. They helped. It was cold and crappy out and it was time to check on Peter_. He came home, right? He doesn't think it's his home, but he got to ch__oo__se._ There was still snow on the ground but still no indication Peter had come around. _Fuck. Fuck._ This development spiked his anxiety considerably. _I didn't go inside! That was his whole problem, wasn't it? How would he know? He's not fucking here to police me!_ And with that, Sylar scouted the back entrance with similar results.

_He's somewhere._ The hospital, the Y, and the hotel were all possibilities involving a lot of walking. _He'd do that, kill me by walking, trying to find him. Fucking hilarious, Petrelli. It's a stupid way to die. I said I could take care of myself and I'm not dead yet. Why does he care? He doesn't, obviously, not anymore._ Desperately, he wished he could figure out what he felt about that. For now, Sylar was panicked and paranoid. "Peter!" he called up at the building. A sign of life….anything. The reality of being alone again was creeping up around him. Sylar tried to walk quickly through his side-ache but the Y was abandoned as well. _This isn't unusual. He's done this before._ The hotel yielded nothing. Sylar wandered after that, tense, mind racing unpleasantly until his stomach rumbled and he wanted to go back to his apartment to eat and get warm. The weather was increasingly windy as it blew bits of snow up into his face and everything felt icy. He walked by Peter's building again. _Tracks!_ The worry evaporated and even the wind seemed to calm down. The rest of his day was more comfortable, spent indoors.

XXX

Peter felt lousy the next day, stiff and sore and tired from bad and interrupted sleep in a pantry off the hospital cafeteria. For whatever dumb reason that had made sense at the time, he hadn't wanted to sleep in a normal bed in a patient room. By the early hours of the next morning, he regretted that decision, but was too stubborn to change it and too unsettled to sleep, anyway. His nightmares revolved around Sylar hunting him through the medical facility, a fear he couldn't convince his subconscious was unrealistic. So instead, it was Peter restlessly making the rounds through the unnaturally quiet, darkened halls.

He packed up a new bag of medical supplies, since the others were in the penthouse he didn't plan to visit right away. After that, he didn't hurry back – there was nothing to hurry back to. By now, Peter was concerned Sylar might be erratic, threatening, and miserable from all the factors currently plaguing him. Deciding what to do about it was the problem. Prevailing over his concerns was the belief that Sylar was well enough that Sylar wouldn't die from anything wrong with him currently (unless it was from his bad judgment in picking fights). Staying away from the asshole was probably best for both of them, or so he told himself. (That, and making sure he was equipped for the next bout of violence.) He made it back to his apartment in the late afternoon, approaching the place in indirect stages with a lot of careful watching down the empty streets. If Sylar was lying in wait for him, he wasn't doing it openly. As it turned out, he wasn't doing it at all.

Day 40, January 19, Morning

With a restful night of sleep in a good bed behind him, Peter was feeling more charitable the next morning. He thought about the battered storefront, but decided to work on something closer to home. He went to the apartment across the hall from his own, the one where he'd put the surplus furniture, and pulled an overstuffed chair from it. With slow maneuvering, he got it into the elevator and down to the lobby. He went back and made a second, faster trip with an end table and a coaster, in case Sylar had a cup of coffee with him or whatever. He set the seat canted with back partly to outside, where Sylar could watch both elevators and the stairwell door at once. Peter was pleased with the setup, and more with the idea of Sylar waiting on him. It was like he was important. He supposed that shouldn't amuse him, but the guy had been talking about how insignificant Peter was, so he didn't feel too guilty about it. He would have liked to have left a copy of Carnegie's _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ on the end table to passive-aggressively drive home the point, but he didn't have any books and didn't feel like trekking to the library just to be mean. Having eaten breakfast in his apartment, he returned to it now to pass the time toying with his guitar and working on stretching exercises for his hand.

XXX

The next day, Peter had brought out the chair, just like he said he would. There was much relief in that gesture. Peter was probably still angry – he hadn't come to see Sylar or check on him (based on the lack of footprints in the snow). He knew where Sylar lived. Sylar considered leaving a note but he had nothing to say that wasn't disgusting levels of gratitude for Peter's mere existence. It was such a fucking problem. He sat in the chair; he dozed in the chair. Peter came out late morning and startled him to death, Sylar jerking ungracefully and sitting up quickly, taking a breath. For a moment they stared at each other. He was glad, willingly grateful that Peter wasn't a creation of his sick mind (or maybe he was, either way, it was entertaining).

XXX

_Ah. There he is._ Peter's consolation in seeing the other man was closely followed by irritation and tension. What would Sylar do now? Why had he been waiting for him? Had he been taking care of himself? Was he going to start another fight? Peter's expression hardened as he studied Sylar, waiting to see how things would play out.

XXX

Sylar licked his lips, put on the spot by that look. _'I told you running wouldn't work,'_ was the first thing he thought to say. "Um…Good morning," he tried. Wasn't that what Peter always said to him? "You brought the chair out," he shrugged a little, justifying his presence before Peter could freak out about that (again).

XXX

Peter waited a beat, but Sylar said nothing else. Usually, an admission that someone had done something a person liked was followed with a 'thank you', but apparently the one highly coerced noise of gratitude Sylar had made under duress days earlier was all the man had in him. _Maybe I'm asking for something he doesn't have to give? (That seems impossible. He's human, after all.) Maybe the book idea is practical, not mean._ Peter's expression softened anyway. He nodded to the greeting. "Yeah. Is it comfortable?" He knew it was – he'd sat in it himself and he'd just woke Sylar out of napping in it, though that might be more of a statement on how little sleep Sylar had been getting recently than anything about the chair. If he couldn't get gratitude, then he could at least get confirmation that his actions were pleasing.

XXX

"Yes," Sylar hastened. "Very." He wasn't sure which one of them was being trained here, if Peter was being trained out of needing the groveling or if Sylar was being trained to give it. After debating the pros and cons of each, he noted that Peter did pleasing things either way. A simple thanks didn't cost much and Peter acted like he'd never said 'thank you' to him before when he had, several times. It was a simple trick to amuse Peter or to get what Sylar wanted. The secondary thing, the thing that really got him thinking was the completely needless gesture. Sylar had no need of a chair, let alone a nice one and a side table. _Maybe he's desperate. If I feed him, he'll stay, right?_ "Thank you," he said, glancing out the glass of the entryway.

XXX

Peter eyes widened in surprise and a little bit of a smile came over his face. Sylar had thanked him? And for real - not something forced out of the man at the end of a fight. Peter had been fishing for a compliment, but he hadn't expected as much as he'd gotten. Peter dipped his head and tried to play it cool. It would be embarrassing to make a big deal of it. He made a wave at the door. "Um, I came down to eat out. I saw this Vietnamese soup place on my way back yesterday. I thought I'd check it out for lunch." He paused for a moment, his voice turning guarded. "Do you want to come with me?"

XXX

_Soup?_ Sylar found that amusing. Peter was adventurous with his food, but he'd have to be, since he was a vegan or whatever. "That would be consistent with my diet," he replied, playing it cool.

XXX

They headed out. Peter turned south at the end of the block, following his mostly-filled-in trudge marks from the day before. With the north wind snapping at their backs now, he slipped on his headband and offered for conversation, "It's been bitter cold. It does get warm around here sometime, right?" He gave a half-chuckle and looked over at Sylar.

XXX

_Yeah, when you're around._ Sylar looked back at him, an amused twinkle in his eye. "Oh, it gets warm. It's New York."

XXX

"Do you do anything different to pass the time when the weather's good? Go to the park, lay in the sun? Nude sun-bathing maybe?" He stiffened, regretting that he'd already strayed into what might be interpreted as innuendo. "Um," he shrugged, trying to think of what to say to make it more clearly a joke and not a serious inquiry. "Because that's what I'd do." _Shut up, Peter! That's making it worse. (Even if true … Here all alone …)_ He shrugged again and awkwardly cleared his throat. "The restaurant's a couple more blocks up here on the left."

XXX

Sylar blinked. _It sounds like you missed me, too. I bet that's what you'd do, Peter._ "No, but we can certainly add it to the rotation," he promised smugly. _Does that mean he wants to see me naked?_ He shut up for a few minutes, ignoring Peter's flustered embarrassment to plot several ways to make that happen, should he feel the need to. He'd already had a few opportunities…"Do you like Asian?" he asked, referring to the food, "Or is it just something that appeals to your vegan…lifestyle?" He didn't know what the proper term in the correct tense was. The cold was more manageable with company and the promise of food. Sylar's appetite had been returning, with ebbs and flows, but he took it as a sign of recovery. His head hurt worse than his ribs now.

XXX

"Lifestyle?" He arched a brow at Sylar. "You've seen how I eat. It's not vegan. Technically, I suppose, I'm a 'pesco-vegetarian'. I'll eat fish. Anything that breathes water, is cold-blooded, doesn't have a complex brain – that's different enough for me. But pigs and cattle are mammals. Birds are close enough that I'm not going to eat one, not even a chicken. But eggs, milk, cheese?" He shrugged. "Anything that doesn't involve killing the animal, I'm okay with. People need to improve the living conditions, sure, but I don't see that boycotting the product is the answer. We _made_ animals for this stuff, like, over thousands of years. We can't just abandon them."

"In the big scheme of things, I'm going to put my efforts into people and avoid eating things I wouldn't want to kill." He remembered a disastrous and traumatizing hunting trip with his father and Nathan when he'd been a boy. When Peter proved unwilling to shoot the innocent creature they'd spotted, Nathan had wrested the gun from him and killed it himself while Peter protested. He remembered the scene so clearly: Arthur laughing and clapping Nathan on the back as they walked back, silhouetted along the darkening trail as Peter followed along, sniffling. In the photographs Arthur had taken of Nathan, holding up the limp head of the dead deer and mugging for the camera, a person could see Peter still crying off to the side, an unimportant bit of background whose feelings were as insignificant as the deer's. Peter had been utterly ignored by both of them after he'd failed the rite of passage his father had engineered for him. Dark thoughts and unprocessed anger at his family swirled in Peter's head. There were things he'd never be able to convince Nathan he was wrong about – important things! It felt so damn unfinished. He gritted his teeth. But none of this had anything to do with Sylar in the here and now. With an uneasy roll of his shoulders, he tried to put it away.

Peter opened the door for the restaurant and changed the subject as he went in. "Asian food's good. Most of the dishes are a mix of a lot of different things. I like that. And it's not that hard to stir fry stuff. I've done that before." The results were definitely edible, even with his cooking. It beat ramen noodles, at least. He'd had a wok in college, left behind by a girlfriend who had shown him how to use it. He wondered if the cooking process would work the same in a normal pan. "What about you? You mentioned your diet?" It seemed dumb that he was asking about food restrictions at this point, since he'd made meals for the guy. He recalled asking about allergies, but that wasn't the same thing. Peter was hardly allergic to prime rib, but that didn't mean he wanted someone to serve it to him.

XXX

"Asian is good. Healthy," he remarked. A pointed finger indicated his head, "My head, the concussion, doesn't exactly make for a big appetite. I had soup the other day." _When I was by myself. I said I wouldn't die, said I could take care of myself._

XXX

"Huh," Peter grunted, a sound of dubious approval that Sylar was at least eating. But what did 'the other day' mean? That the last time the guy had eaten wasn't yesterday? Shaking his head about that, Peter peered into the refrigerated cabinet in the restaurant kitchen. He looked at one of the small plates to the left, lifting it to examine the pair of spring rolls, presumably waiting for paying customers who would never come. But it was certainly convenient that Sylar's mental hell included prepared food. Peter wasn't going to complain, especially given how downright reluctant Sylar was to fix meals.

"I think this is tofu," he muttered, trying to make out the contents behind the cloudy rice paper.

XXX

"Spare me," Sylar responded sarcastically. He scanned the available ingredients, formulating a real, main dish even as Peter focused on appetizers or snacks. "If I let you pick out our food, that's what I'm getting, right?"

XXX

"Well, maybe. Tofu's not bad," Peter said with a degree of indignation. It was better than not eating at all, so he didn't think Sylar had much in the way of grounds to complain.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes at Peter's poor eating habits and trying to include Sylar in the cardboard diet routine. "You set the table," he instructed. Peter had mentioned soup, so that's what he'd be getting. Sylar wanted some rice since Peter had said something about that being a good 'healing' food. It sounded perfectly bland enough that he could add sriracha or other flavors. Between Nathan and himself, he remembered enough of what went into a pho soup – nutmeg, cinnamon, star anise, lime, those little crunchy things, lemon grass, ginger, fish sauce and a dozen other herbs.

XXX

"Hm," he said in vague response, eyeing the food he'd already found. Peter wasn't sure if that was really tofu he was seeing in the middle of the roll. It was a crispy-looking strip of something that was white on the cut part. It could have been chicken. Or it might be fried pork. Since he wasn't sure, he put it back, a decision that had nothing to do with Sylar's preferences. "Oh!" He spied something else and pulled out a similar plate, but these rolls clearly had shrimp in them. "These are good." He pulled out a second plate and took them to the table, craning his neck to see what Sylar was doing as he went.

XXX

_Why is he still here?_ Sylar wondered as he gathered the ingredients, getting irritated that Peter wasn't following a simple direction. Typical. _I'm trying to work here, and he's goofing off. (He just wants a spring roll he can eat). That's exactly the problem. And he's in my way. (Well, actually he's-) He will be in my way._ At last, Peter obeyed and wandered off. _(He's distracting no matter what he does)._ He heated the broth and added noodles.

XXX

Peter set the table, fetched condiments, and poured up drinks, as instructed. When Sylar joined him at the table with food for both of them, Peter was quietly delighted. _I was just thinking about how he didn't cook … um, I bet that's not a vegetarian broth._ His smile faltered as he recalled the hamburger Sylar had made for himself at the last restaurant, and Peter decided to simply not ask. It was probably better that way, even if it robbed him of the pleasure of having Sylar handle the cooking for a change. He started on his spring rolls instead, dipping one in and taking a hearty bite out of the end. He chewed three or four times, then stopped abruptly. He looked at the exposed interior of the roll, frowning at it.

XXX

"What?" Sylar prompted, holding his own roll, dipped but as yet untasted.

XXX

Peter finished chewing and swallowed. "It's, uh, not just shrimp. There's … I think there's pork in there."

XXX

"Oh." Sylar looked between the roll and Peter, trying to gauge where this was going. "It won't kill you."

XXX

Peter scowled at him, but he knew Sylar hadn't engineered the situation – at least not with the spring roll. The jury was still out on the broth. "It's not what I wanted." He sniffed at the roll, but the smell wasn't off-putting. "It's just a cold cut," he said, more to himself than to Sylar.

XXX

"Why would that make a difference?" Sylar bit into his.

XXX

Peter shrugged. "There are some pork products I can't handle. It doesn't have anything to do with being a vegetarian."

XXX

Now Sylar's face showed curiosity. "It doesn't?"

XXX

Peter took another bite and chewed slowly – like Sylar said, it wouldn't kill him, and it was already on his plate. He wasn't happy about it, though. When he was done, he dipped the open end of the second half of the roll. "You'd be surprised at how many EMTs and first responders don't eat pork."

XXX

"Ah," Sylar said, catching the reference to the similarity in smell between a human body burning in a car and a side of pork roasting in an oven. He finished off one of the spring rolls and pulled over his bowl.

XXX

Thinking about the number of dead bodies Sylar had been around, Peter said bitterly, "Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised." How had Sylar managed to kill so many people and still have a thriving appetite?

XXX

Sylar's face blanked. He stirred the broth along the edge of the bowl. Those small comments, clearly intended to bite, were almost as bad as the loud, direct declarations. He didn't appreciate the reminders or the memories. It cast him in the permanent role of sinner and outcast.

XXX

Peter huffed, irritated by the bad choice in spring rolls, his lingering suspicions about the broth, and how they had conspired to remind him the reminder of Sylar's past. "Ted … and Isaac … their brains were gone. What happened to them?"

XXX

Sylar's expression went from guarded to glacial. His fingers curled more firmly around the handle of the spoon. Now Peter was just pissing him off. "What are you implying?"

XXX

"I'm implying I don't know what happened and I've always wondered." He just hadn't previously felt irritable enough to ask something so rude.

XXX

Sylar made a slight, noncommittal head tilt. Peter could take it as a vague agreement or a mocking 'you'll never know.'

XXX

Peter finished his spring roll and pushed the other to the side. He wouldn't be eating it, anyway. "So what happened to them? Did you … wash them down the drain, toss them in a dumpster, eat them?"

XXX

That was gross and he had enough trouble eating already. "I did _not_ eat their brains," Sylar said between clenched teeth. His head was lowered and he glared up under his brows, doing his best to be intimidating.

XXX

Peter was less intimidated than he probably should have been. Familiarity had bred a degree of contempt. But he took the warning flag for what it was and changed tactics, trying to tone it down. He offered one of the less gory alternatives he'd imagined: "Did your ability transmute them?"

XXX

Sylar blinked once, then again. He lifted his head slightly. "What are you talking about?" he asked carefully.

XXX

"Well," Peter shrugged and gestured to himself, "I was put, entire body, inside someone else. We shared space." Sylar's eyes narrowed._ If I don't calm him down, I'm going to start a fight and it will be my fault. What does he like? Everyone likes being right. He doesn't have all those books because he's dumb._ Peter tried yet another tactic. "So it's not like abilities respect the laws of dynamics-"

XXX

"_Thermo_dynamics."

XXX

"Right." Peter made an airy gesture as he let Sylar think he was an idiot. "And conservation of space and all that."

XXX

"It's mass, not space."

XXX

Peter nodded agreeably. As he had desired, Sylar was sitting up now and listening to him attentively, even if it was just to find more things to correct Peter over. He felt he was safe now to go back to what he really wanted to know. "So the brains were missing. I was wondering if your ability absorbed them or something."

XXX

Sylar's sight line made the short journey back and forth between Peter's eyes. Eventually he said quietly, "No, it doesn't work like that." As far as he could tell, what made sense, was his brain duplicating what he saw within the other's brains, gaining not only the ability but the understanding of it.

XXX

"Okay." Peter pulled his soup bowl over and began the customary struggle over getting enough noodles into his spoon or onto his chopsticks to eat in an at least halfway dignified manner. Whatever he'd been served, he was going to eat. He'd been irked about the food, took it out on Sylar, and then defused the situation successfully. He didn't feel he needed to keep needling the man. One taste told him it was not a vegetarian broth. He frowned and fished through it with the chopsticks, but found no actual meat._ He probably didn't notice what kind of broth it was. He was trying. He listened to me, to what I wanted, and he tried to give it. _Peter nodded once in recognition of the attempt, his face calming, and continued eating.

XXX

Sylar watched him for a few moments, then made a displeased face and went back to his food. "Claire asked the same thing."

XXX

"What's that?"

XXX

"If I ate them," he said, eyes on his bowl, disappointed in people and how they viewed him.

XXX

Peter paused, spoon half-raised. _Claire asked?_ "Wouldn't she know?" He was afraid to ask it, but he felt he had to.

XXX

"She asked me…during…" As he said it, Sylar realized just how awkward it was – telling this to the girl's uncle. And, remembering the teddy bear incident, _I hope he doesn't have a Claire complex, too…_

XXX

_Oh._ The emotional weight of that was so great, Peter didn't know what to do with it. He remembered Sylar making small talk while trying to cut Peter's head open in Mohinder's apartment. He rubbed at his forehead, then shook his head and went on eating, trying not to let it affect him. He needed to say something, so he said brusquely, "You were trying to kill her, Sylar. I can see that being something she'd want to know."

XXX

"I wasn't going to _kill_ her. As it turned out, I _couldn't_ kill her."

XXX

"Did she know that? Sounds like _you_ didn't." Peter's tension returned. All the possible ways Sylar's attack on Claire might have played out were spinning through the back of his mind. He tried to ignore them. If he knew the details, it made it more real, and he might have to _do_ something about it – something violent and stupid which wouldn't help anyone, so he was better off not thinking about it. At the same time, he wanted to know … hence the conflicted tension.

XXX

Sylar made another dismissive gesture and went back to eating. He didn't want to answer that. So many things going on in his head at the time, bleeding out, focused on his mission and the irony of it all…Having a conversation like that with a person who wasn't…dying (being murdered) had been…

XXX

Peter forced himself to relax, or tried to. Sylar seemed lost in thought. Peter wondered what he was thinking about, specifically. Maybe it was some pondering of the permutations of abilities, but Peter suspected it was something more human. Sylar wouldn't have come back to the topic after Peter dropped it unless it mattered to him on a deeper level. The answer came to him as a flash of inspiration. "She's the only one who's still alive. Is that it?"

XXX

Sylar couldn't hold back his grimace, looking away from Peter towards his own soup, but he did mute it somewhat. "Is … is that what?"

XXX

Peter watched the guilt being hidden away behind anxious and insincere confusion. He thought how hard it must be to have to deal with one of your victims, or the brother of a victim. How hard it must be to wake up every day, put a good face on it, and act cheerful and normal and something other than cringing with guilt and shame because you murdered someone close to the person you were dealing with. At times, Peter had wondered if Sylar was a complete sociopath, but he seemed to have normal emotions. Guilt was a good start. This didn't seem the right time to rub it in. "Nah," Peter gave a shake of his head. "It's nothing. How's your soup?"

XXX

Sylar had his suspicions about what Peter meant. He gave a shallow nod as if in agreement to the unspoken conversation, and said, "At least it's not tofu."

XXX

Peter made a strained chuckle. "Tofu's got a bad rep. You ought to give it a try sometime." _Maybe_ _try_ _living_ _without_ _killing_ _things,_ he thought snarkily. He pursed his lips, thinking about Sylar's 'I'm not the savior kind.' _What kind of person is he, then? He doesn't seem to_ want _to be a killer__._ "You didn't answer me earlier - have you ever considered trying a vegetarian … lifestyle?" He gave Sylar a quirky half-smile because of how corny he knew that sounded. "I'm serious about that. A literal answer is fine." He took a slurping mouthful of noodles, veggies, and soup, trying to figure out a way that 'Have you tried not being a killer?' didn't come out sounding like 'Have you tried being not gay?'

XXX

Sylar's spoon clanked in against his bowl as he took the time to turn and glare at Peter. The empath's whole hang-up about meat was the killing/murder/death aspect. In light of that, the question was very pointed. _Literal answer my ass._ "Like, eat more brains, save a chicken?" he snapped. "It would be stupid of me to kill people and be a vegetarian, wouldn't it? So, no. I never considered it." _At least I'm consistent._

XXX

_Okay, that didn't work._ Peter gave Sylar a very unimpressed frown for joking about people's lives, but otherwise he turned his energy to eating. Pho was a stubbornly messy food and he'd rather get more of it inside of him than argue with Sylar over ethics. Regardless of his attempt to be tidy, he was pretty sure his food was not all going into his mouth.

XXX

Sylar was stewing when he felt a few tiny droplets of warm broth flick onto his hand from Peter's wild noodles. He sighed, rubbing his forehead in the now-awkward silence. Of course, Peter would be intimidated and sulk, hating him and everything he stood for. "That's…not a reflection on vegetarianism. You just…have to think before you ask…questions. Everything comes back to that," he intoned, referring to his criminal history and violent tendencies. He meant it by way of clearing the air if not by way of apology. It sounded like an excuse.

XXX

_I __**do**__ think!_ But Peter said nothing for the moment, merely pursing his lips. After another spoonful, he said, "If I knew the answers, then I wouldn't have to ask the questions. You're going to have to deal with me not knowing." He pushed some bell pepper and a slice of squash into the broth already on his soup spoon with his chopsticks before using the sticks to pull up a wad of noodles. With a hint of faux innocence, he said, "I thought those were the rules or something – I do things and you adjust?" The food he'd staged went into his mouth.

XXX

Sylar stiffened and his jaw clenched. He did not appreciate the reminder that Peter could do anything he liked and was well aware of it.

XXX

"On a certain level, that's how it always is. We're the only ones here - of course we react to each other. From your point of view, you're having to adjust all the time. From mine … _I'm_ the one adjusting." Peter cocked his head a little, wondering if Sylar, smart as he was, could get the idea of seeing things from a point of view other than his own. On the other hand, he didn't have a history of taking others' feelings into account.

XXX

Naturally, that begged the question of what Peter thought he'd been 'adjusting' to thus far. Sylar was able to answer it himself: _Not having his food made and his dishes cleaned for him. Being alone. Dealing with me. (That sucks. He must hate it here)._ Peter didn't look at him or make more direct comments and it was a relief. Sylar put his head down and tried to eat his soup in a quiet, self-contained manner. It bothered him that an otherwise…palatable situation for him was so unbearable for his companion because Peter had to put up with him. Underneath all that was the implication that Peter wasn't happy with Sylar's adjustments. _He doesn't need me, he said._ "What do you think your biggest adjustment is? Besides you-know-who."

XXX

_Who?_ Peter blinked uncertainly at Sylar. _Does he mean adjusting to being around him, or adjusting to life without Nathan?_ It was the latter, definitely, though he wouldn't discount how problematic the former was. The corners of his mouth turned down. Avoiding putting his difficulties in any hierarchy, Peter instead mentioned the most recent: "For one thing, this isn't a vegetarian soup."

XXX

Sylar looked to his companion's bowl. "It's soup," he said, as if his statement would make the question (and any blame) disappear. "I didn't thi-" _No! That makes it worse!_ He cut himself off from admitting he'd been thoughtless, careless, and made a mistake even though Peter was aware. He stared at the bowl, wondering if Peter's empathy made his sensitivity to taste better than most, if all soup contained meat somehow, or if Peter was just joking and making things up. He didn't know the effects of meat on a vegan, hopefully not something like an allergic reaction… "That won't make you sick, will it?"

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's face, surprised to see Sylar cared (even if what he was caring about was probably just his ego, that he'd done something wrong and been called on it). "No," was all he said.

XXX

Sylar relaxed at that. He felt obliged to comment, "You didn't have to eat it."

XXX

"You made it for me." He shrugged, hoping this wouldn't discourage Sylar from fixing food in future. "It won't kill me."

XXX

Sylar knew he was caught then, stuck. They both knew who made the soup, and Sylar couldn't claim ignorance (especially not after Peter had mentioned it just prior). Perhaps Peter took it that way: Sylar deliberately being a jerk, which wasn't above him and neither was killing. It was a definite reflection of Peter's expectations and Sylar's failure to conform to the necessary 'adjustments.' He stared at his own broth, tense and working himself up to it. "I'm…sorry," he got out after a long pause. _It was an honest mistake. I can't tell if he knows that. I can do better._

XXX

Peter's brows rose. _An apology and thanks all in the same day? And he did make the soup for me._ He cleared his throat slightly and pushed the mostly empty bowl to the side. "It's okay. You didn't put any meat in it. I could tell you were trying." He gestured at the lone spring roll. "I didn't get it right, either. Happens." _A lot. More than it should._

XXX

He just nodded and gathered their bowls to transport to the sink. _How is that okay?_ It was one thing for Nathan to notice Peter had stopped eating meat at home and started ordering salads at restaurants, but Nathan also didn't care. The whole love-peace movement was important to Peter, so feeding him meat was like going against kosher (a big deal to those weirdos). It was rude and he knew that. _What if he's just saying that?_ Sylar's mind was busy as he gave the dishes and cooking tools a brief scrub with soapy water. _He's not holding me to a different standard,_ Sylar was shocked to realize. _He's not blaming me for my mistake, which was exactly like his mistake._ He glanced at Peter, looking him over for deceit. He found none, which didn't surprise him.

XXX

Peter rose and helped with clean-up. Once done, he put on his coat, fussing with turning up the collar before moving on to headband and gloves. "With the weather like it is, I'm not going to do anything with the storefront today. The roads should clear off eventually." He shot Sylar a checking glance to see if the other man was upset about it, or seemed to be reading Peter's concession to reality as giving up. "I think I'll go back and play some more music."

XXX

Still turning this new idea over made him agreeable to whatever, so long as he was somewhat included. _Music is good._ "Okay." A full mind and belly, company, music and the lack of tension was heaven, especially if he got a nap out of the deal, which was likely. _He's tolerating me today. _Sylar shrugged himself deeper into his coat and put hands in pockets to follow Peter out into the wind as it blew in their faces. _Maybe it's just not a good day to handle glass or big pieces of plywood,_ he thought, worried about Peter's commitment and his own interest in a building he had no attachment to. He still had questions, of course. "It's not vegan if it's had meat in it at any point, is that it? Like a chicken-base broth?" _That must be annoying, checking every product for contents. And even then, I think the __contents is__ a flat-out lie or publicity scam._

XXX

Peter shot him a look. That was pretty basic stuff, but Sylar didn't seem to be messing with him, so he answered it seriously. "If someone had to kill an animal at some point to make it, then I don't want to eat it."

XXX

Sylar frowned at the sky a moment, looking for a reason to denounce veganism for Peter just for kicks. It seemed like an equal trade-off of healthy and unhealthy, what with all the minerals in meat and animal products and it clearly wasn't an easy way to eat (or for Sylar to cook for that matter). Talking Peter out of it was for their combined best interest. "Is that ironic or hypocritical that you 'don't eat meat' and you're gay? I thought that might be kind of a given." He smirked about that, digging for confirmation if Peter dominated or submitted during sex.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Nobody dies when I have sex with them, Sylar." _No, they just die afterward, __**because**__ you had sex with them_. Simone and Caitlin flashed across his mind. The horrible truth of that nasty inner voice made him suck in his breath and hunch his shoulders. "I'm done talking," he snapped, voice rough. Not sure how Sylar would take the suspicious and abrupt end of the conversation, combined with his tone, Peter added, "It's too cold," in as close to a normal voice as he could manage. Sylar, for once, obliged. Peter didn't register the incorrect orientation until a few minutes later, but he wasn't about to break the silence for it. _What is it with him and not getting things? He keeps calling me a vegan, too. (Nathan was the same way.) Is it the concussion, or is he just not listening to me?_


End file.
